Greg Bear - Mariposa

"Saw it on a reader headline in the hotel lobby. Wild. What does Jones say?"

"I think he knew about it before the public announcement. He called it a 'potential triggering event.' But he won't say if it was planned."

"So what was it, a coincidence?"

"Unknown."

Nathaniel felt a little sting of mortal practicality-followed by irritation. "We were supposed to be free and clear before the shit hit the fan. Any luck with the new covering IDs?"

"They're in place, twenty-one of them. Better than federal grade. I've kept them away from Jones, so he doesn't feel any conflict. His attitude is fairly even and smooth. I'd like to keep it that way.

"I got a call from Dr. Plover, of all people," the Quiet Man continued. "None of you has had any contact with him for over a year, right?"

"I certainly haven't."

"He sounds unhappy. Says he wants to meet. He asked for you in particular."

"Do we owe him anything?"

"No. But he may have something for us. He's being cagey-seems to be caught between professional responsibility and complete paranoia."

"Maybe he should take some of his own medicine."

"He's staying somewhere in downtown LA, near the convention center-there's a security conference there, COPES, C-O-P-E-S. He was scheduled to give a presentation on Mariposa, but withdrew."

"Was he going to use me as an exhibit?"

"Unknown. I suggest that you meet with him. It's only a suggestion, of course."

Nathaniel thought this over, looked down at his hand. "I'm not all that presentable," he said.

The Quiet Man took one of his long pauses. Nathaniel could hear him breathing-soft, regular. It sounded almost artificial, like a machine.

"He wanted me specifically? Not the others in town?"

"Just you. I shipped him an EPR phone. Here's the number." The Quiet Man read it out to him. It was no problem to memorize the sixty-four digits. And Nathaniel was certain he would not forget.

"Get back to me with whatever you learn."

"What if I don't go?" Nathaniel asked, but the connection had already been cut.

He removed the card from the cell and cracked it in half. Code dust leaked out onto the floor. He scuffed the small mound with his bare foot, grinding the tiny polygons into the carpet.

Now no one could ever trace anything, no matter how hard they tried.

Nathaniel lay back on the bed and stared at the blank ceiling, just to quell his overwhelming urge to count. It didn't work. He started up again with the ghostly floaters drifting through his field of vision.

Closed his eyes.

Counted the speckles in the reddish dark.

Another hour passed.

The voice of interior reason spoke.

Why just you? Better call the others. Besides, don't you want to learn how they're getting along?

Let's surprise the old head poker.

He picked up his cell, inserted another card, and made three calls.

The last was to Dr. Plover.

Boise, Idaho

William Griffin stood in the middle of the wet street and turned full circle, surrounded by fire trucks, canvas hoses, water streaming into the gutters, backing up behind dams of slushy ash, scraps of black shingle, sopping pink insulation-

And the blackened skeletons of twelve suburban homes.

Everything smelled of deadly sweet smoke. His gray suit would reek on the flight back to Washington.

He walked around the hulk of a compact electric Toyota, formerly cherry red, one side now scorched and melted, the rear end twisted and blown out by exploding batteries. The car was still hooked up by a big yellow cable to the driveway plug stand.

The flames had begun in one house-this one, the residence of Maddy and Howard Plumber, now a low black pile and still smoking. High winds from the west had ignited ten other houses. Then the winds had reversed and thrown burning debris over the rest of the neighborhood on the cul-de-sac, skipping only two homes, which now poked from the ashes like healthy molars in a sick jaw.

In the first house, the firemen had found a charred body-female, identified by the coroner through DNA as Madeline Paris, formerly of Bethesda, Maryland. William knew a little about her: a doctor specializing in hormonal and astrocyte disorders.

Her husband, Dr. Terence Plover, aka Howard Plumber, was missing. He might be buried deeper in the smoldering debris, or he might not have been in the house at all. None of the neighbors seemed to know much about them. They had moved in just a couple of weeks ago and weren't very social.

An unmarked Boise police cruiser drew up beside William. A large, square head with a stub of mustache and short bristly brown hair poked out of the driver's window. One hand flipped open a silver badge. "Boise CID. They told me Griff's pup was out here sniffing around. You don't look like your dad, except maybe the eyes."

William turned to squint through his spex at the driver, a detective old enough to have known William Griffin Sr.-known to his friends and colleagues as Griff-an agent who had always been more popular and more accomplished than his son, back in the FBI's better days.

"I take after my mother's side," William said.

"Sorry to hear about your old man," the detective said. He stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out, then leaned on the car door-a bulky, muscular man with a craggy, critical face.

Sharp eyes, sees everything.

"Back in the day, we'd have welcomed Griff's attention. Can't say we feel the same now. Times change, Agent Griffin. Which is it-FBI, or just the Bureau?"

"Bureau," William said.

"That's right. FBI kaput. Draw the blinds, turn out the lights-make sure to flush before you leave." He turned to take in the destruction. "Fire Department has already ruled out arson. Electrical in origin-bad install for a solar power unit. We've got Ada County Crime Analysis, and of course, my people… I suppose we'd call ATF if we thought we needed federal help, but we don't. What interests the Bureau? Going after ecoterrorists again?"

William pointed at the white-flagged debris. "I came to interview Howard Plumber."

"What about?"

"Not at liberty."

"Well, either flash your sparks downtown and get a hall pass or move on, Agent Griffin. Feds don't pay their bills. Idaho is happy to take care of its own. Obviously you won't be talking to Plumber today."

William grimaced, half in amusement. "The Ada County coroner's office and fire department have expressed a willingness to share what they know."

"At whose sufferance?"

"Governor Kinchley," William said.

"Fucking dyke," the CID detective said. "Her term's about up. You can tell her I said so."

"I will. Your name, detective?"

"Johnny Carson, Jonathan Bitch-hater Carson. Boise CID. She knows me."

"I'll bet she does."

"I'll be on this street watching until you move along, Agent Griffin." Carson climbed back into the cruiser. "Your dad would have sniffed the wind and left it to the locals."

"I'll tell him you paid your respects," William said.

That dropped Carson's smug grin into blank uncertainty.

"Next time I visit him in Arlington," William added. "He died for his country. A great big country. All you have is Boise-and maybe Green Idaho."

"Fuck you," Carson said.

William stood his ground, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets.

Carson shook his head in disgust and drove down the street a hundred feet or so, then swerved left and parked diagonally, gifting William with a glare.

William ignored him.

The Green Idaho secessionist movement was growing in political power in Ada County and Boise, as well as the rural counties. It freighted a weird mix of ecology, high-tech savvy, rural bigotry, and rugged libertarian individualism. As far as they were concerned, feds, big lumber, big oil and gas, industrialists, and all rich out-of-state landowners could fuck off and vacate, pronto.