Greg Bear: Mariposa

William wondered how much history had already been lost.

Brain transplant. That's what the fetch bloggers called the move to Alameda. Zombie Bureau. Shoot it in the head and put it out of its misery. Serve it right for surveilling Martin Luther King Jr., John Lennon, the Dalai Lama, and, of course-at the request of a former Attorney General, now serving time in Cumberland federal prison-for keeping extensive "Patriot" files on the current president of the United States, the Senate Majority Leader, the Speaker of the House, and six ranking senators.

Burn the old FBI, then jolt it back to life on the operating table of national bankruptcy.

William knocked lightly on the jamb. Kunsler saw his shadow in the doorway, held up a long, thin index finger, then crooked it-come in-and resumed typing in the empty air over her desk. An angular, black-haired woman of forty-one with a hook nose, big hands, and small, dark, intelligent eyes, she sat behind an old avocado-green steel desk, staring through a pair of projector glasses-her spex-and air-typing on a virtual keyboard, fingers jabbing two inches above the antique blotter.

William sat.

Kunsler had proved herself a master at gathering power and influence in a vacuum. After the firing of four directors in the last two years, she had assumed the task of deputy director of the Bureau in Transition East, or BITE, and had moved into this old, stripped-down room in a deserted, musty building filled with unhappy ghosts.

Not the sort of woman-nor the sort of agency, now-that William had thought would have the balls to conduct a months-long, clandestine investigation into the doings of one of the most powerful and secretive men on the planet.

She finished tapping her line, pulled off her spex, and focused full attention on him. "Tell me something cheerful," she said in a small, precise voice.

William sat. "The president has relieved her Secret Service detail."

"Do you blame her?" Kunsler asked.

"She's considering hiring Talos executive security to protect her."

Kunsler sniffed. "I've asked to meet with her twice-and been refused both times."

"Daniel Haze went to congress asking them to override the hire. They can't, of course."

Haze was director of the Secret Service-one of the branches competing with the Bureau for funding and cases.

"The fox will be in the cluck house," Kunsler said. "I'm not feeling the cheer, Agent Griffin. Price's octopus arms are slithering through every branch of government, and I know that bastard is about to make his move. I just wish I knew what it was."

"What about Nabokov?"

This was the code-name for an agent who had already spent a year in Lion City, infiltrated into Talos. Kunsler told William what she thought he needed to know, and nothing more.

"On schedule. He's going to have to act fast, though. Someone's spreading manure. Price hires a lot of retired agents."

Kunsler took a zip page out of her desk drawer and passed it across. "I'd like you to look into this personally," she said. "Keep you busy until we know what's up with Nabokov. It's a long shot, but it feels hinky.

"Price put four million dollars into the research of a scientist named Plover-some kind of pharmaceutical wizard. Plover started with cancer drugs, then expanded into a new field called EGCT-epigenetic glial cell therapy. Does that mean Price or someone near him has cancer? If so, they're shit out of luck. Plover's foundation in Baltimore reported he left the premises last week with two and a half million in grant money… They have no idea where he absconded to. I like that word, absconded, don't you?"

"Fine word," William agreed.

"We know where he is, of course-he may be a genius, but he's not used to acting like a bad guy. His wife bought a house in Boise four months ago. She's still using her old credit cards. I'd like you to fly to Idaho and pay them a visit."

"Just me?"

"For now. Maybe Plover's just tired of being a genius. If he can tell us something useful about Price, we can offer immunity and protection. If he's got nothing, take him into custody. Flight at 0600 tomorrow morning from Reagan. Hope this doesn't interfere with your social life."

"Not a problem," William said. "Haven't had a date in two months."

"Some lucky cowgirl will come along and find her buckaroo," Kunsler said, stone-faced.

William broke into laughter. "They pulled down nearly all the posters around here," he said. "But they left the ones on alcohol and domestic abuse. What's that tell you about the private life of an agent?"

Kunsler waved that away and looked unconcerned. "Let me be your matchmaker," she said. "It'll happen."

The secure phone on her desk chimed. She picked it up and listened. Her eyes wandered around the room, met William's.

"Oh my God," she said, then hung up. For a moment, she could not speak. Her eyes welled up with tears. She looked down and rearranged some loose papers. "Does the shit never stop?"

"What is it? The president?"

"She's fine." Kunsler's voice cracked. "It's Beth-Anne Quinn. The vice president just murdered his wife."

The Ziggurat

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Nathaniel Trace walked slowly to the condo window and stared out over Dubai Creek. A few dhows, pleasure boats, and light freighters plied their trade, far below.

From his perspective-six hundred feet up the side of the Ziggurat, a huge steel and glass pyramid-the morning sun burned like a blowtorch on the horizon. The twelve lanes of the Ras al Khor Bridge, mostly empty, cut through the waterway's blinding shimmer.

The strangest feeling pushed through his entire body, as if he were a giant skyscraper and all the light switches were being turned on-or off-in quick succession.

Windows bright, windows dark.

How appropriate, here in Dubai, home of ten thousand audacious, half empty monuments to the world-class architecture of a failing oil empire.

An incredibly rich city fallen on hard times, where Nathaniel had lived and worked for six months now, interacting with part of the most sophisticated computer system on Earth-and filling his accounts with cash. His work was all but finished. He would be called up if they needed him for a few last details-but that was unlikely.

No, Jones was in control now, buried somewhere in the mountains of Switzerland.

He examined his naked reflection in the glass. Pale, lumpy body. Brush of disheveled ginger hair. Round face with a bump of nose-thin bridge, bulbous tip, flaring nostrils. Smooth, round cheeks. Generous lips that had once tended to a boyish smile.

Now he looked more like a bewildered Irish car salesman.

Nathaniel shivered and refocused his eyes. He could stare and stare at the sun without blinking and it didn't hurt a bit. If he chose, he could destroy his eyes and not even feel it.

He chose not to.

Something similar had happened a year before. Like the flip of a switch-all the misery, gone. Back then, it had been the pain from a nasty run-in with the wicked old world of the Middle East. Relief from worry and torment might explain his current round of mental pyrotechnics.

But this time, it felt very different.

You will experience liberation.

That's what the doctor had told him. All his old fears and traumas wouldn't just be managed, just painted over-they would be gone. He would remember them at any level of detail he willed, like tracing scars with a finger, but the scars would mean nothing emotionally.

Freedom from all his blunders, his mistakes… freedom from guilt.

That was what Mariposa was supposed to do. Better men, better fighters-everything better. And the doctor's promises had come true.

But now, his recovery and all his personal progress were twisting into something truly weird. Maybe what he was feeling had nothing to do with what had happened in Arabia Deserta, or with Mariposa.