Greg Bear - Mariposa

Life at sea, camaraderie and discipline, engines and weather-anything but the creeps and monsters she had had to pursue, capture, help convict-and make miserable-throughout her entire career.

And yet there were always more.

She still kept three pictures in her wallet of a few of the worst that got away. Murderers and rapists-portraits of monsters rather than children.

Perhaps the monsters were her children.

"Forget the bistro," she said. "Let's get room service."

Periglas appeared genuinely surprised. For a terrible moment, Rebecca felt like a teenager pushing too far, too fast.

"All right," he said.

"We're civilians, mostly," she said. "They owe us time away from the world."

"No explanation necessary," Periglas said. "Lead on."

Rebecca's phone wheedled. She looked at the number. This was a call she had to take.

"My room," Rebecca said, and passed him a hotel key folder without the key.

Periglas drew his hand over his eyes, fingers spread. "I am beguiled," he said.

"Give me ten minutes," she said.

Rebecca closed the door to the room and set her purse on the nightstand. Biting her lip, more nervous than she had been in months-she returned the call she had been hoping would come.

A recorded voice answered. "Central California Adoption Services. Our offices are closed for the day-"

She punched in the code for Dr. Benvenista. The doctor's high, musical voice came through after the third chime.

"Hello, Rebecca. How's Los Angeles?"

"Nice," Rebecca said, her throat full. She wasn't used to being so scared. "Busy."

"Fresno is scalding. We have great news. You've passed the third round. Though I do wish you had a good man in your life. We could sail you right through."

"I'm working on it," Rebecca said, embarrassed and hopeful enough to stretch the truth.

"Mary is doing quite well. One inspector expressed lingering concern about the race issue, but I think that is not a major objection at this point. You are a stable person and well-motivated, and you are certainly qualified, and I have said so to the committee. Who better to protect a little child than a mommy who's an FBI agent?"

Bureau. On furlough.

"Thank you."

"There will be more news tomorrow, and perhaps the paperwork will clear by the end of the week. Until then, please keep in touch."

Rebecca expressed her thanks and relief, said goodbye, and closed the phone-just as she heard a polite rap on the room door. She opened it, her chest tight, stomach a-flutter. Too much all at once.

Tough to keep up her game face.

Periglas entered as she finished dabbing her eyes with her coat sleeve.

"I don't often have that effect on women," he said, his voice soft, wondering.

"It's not you," Rebecca said, and took his outstretched hand. "Not just you, I mean. It's everything. I think I'm becoming a human being again. It's been so goddamned long…"

She looked up, across two inches of difference in height, and searched his face.

Her lower lip trembled. She bit it, but did not stop checking out his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, then his eyes.

His eyes were slightly moist, reflecting hers.

"Damn," she whispered.

Periglas put his hands on her shoulders and leaned toward her, as if about to lead her into a dance.

"Dinner first?" he asked.

She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, frightened and incredibly hungry-ravenous, but not for food.

For a home. A place to rest and arms to rest in.

Hungry for all the glories and sins flesh was heir to.

Maybe you're finally cured.

"Dinner after," she said.

Sherman Oaks, California

Nathaniel Trace had arrived in California in a state of rolling nausea and hunger. He could not find the proper foods to eat.

He cabbed from LAX up the 405 to Ventura Boulevard, then checked into a back room in a sprawling old hotel-and locked himself in.

The hotel was seventy-two years old. It had two hundred and fifteen rooms.

He lay down for a two hours but could not sleep.

Rising from the rumpled bed, he shook his head to get rid of the dizzies-they came in late morning and sometimes late evening-and drew back the opaque curtains.

There was blood on his hand. It smeared on the rod and a drop or two fell on the carpet. A trail to the bed.

He had bitten his hand.

That made him chuckle.

Extra tip for the maid.

Through the white veil of the inner curtain, glancing at the parking lot, he instantly counted sixty-two cars. Fourteen trees, none of them very tall. Thirteen people walking, four drivers trying to park. Sixty-three buildings visible between nadir and horizon. Five hundred and sixty-four windows. No doors visible from his vantage point, except twenty-four car doors-six opening, one closing.

"Today, in the state where I was born, I am thirty-six years old," Nathaniel said. Numbers were important. If he thought hard enough, counted long enough, they would all add up-like a combination lock.

"I'm turning into fucking Rain Man," he whispered. "Jesus H. Christ. Nobody hires card counters."

He wiped his hand on the curtain, then thought again: time to stop acting like a bloody animal and recharge the old social programming. He went into the bathroom to wash out the bite. Could his own bite be septic? He used soap. There were marks on both hands. He'd have to stop that or wear gloves.

Already today he had cycled through seven different hells and seven different heavens.

When he realized that this was entirely up to him, or some part of him-that some or other will controlled his mood-it scared him. For a few moments there, floating in a disconnected and emotionless void, looking at the wallpaper and feeling like a fish flying through the air, he had for a couple of hours forgotten his real name.

"I should move into a creepy old house," he told the mirror, then looked hard at his reflection and smiled. He had finally found something he could not count: the thick mat of gingery hairs on his head.

Too confused.

My tire chocks have been pulled and I'm rolling free. My emergency brake is busted. It was a lovely feeling for a while.

Now, not so much.

But who the hell am I? If Mariposa is coming undone, then the others must feel the same way-wherever they are.

What if somehow his fingers could hold supremacy over his brain? What if central control was now up to his arm, his foot-his liver, his bowels?

He had found several days ago that he could make his vision turn purple, or shade it into the pink-and then push it back to something like normal.

Not even a baby is born this clear.

Everything is possible.

When he believed he was capable of interacting with the public again on some minimal level, Nathaniel dressed, left the room, and forced himself to walk around the hotel grounds, then up and down Ventura Boulevard.

The sun peeking between clouds actually made his skin vibrate. That felt good-good and healthy.

So perhaps this was still just a boost phase and he had not yet achieved a stable orbit, and what then, old cosmic mind?

Nathaniel returned to the room and crept into bed. He wiped his hands on the sheets. After a few minutes of studying his palms, frowning deeply, he picked up his disposable cell and slipped in a new quantum card.

Then he typed in a key code and called a dummy transponder in Nicaragua.

The dummy flashed his call to a number none of them knew, which passed it on-again through a quantum EPR cell-to yet another number.

It took several seconds to connect with the Quiet Man.

"Checkpoint Turing." The low voice at the other end sounded calm but exhausted.

"Nathaniel here. I'm in LA."

"You're late. Hugh and Jerry have checked in but nobody's heard from Nick in two days. Have you heard about the vice president?"