Read Online Slant by Greg Bear - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Bear
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Artificial intelligence, High Tech, Technological, Twenty-first century
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has a few minutes. She answers the touch.
"Mary? This is Hans."
Mary stiffens. The face in the pad screen is handsome, boyish but not foolish; a face that held her interest for three months. And still attracts. It was Hans
who inexplicably chilled and told her it was over, it wasn't working. "Hello, Hans," she says with forced casualness. "I wanted to explain some things." "I don't need explanations, Hans."
"I do. I've been feeling pretty rotten lately."
Mary passes on this opportunity.
"I liked you better the way you were. That's what... I've decided. I didn't want you to change."
"Oh." She's going to let him do the talking; that's obviously why he's called. "You were beautiful. Really exotic. I don't know why you want to change." "I see where it can get confusing," she says. "I'm sorry." Hans flashes. "Who are you, Mary, goddammit?" "I'm the same as I was, Hans." "But who in hell is that?"
Good question. For a time, she had hoped Hans might be able to help her discover the answer, but no; Hans is hooked on appearances. He liked her the way she was.
"I mean," he says, "I don't know you at all. I've been thinking about what
it must be like to become.., what you are, and then to go back."
"You mean, what it says about me, personally."
"Who does that sort of thing? I've been sad the past few days, missing you." Good.
"But that person, that woman, isn't around. You're different from the person I miss."
"Oh," Mary says.
/ SLANT 43
"No. Probably not." Her tone is professionally sympathetic. She refuses to give him any more, show him anything deep. "Who are you, Mary Choy?" Her jaw muscles tense. She touches her cheek, pokes hard with a fingernail to prod a little relaxation. "I'm a hard-working woman with very little time to think about such things, Hans. I do what I think is best. I'm sorry you couldn't stay on for the ride." "No," Hans says, quieter now. "You bucked me right off, Ms. Bronco." "You knew what was happening. I started my reversal before I met you." "I know," Hans says, deflated completely. "I just wanted to say goodbye and let you know that I'm suffering, at least a little. I wish I could understand." "Thank you, Hans." She stares steadily at the pad's camera eye, giving nothing, hating him. Then, something makes her say, "If it's any consolation, I miss you, too." It's time for her to leave to make her appointment. Still, she lets the camera observe, sitting in her chair with the pad unfolded on the table, a real paper napkin still tucked under one corner. Mary remembers the atavistic rough absorption of the napkin, and the feel of Hans's lips on her own, a little dry, like the napkin, but strong and hungry. Hans looks down, lifts one hand, stares at the fingers nervously. "What are you doing now?" Mary sees no reason not to tell him. "I'm having lunch in a restaurant," she says. "I'm going to give a talk soon." "PD stuff?" "Yes. I'm reading while I eat." "Lit? A book?" "Yes." They had that much in common, an enjoyment of reading. "Which?" --"Alive Contains a Lie," she says. "Ah. The book for bitter lovers." "It's a little more than that," she says, though in truth that's what made her access it. "Mary. I don't want you to..." Hans stops there, mouth open, but does not seem to know what more to add. "Good-bye," he says. Mary nods. The touch ends and she closes her pad more forcefully than is necessary.
The air itself seems freer and more natural to her; today it is crisp but not below freezing, and looking south down the wide crossing thoroughfare between the Cascade and Tillicum towers, she can see Mount Rainier, like a
44 GREG BEAR
The light on the street pounds irly sparkles and the mufflered puffy-coated pedestrians walk briskly with hands in pockets. Very few of them are obvious transforms. To Mary, this is all the more interesting, because the Corridor--and particularly Seattle--has assumed a leadership position over the past fifty years in the Rim and mid-continent economy. In Japan or
"Mary? This is Hans."
Mary stiffens. The face in the pad screen is handsome, boyish but not foolish; a face that held her interest for three months. And still attracts. It was Hans
who inexplicably chilled and told her it was over, it wasn't working. "Hello, Hans," she says with forced casualness. "I wanted to explain some things." "I don't need explanations, Hans."
"I do. I've been feeling pretty rotten lately."
Mary passes on this opportunity.
"I liked you better the way you were. That's what... I've decided. I didn't want you to change."
"Oh." She's going to let him do the talking; that's obviously why he's called. "You were beautiful. Really exotic. I don't know why you want to change." "I see where it can get confusing," she says. "I'm sorry." Hans flashes. "Who are you, Mary, goddammit?" "I'm the same as I was, Hans." "But who in hell is that?"
Good question. For a time, she had hoped Hans might be able to help her discover the answer, but no; Hans is hooked on appearances. He liked her the way she was.
"I mean," he says, "I don't know you at all. I've been thinking about what
it must be like to become.., what you are, and then to go back."
"You mean, what it says about me, personally."
"Who does that sort of thing? I've been sad the past few days, missing you." Good.
"But that person, that woman, isn't around. You're different from the person I miss."
"Oh," Mary says.
/ SLANT 43
"No. Probably not." Her tone is professionally sympathetic. She refuses to give him any more, show him anything deep. "Who are you, Mary Choy?" Her jaw muscles tense. She touches her cheek, pokes hard with a fingernail to prod a little relaxation. "I'm a hard-working woman with very little time to think about such things, Hans. I do what I think is best. I'm sorry you couldn't stay on for the ride." "No," Hans says, quieter now. "You bucked me right off, Ms. Bronco." "You knew what was happening. I started my reversal before I met you." "I know," Hans says, deflated completely. "I just wanted to say goodbye and let you know that I'm suffering, at least a little. I wish I could understand." "Thank you, Hans." She stares steadily at the pad's camera eye, giving nothing, hating him. Then, something makes her say, "If it's any consolation, I miss you, too." It's time for her to leave to make her appointment. Still, she lets the camera observe, sitting in her chair with the pad unfolded on the table, a real paper napkin still tucked under one corner. Mary remembers the atavistic rough absorption of the napkin, and the feel of Hans's lips on her own, a little dry, like the napkin, but strong and hungry. Hans looks down, lifts one hand, stares at the fingers nervously. "What are you doing now?" Mary sees no reason not to tell him. "I'm having lunch in a restaurant," she says. "I'm going to give a talk soon." "PD stuff?" "Yes. I'm reading while I eat." "Lit? A book?" "Yes." They had that much in common, an enjoyment of reading. "Which?" --"Alive Contains a Lie," she says. "Ah. The book for bitter lovers." "It's a little more than that," she says, though in truth that's what made her access it. "Mary. I don't want you to..." Hans stops there, mouth open, but does not seem to know what more to add. "Good-bye," he says. Mary nods. The touch ends and she closes her pad more forcefully than is necessary.
The air itself seems freer and more natural to her; today it is crisp but not below freezing, and looking south down the wide crossing thoroughfare between the Cascade and Tillicum towers, she can see Mount Rainier, like a
44 GREG BEAR
The light on the street pounds irly sparkles and the mufflered puffy-coated pedestrians walk briskly with hands in pockets. Very few of them are obvious transforms. To Mary, this is all the more interesting, because the Corridor--and particularly Seattle--has assumed a leadership position over the past fifty years in the Rim and mid-continent economy. In Japan or
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