Greg Bear - Mariposa

"Great restaurant," he said. "Best prime rib in LA. Food tastes wonderful, Doc. Better than ever."

"Let's get on with it," Plover said. "We shouldn't be together any longer than necessary."

He unexpectedly leaned into Camp, who held up his arms in support. Plover's eyes fluttered. Catching himself, he straightened and waved them away.

"Apologies. Sleepless for two days," he murmured.

"Let's find our table and order drinks," Bork suggested. "I'm famished."

The waiter-a tall, slouched man with a thick hood of black hair and a long nose, more concerned about their appearance and demeanor than their number-escorted them away from the windows to a room in the back, paneled with dark wood.

A sparkling white cloth lay over a long, narrow table, set with stamped silver and peacock-fold napkins. Above the table hung two antique gas lamps, orange flames surrounded by hot pink auras-at least, in Nathaniel's bee vision.

"We all look daft," Bork said when they had settled in. It was apparent they could feel the awkwardness. They had worked together for months at a time in luxury but also in primitive conditions, had survived hell together-subcontractors for Axel Price and Talos Corporation for six years-yet none of them knew how to react to a reunion, and this caused Camp distress.

"Fuck this shit," he growled.

The four took up their menus and studied them.

Plover sat silent.

"How about the rest of you?" Bork asked. "Don't you feel it? Isn't food terrific?"

"My stomach's killing me," Camp said. "I'm losing weight and I pee purple." He thumped down his menu, winced, and blinked at the lanterns. "Ugly light," he said. "Hurts my eyes."

"Please!" Plover shouted.

Lee scowled.

Camp leaned in. "Quiet, Doc. Like you said, no cops. And no security guards, for Christ's sake."

Plover seemed to shrink in his chair, then rose again to a level of assertion-but kept his voice down. "I invited Mr. Trace to meet with me, exclusively, but now that we're here, I owe all of you an apology. Can you bring yourselves to some place of… cooperation, of agreement, so that we can talk sensibly?"

They nodded, all but Camp, and he continued.

"I've canceled my talk at the convention. I'll be leaving Los Angeles this afternoon. Things could hardly get any worse. I've been traveling…" He covered his mouth with one hand, cheeks working behind his fingers, as if trying to refit loose dentures.

Then he started to sob.

After a moment, Camp was the first to speak up. "All right. We're your bright boys, Doc, and we've gone wrong," he said. "Why is that?"

Plover managed to recover and straighten as the waiter brought in a tray with their drinks, then took their food orders. That went surprisingly well.

Plover's distress had had an impact. All of them made their choices like properly trained children. Then Bork told the waiter what the final tab would be, to the penny, with a stingy tip.

The waiter gave him a tight look, thanked them all, slouched out, and closed the sliding panel door.

The anachronistic gas lamps flickered and threw long shadows.

"We look like poker playing dogs," Lee said, and touched his forehead as if to adjust a green eyeshade.

"To Mariposa." Nathaniel lifted his red wine in toast. "How many did you cure, Doc? How many are we?" The colors even in this subdued room-even in the flickering, totally wrong gaslight-were amazing.

Plover looked around the table. He dabbed his eyes with his napkin and fixed his gaze on Lee. "You seem the best adapted," he murmured.

Lee lifted the corners of his lips. "I doubt it," he said. "That would be Bork, I think."

"Don't put that load on me," Bork said. "We're all pretty spooky. I hardly recognize some of you. We all move different now, did you notice that?"

"I see it," Lee said.

"Finish your drink and tell us something useful, Doc," Camp said.

"None of you should drink," Plover said, his voice shaky.

"Well hell, then, cheers," Camp said, hoisting his mug of Budweiser and swallowing half. He slammed the heavy glass on the table. "I'm a mess. You're a mess. We're all freaks. What the fuck have you done to us, Doc?"

Plover's hand shook as he drank his water. "I've had a terrible week. I left Maryland… moved my wife to a secret location. Now I can't reach her. I'm very worried about her."

"Let's be honest," Bork said. "We were a mess when you took us in. We couldn't get our work done. Two weeks later, we went back to work. You cured us."

"Too good to be true," Camp said.

Plover steeled himself. "I would like to know what you gentlemen were doing, to cause me and my wife so many difficulties."

They all sat quiet. Camp fidgeted with a knife, tapping the tablecloth.

"You don't want to know," Bork said.

"I knew you were important," Plover persisted dryly. "I'm just now beginning to understand how important."

"What about the Quiet Man?" Camp asked. "What does he know?"

They all looked at Lee.

"A secret international project with a huge bankroll," Lee said. "The Turing Seven were crucial. Then-we were injured. Our wounds healed. Our heads did not. Dr. Plover came to Price with interesting research. He gave you full financing, plus a large bonus, and promised that all his soldiers and personnel who suffered from post-traumatic stress would be funneled through Mariposa. You could have become a rich man."

"What changed that?" Bork asked. "What changed us?"

"Not boozing, I'm going to bet," Camp said, and finished his beer.

"You're all reacting differently," Plover said. "There may be similarities… I can't know for sure. I could do blood work, but I no longer have a clinic." He swallowed and shook his head, getting the words out with difficulty. "Harvey Belton called my private line last week. I don't know how he got the number… it's new. He was hysterical. I heard a shot. The call ended. Stanley Parker called the same number and said he was flying to Fiji, so that he could be in a place where it was quiet. The world was too loud and too bright. Nick Elder… I do not know what happened to Nick."

"He's in Texas," Bork said. "At least, he was a few days ago."

The waiter and a busboy brought their food: plates clacking, maneuvering in the narrow space, the waiter's nervous reappraisal of who ordered what.

He backed out and closed the door.

Camp thumped the table once more. "Question not answered!" he said in a harsh voice. "What did you do to us? What the hell is Mariposa?"

Lee frowned and put his hands over his ears.

Plover touched the rim of his water glass with a finger. "I was working with my wife at the National Cancer Institute in Atlanta," he said. "We had what looked like an effective treatment for astrocytomas. Brain tumors. We were in clinical trials-very promising-when I noticed that our test patients often experienced a significant change in affect. In mood.

"One was a veteran from the first Gulf War. He had suffered from PTSD since his late twenties. That suffering stopped. Crime victims, those who had survived rape or domestic abuse-even patients with unrelated psychological disorders-responded positively as well. I altered the focus and expanded the program."

"So you fix cancer and make people happy, at the same time. How?" Bork asked.

"The body-the brain-relies on the genome not only for form but for broad patterns of behavior. But genes are not expressed continually. They are controlled by a marvelous system of checks and balances-including overlays to the actual genetic sequences, epigenetic tags or stops that regulate and even prevent certain genes from being expressed. As in a music box, an activated gene sticks up and plays a note, an inactivated gene falls into a gap and is silent.

"In our childhood and adolescence, tunes emerge and become more or less fixed-the working versions of you and me, better prepared for our environment. However, throughout our lives, our bodies still make changes. As we live, we acquire a few more notes. Our tunes become richer. Little pathways-personality, habits-are worn into our behaviors."