Greg Bear - Mariposa

Rebecca had appointments to keep. She waved and moved on.

Nathaniel lingered at the food court for half an hour, uncertain what to do next or where to go. He had run out of instructions, external or internal.

He ordered a tuna sandwich and observed the people coming and going. Mostly reps or salespeople, a few politicians, a fair number of law enforcement officers in plain clothes-and of course security guards.

Watching them all move and mingle was relaxing, like watching an ant farm.

He slowly and meticulously played back Plover's words and actions during and after their dinner the night before. The memory was sharp. With some concentration, he could make it even sharper-until it pushed aside the real world.

It wasn't exactly like living the events again; the replay assumed its own rearranged logic, edited by his brain into a better story, and some parts were already in the process of degradation… de-selected, de-rezzed…

Interesting to actually watch that happening.

Rebecca Rose had been apprehensive. He thought perhaps she recognized him, but not consciously. Had they met before? His work had absorbed all his attention, even when he was in Baltimore, undergoing Mariposa. He might not have noticed her.

Work-and terror. Terror-and work. All he was, all he had. Back then, if he forgot something, it was likely to stay forgotten. Now…

Everybody interested him to some degree. Faces were important. He truly was like a baby-a baby savant.

He had read Rebecca Rose like a book. She had been in a hurry-and not just to get into the hall. She wanted to get away from extraneous thoughts and forces impinging on her life. To move toward pleasant things and away from unpleasant or worrisome things-like him.

Pretty standard palm reader bullshit, so far.

Nathaniel moved forward in memory-time and caught up with the food court, the conference, the amusing ant farm. This was good. This was exhilarating. The old Nathaniel Trace had not liked mysteries.

Now, not having all the answers was like the beginning of an all-absorbing game, a combination of Philip Marlowe and poker. In due time, with patience-something he was trying hard to nurture-facts would come his way. But he could also put himself in the way of facts.

(That patience thing was a work in progress, along with attention span, reining in bee vision, and not biting his hands.)

This convention was turning into a freeway cloverleaf of discovery-a maze of onramps and exits. The longer he stayed, the more he might learn.

He belched tuna sour-food still not agreeing with him-and pushed away the mostly uneaten sandwich. He walked toward the escalators, the high atrium, and the exit, at medium speed, not to attract attention.

Stopped for water at a fountain.

Things playing around in his head. Thoughts seemed to have their own shapes, and now he could see how they might fit together.

Make a picture.

Axel Price's plans involved disruption. Nathaniel had always wondered how it would happen, after the Turing group finished their international wire work. They weren't supposed to know the real purpose of that work, of course. But now it seemed obvious.

He could bring it all up from his subconscious, where it had just fallen into its proper place.

The vice president had put himself in the news. Plover had practically confirmed that Quinn was one of his patients. Plover was beholden to Axel Price.

Something was going wrong with Mariposa.

Because of that, and for other reasons, Price's plans might be in jeopardy. Something in which the vice president was going to play a major role.

The Quiet Man seemed to think so.

Tipping event.

Plover was in danger, trying to hide and not being smart about it. He was a scientist, not a spy. Who would have the strongest reason to want the doctor silenced?

Who would be powerful enough to cause concern for the Quiet Man?

Jerry Lee is torturing animals. Bork…

You might all become killers. Get in the news.

Like the vice president.

And then you'd spill the beans. You know you've been thinking about it.

This tickled Nathaniel. He laughed, then covered his mouth like a Japanese girl. His skin flushed-all but the scar.

The Turing Seven had become untrustworthy-Price was upset with them as well. All might come unraveled, so Price was angry. Pieces well-shaped, fitting nicely so far. Obvious.

Plover said that Price always had two reasons for doing anything. That was the secret of his success. Here, gathered in the convention center, were two and possibly even three reasons. Another tipping event-this one deliberate and planned. Something big, anonymous-destabilizing.

Dress rehearsal.

Prep for the grand finale.

Visions bright and scary flashed in his visual centers, like a waking dream. A whiff of burned metal flitted through his olfactory circuits. Something primal told him to get the hell out of this place. The call in the restaurant had upset the doctor. Perhaps someone had died. Someone he knew and loved and had tried to protect.

His wife.

Nathaniel had warned Rebecca Rose-but why? What was he anticipating?

Once outside the convention center, he considered hiring a taxi, but decided instead to study the nearby construction. He assumed the happiest of attitudes. He felt relaxed and at ease, unlike the day before.

Everything was delightfully potential.

You need to keep a sense of proportion, the wise old voice told him. What is it you really see-what do you need to see-what is it you want to see?

"I'm just waiting for something to happen," he said.

Passersby didn't look at him funny. He might be talking on a phone… but he wasn't. He was a certifiable crazy person.

"Something interesting is coming," he told himself. "Something dangerous."

You can't know that. But how much are you willing to risk by staying here, where it seems to be most dangerous?

"I'll stand over there, then."

Nathaniel crossed three parking lots and stood on Flower Street, where he turned to watch the passing cars, goggle at the buildings, lift squinted eyes to the sapphire sky. He liked making his long coat swirl. Grinning, he felt the scar on his cheek tug. Just walking in the sunshine felt great.

His face warmed everywhere but the scar.

He couldn't get Rebecca Rose out of his thoughts. He did not want her out of his thoughts. She was a fascinating part of the puzzle-the next piece to fall into place.

The whole area along Flower Street had undergone a kind of renaissance after years of major down time. A huge new Sofitel was just opening. Workers were pulling away tape and plastic riprap and moving equipment to make way for guests. Too expensive for most of the people at the convention center. That meant the hotel was relatively safe. He should stay here for a while. The hotel lobby looked interesting.

There was a huge crystal chandelier suspended above a beautiful travertine marble floor. Inside, Nathaniel looked up at the chandelier, giggling. A bellman and the concierge behind her desk watched him. Nathaniel dropped his shoulders.

His sense of time slowed. Safe.

The next thing that happened was intense.

The crystal chandelier jumped and sang with a thousand brilliant high notes. He felt it, saw it-

The puzzle came alive.

"That's an explosion," he whispered.

Glass was breaking and falling everywhere-behind him, a shower of prisms pinged and exploded against the marble floor. Eruptions of diamond pebbles water-falled out of the tall front windows, exposing the interior to a shockwave of warm air.

He was visualizing a distant explosion in clinical detail-analyzing the frequencies of the vibrations, the directions in which the walls of the hotel would move-periodicity, amplitude, the layout of the building and the surrounding streets, the way taller buildings would absorb the shock.