Greg Bear - Mariposa

"What's that got to do with cancer?" Lee asked.

"Cells too are educated and trained. If they are continually stressed or traumatized-bathed in toxic chemicals, for example-they reach a crisis and a point of decision. Life isn't good. The bargain they made long ago to be part of a larger body isn't working out. So they may try to become independent, paying no attention to the body's needs. Usually the stubbornly independent cells are killed by the immune system. In some cases, they evade destruction, and tumors grow."

"You're saying we're tumors?" Camp seemed perversely amused.

"No. Perhaps. I don't know… These matters are complicated."

"What's Mariposa doing to us now?" Bork asked.

Lee laid his hand on Plover's arm-not in reassurance.

Plover looked down at the tightening fingers. His brow furrowed. "Stress," he said. "Long-term pressure and pain wear deep, dysfunctional ruts, which become fixed by epigenetic tags in our brains-perhaps in astrocytic cells themselves. We respond with heightened sensitivity to less and less stimulus. Brain and body, working in unison, acquire hair triggers. Our behaviors become inappropriate, erratic. Deep down, we think we are still in whatever situation caused our pain to begin with.

"Our tune changes for the worse, sometimes drastically. Sour notes, screeches-anxiety, fear. Panic."

"We weren't in combat for more than a few hours," Nathaniel said.

"A single major traumatic event-pain, destruction, friends killed, imminent threat to life-mere minutes can cause tremendous stress. The persistent drips and trickles of stress that ordinarily shape our lives and thoughts become a sudden flood. Old patterns are swept away. New channels form, deep and devious. Mariposa works by removing the stops we acquire during traumatic events. The genes are set free from the bad habits they acquired under duress. The world seems less threatening. A kind of balance is restored."

Plover's face took on that messianic light Nathaniel remembered from his two weeks in Baltimore, in the clinic-when Plover had been the one who had made them feel human again.

"Balance?" Camp said. "Shit. I'm not in any sort of balance."

"Your pain went away," Plover asserted, defiant. "You all agreed… back then."

"Not now," Bork said. "I feel like Proteus in his cave-scary. Maybe we can be anything."

"I have no idea what I want to be," Lee said.

"The drug is removing too many controls," Plover said. "We did not see that in animal trials."

"And that means…?" Camp asked.

"Our talents and abilities are patterned to fit the needs of a larger group. Best for human society… But perhaps more control is now being returned to you as individuals. You have become like newborns, in a way. If too many controls are removed-then you either won't feel the need to serve society at all, or you will do so purely on your own terms."

The table fell quiet. Only Bork and Lee had touched their food. Camp stopped tapping his fork and set it down on his rumpled napkin.

"That's the definition of a sociopath," Bork said thoughtfully.

Lee let go of Plover's arm. "I've started torturing animals," he said. "I'm seriously thinking about hurting people."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hyde," Camp said, tossing Lee a salute.

"Anyone else?" Nathaniel asked, fascinated.

Bork took a bite of rare prime rib and lifted his fork. "Only for a day," he said, chewing. "Then it stopped being fun."

"Did you actually butcher someone, you son of a bitch?" Camp asked with a manic grin.

Bork looked back at Camp as if the question were rude-or meaningless.

"Price loves butterflies," Lee said. "Did he suggest you name your program Mariposa? All the soldiers, all his employees, psychologically damaged by combat… You said you could restore them, make them bright and shiny again. And we became your test subjects… You gave him your guarantee. Didn't you?"

Plover nodded like a bobble-head doll with a stick shoved up one side of its neck. "In a nutshell," he said.

"It's hell to be a baby again, Doc," Camp said.

Plover looked down at his plate.

"The vice president," Nathaniel said. "Was he one of your patients?"

Plover jerked as if stung. "That's privileged," he said, and tried reasserting some last shred of authority. "It's privileged-and dangerous!"

"Bingo," Bork said, marking a scored point with his finger in the air. "You're already smarter than you used to be, Nathaniel."

Plover's cell phone buzzed. He fumbled it out of his pocket, dropped it on the table, then retrieved it and answered, "Hello?"

Nathaniel noted this was not an EPR unit; hence, the caller was not the Quiet Man.

"Doc, you shouldn't be talking on those things," Camp said. "Microwaves can ruin your brain."

As Plover listened, his face lost the rest of its color. "Are you sure?"

He shut the phone, closed his eyes. "I have to leave now," he said, struggling to regain whatever was left of his composure. "Mr. Trace, we need to speak in private, as agreed."

"You and the doctor run along," Bork said. "The rest of us will sit here and chitchat."

In the crowded lobby, Nathaniel took Plover's trembling arm and aimed him to the mall restroom. Through the big fire doors, the hall beyond was empty.

Plover handed his package to Nathaniel.

"The Quiet Man mentioned someone named Jones, some sort of expert-you seem to know him. Jones suggested I give this material to you, and that you find a woman named Rebecca Rose. She is in law enforcement, I presume."

Nathaniel listened with interest, enjoying the patterns of blood flow in Plover's face and hands. He could almost feel the heat. Plover was definitely a candidate for a heart attack.

Bee vision.

"Jones might know something," Nathaniel admitted as he opened the package. The doctor watched him closely while he pulled out a reddish-purple dragon about two inches long, printed on a sheet of pliable plastic. The package also contained a badge on a black braided lanyard and a photo of a woman with medium-long hair.

"These are my credentials for the COPES conference, across the street," Plover said. "They'll get you past most of the outer security. The dragon is a skin computer. A dattoo. People put it on their arms and exchange personal data. I've preloaded this one with crucial information. She'll be wearing a dattoo as well. Cross arms, like this." He demonstrated by hooking his arm around Nathaniel's. "It works through clothing."

Nathaniel was amused. He rolled up his sleeve and peeled the dattoo from its plastic sheet. It laid down easily on his inner forearm and conformed to the skin, stretching a little.

"Remember this about Axel Price," Plover said. "He rarely does anything without having two excellent reasons. That's the secret of his success. The seven of you were in a bad way-and there was my research. He needed you healthy, and he saw a way to make huge profits from treating PTSD. Relieving human misery never much concerned him. It's not part of his worldview."

Plover took back the box, threw it into a trash receptacle, and looked around for an exit. "The convention is closed for the day. Try tomorrow morning. Be careful. I've set the dattoo to download only once, and then it will wipe its contents.

"We won't meet again. Good luck, Mr. Trace."

He shuffled toward the exit, clutching one shoulder.

Nathaniel pulled down his sleeve and buttoned it. He wondered who Rebecca Rose was, that she would attract the attention of the Quiet Man-or Plover, or Jones.

And why they chose him as a vector.

All the more interesting.

Rebecca shoved the pillow up under her cheek, slowly rising like a swimmer from a dream of birds on a wave-washed beach.

Her body felt relaxed, loose, catlike. She stretched one leg but did not want to open her eyes and come fully awake, the sensation of light and warmth and relaxation was so wonderful-so rare.