Greg Bear - Mariposa

Like most secessionists, Green Idaho was comprised mostly of white guys: anti-tax, failed geeks, anarchists-and a fine crop of bigots.

If this was a Green Idaho reprisal, blown out of control by an unexpected wind storm, then it stood to reason that Detective Johnny Carson would stand guard over the ashes and make excuses until the coast was clear.

A light blinked in the corner of William's spex. He took out his phone and answered the call.

"What's new in Idaho?" Deputy Director Kunsler asked.

Carson watched like a hawk hovering over a mouse.

William turned his back. "Dr. Plover has gone missing. His wife is dead. Looks as if his place was professionally torched-with her in it. But they haven't found his body-so they say."

"Staged?" Kunsler asked.

"Completely," William said. "Green Idaho is all over the scene. They want me out of here-tar and feathers would be too good for me."

"Nabokov sent a short message. He has the goods. But we haven't heard anything more. Get back to the Q."

"I'm on a plane out of Boise at midnight."

"No need. There'll be a jet waiting for you. Something big is in the air, so we're getting an extra drip of cash. Sounds like none of us is going to be getting much sleep. What do you know about Little Jamey?"

"Enough," William said. Everyone in law enforcement knew about Little Jamey. It had been injury on top of insult for the Bureau-and one of several events that had focused attention on Talos. "Is that a leading question?"

"Very. You'll get a full briefing at the Q."

William took a deep breath.

"Ah-my little bitty inbox is filling up with messages," Kunsler said. "Complaints from the locals. Pull out gracefully. Don't ruffle any feathers."

"Too late," William said. "There's one old buzzard I'd love to strangle."

"Tsk. See you bright and early tomorrow-I'll bring coffee. Come home safe, Agent Griffin."

Los Angeles, California

Nathaniel strolled along the indoor length of train track, then stopped and rose up on tiptoes to peer through the windows of a dining car. If he closed his eyes and listened to the recorded sounds, he could almost complete the illusion of a 1930s train station.

Steam puffed from under the sleek silvery locomotive, cut in half and butted up against a mural on the far wall.

He hadn't felt so much pure delight since childhood.

Everything was delightful and vivid. He made it more so, savoring the surreal illusion of a streamliner waiting for passengers, complete with red-capped conductors, leading guests through the waiting area-a Pullman lounge-to three dining cars.

At any moment, Nathaniel could play back something he had just experienced with complete fidelity. His memory was an open book through which he could page at will-making himself his own toy, his own diversion.

At the same time, he heard all the real sounds-people talking, dressed out of character, he thought-cell phones, restaurant pagers dinging, boisterous children talking about the latest games.

Nathaniel was caught between fascination with the children-so like him, unfettered, bold-and the illusion he was finding almost dangerously fascinating.

The colors around the train intensified until he rubbed his eyes and blinked them back. Bee vision, he called that-but he was pretty sure he couldn't actually see UV or infrared. Just a trick of the optical processors, like an LSD trip without the drug. Neon intensity, etched detail, a vibrant fringing around objects of particular interest; followed by sharp disappointment and an acute awareness, almost painful, of the inaccuracies in the restaurant's design.

Gas lanterns, for example. Not at all right.

For a moment, Nathaniel subdued the urge to count everything: people (too late), boards, beams, wheels on the dining car, windows, people again… Pushed it back as if swallowing a lump in his brain.

A hand tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Trace."

Pleasant tenor, sweet North Carolina accent-Nathaniel swung around with a toothy smile, looking up to the red, puffy, bristle-beard features of Humphrey Camp. Camp was taller than Nathaniel by four inches and heavier by more than fifty pounds, broad-shouldered and pepper-bearded. He did not look happy or healthy.

Camp coughed into his fist. "This shit seems to be agreeing with you. Not so much for me. Where's Plover?"

"Not here yet," Nathaniel said.

"This place seems a little obvious." Camp scuffed his feet. "Did you look inside? Maybe he's already seated."

"Plover told me to meet him here. That's all I know."

Camp squeezed his nose, then sneezed. "Maybe he can tell me why I feel like shit."

"Do you? I feel excellent." The downturn of the morning seemed less than a dream. Nathaniel didn't actually care how Camp felt, though they had once been good friends-had met at Stanford. He studied the big man closely, as he would an animal in a zoo.

"Fucking hurray," Camp said, then glanced over Nathaniel's shoulder. "Here's Lee."

Jerry Lee was the youngest of the Turing Seven, a dapper-looking man of thirty-one, dressed in his signature black coat, black T-shirt, black jeans. To the other members Lee had always been an enigma. He had come out of the Arabia Deserta attack with the worst physical scars-a divot down the side of his head and his cheek, burns and shrapnel marks down his left torso and rear shoulder.

He had never said much and said even less during their two weeks of treatment in Baltimore.

Lee nodded at Nathaniel but ignored Camp. His coolness and poise contrasted sharply with Camp's bulky fidgets. Lee had been the first to finish his work in Dubai and return to Los Angeles. He was also the only member of the Turing group-besides Nathaniel-who had actually visited the inner recesses of Mind Design in La Jolla and met the Quiet Man in person.

Lee pointed. "Here's our savior," he said.

Carrying a small box, the old head poker himself stepped delicately down the entrance ramp to the siding-Dr. Terence Plover, architect of their exodus from the psychological wounds of war, designer of the Mariposa treatment and now, apparently, a man who did not want to be recognized. He had dyed his hair to silver-gray and looked more like a sixty-something retiree than a well-to-do middle-aged researcher and entrepreneur.

At the sight of three of his former patients-rather than just Nathaniel-Plover looked as if he might turn and flee. But he squared his shoulders, nervously approached, and exchanged quick, formal greetings, looking each in the face with a curt nod, but did not shake-kept his free hand in his pocket.

"Only three?" he asked ironically. He looked up and down the mock station. "Where's Bork? Where's Nick Elder?"

He seemed to assume, as always, that he was in charge, and now behaved as if Nathaniel had violated both his authority and his trust.

Mariposa had been run with a firm hand, Dr. Plover always the sad, gentle tyrant awaiting their arrival to his island of calm and freedom from fear.

"Nick's in Texas," Camp said.

"We don't know that," Lee said.

Plover stroked his chin like a would-be wise man. All he lacked was a goatee and a pipe. Nathaniel subdued an urge to laugh, but a small chuckle escaped.

Plover frowned. "I think we should avoid attracting attention," he said. "Can we please do that, gentlemen?"

"This place was your choice," Nathaniel reminded him.

Plover gave him a pained look. "I did not ask all of you to come."

"And now we are four," Camp said.

Harry Bork strode onto the platform and joined them, tipping his hand to his forehead. Bork's role in the Turing Seven had always been mediation and negotiation. He had close-set blue eyes and a monkish fringe of blond hair embracing a noble, Nordic square skull, darker brows hovering over a squib of nose and a belligerent jaw.