Greg Bear - Mariposa

As he walked out of the hotel, the walls still seemed to shake. Staying on his feet as the ground heaved was easy enough-like dancing to a syncopated, swaying tune.

The convention center puffed huge white and gray clouds.

Enough.

He thwacked himself on the temple with the palm of his hand.

Nathaniel stood trembling outside, away from the Sofitel lobby, across the street and back in sunshine. The hotel's windows were intact, the chandelier-visible through the windows-still suspended above the marble floor.

He let out a half frightened, entirely delighted whistle. This was utterly cool. The cloverleaf of discovery had just changed in a most intriguing way. The whole world had become his chess board. He could see millions of moves in advance… keyed in, of course, to the kings and queens, the power players.

His head hurt so bad his entire body was throbbing. But he felt no sense of danger, only a deep conviction that he was not wrong.

His metabolism had become that of a humming bird. Time for a sugary drink.

Time to return to the convention center.

Walking through the exhibit hall, Rebecca felt like Alice down the high-tech rabbit hole. The moral equivalent of Hitler under the old lady's bed had become huge business since 9/11 and 10/4.

COPES cut right through the body politic and revealed a cross-section of American nightmares. The long aisles were lined with pipe-and-curtain booths promoting aids to justice and anodynes to fear, from the specific and timely to the shapeless and eternal, all put together with businesslike style and just enough color.

Men in dark suits and women in gray or pastel suits casually conversed with retailers and cops about public protection, crime and detection, less-than-lethal takedown, and the tools they all needed to buy that elusive sense of security from, and justice for, all the bad guys.

Some tools could be lethal by happenstance, of course. A mock-up cutaway of an armored Ford Crown Victoria revealed dark layers of "C-ERA," electromagnetic reactive armor packed with carbon fiber nanotubes-good protection for you, inside, not so good for the crowds around you, sprayed with pulverized shrapnel. A sign over the somber gray vehicle proclaimed: "This is one ERA you'll ratify!"

"Har," Rebecca said softly.

By and large, male cops were still chauvinists-and probably always would be. Gather male and female law enforcement together-especially the young-and a few of the males always felt it necessary to challenge the females as to credentials, fitness, their place in the cruel masculine world-which was properly staying home and making babies. With their willing assistance, of course.

The captain had exhibited none of that. That could mean he was simply more experienced with women.

Stop it. Enjoy the moment.

D &P-Detection and Protection-systems abounded for radiation and bio-attacks of any kind, personal or large-scale. D &P came in the form of networked phones, bracelets, even radio-alerted chips under the skin.

Be the first on your block to get the hell away from your block… when the bad guys spray it with nerve gas or anthrax.

Rebecca made a face and let out a small puff of breath. She lingered for a few seconds at the FreezeCrime forensics display, a ring in the middle of two aisles, revealing all the latest in sealing and preserving crime scenes: room-size cooling units and rail-mounted bots designed to pick up samples without leaving "cop residue." The bar was being raised on crime scenes. She had often wondered why human techs were allowed to stomp and shed their way through those delicate, information-rich landscapes. And if human investigators had to be there-a case could still be made for that-there were plastic suits designed to protect cops from contamination, and protect the evidence from the dusty, hairy, sweaty presence of cops.

The food square at the back of the hall was fenced by black ropes and guarded by another phalanx of security, perhaps the most impressive and vigilant. Their job was to wave off conventioneers without food privileges: press, day-trippers, salespeople.

She wove through clusters of diners grazing off the buffet-chatting, balancing glasses and plastic plates-then proceeded to the end of the C aisle, where she was scheduled to be a star speaker. Her future boss, Stan Philips, stood under a simple black banner with a company logo printed in silver-gray: BLUE EYES EXECUTIVE SERVICES.

A little platform had been set up to one side of the booth. Within sight of the food. Terrific. She would be competing with steam tables and salad bars.

Stan was with a tall fellow in a dark gray suit. This made Stan look shorter than his five feet eight inches. The tall fellow had thick brown hair; Stan's hair was sallow and wispy. The tall fellow's voice deep and hard to make out over the noise in the hall. Stan, as usual, was mostly listening. Stan seldom expressed his opinions unless pressed. That was one reason he liked Rebecca and she got along with him. She was taciturn but not silent. Stan was often too quiet, and that confused their clients, who seemed to think they were paying for words, not results.

Stan introduced Rebecca to the tall fellow. He was some official or another from some agency or another and he was here at the show hoping to find better employment.

"I'm interested in art security," the man said. "I hear you guys are pretty good at protection and provenance. I did undergrad work in art history at Long Beach State."

Rebecca shut off her ears and locked in her smile. Nodding to the conversational beats, she turned her sharp green eyes to a small group gathered in front of the lectern. Four guys in suits. Small groups made her more nervous than large ones.

She wished she were somewhere else-maybe over by the steam table, picking through the General Tso's chicken, pepper beef and broccoli, green onion pancakes and mu shu sauce. Or sitting in the audience across the exhibit floor, listening to Captain Periglas's presentation.

She sucked in her breath, wanting simply to be with her captain, with her prospective daughter, to be far, far away-in a small house, mortgage paid off, easy to clean, a simple garden.

Maybe the young male agents were right about women after all. It was a lovely vision.

Stan handed the tall man a card and suggested he join the her audience. "Rebecca's got a great take on high-tech security," he said. "Worth hearing."

Rebecca clutched her hands in front of her, waiting for the clock to tick over. In the corner of her eye, she noticed a knot of activity around the no-host bar on the northern side of the catering square. Three young men and two women in black-and-white uniforms were talking and pointing to something behind the bar.

One young man knelt out of sight and then stood, frowning and holding out his hand.

She tried to read his lips.

He might have been saying, It's cold.

She tuned into the louder voice of the female bar tender. "It's just Coke. Maybe it's fizzing."

They seemed more puzzled than worried. But a long line of customers was getting impatient.

Something was not right.

She turned from the tall man, muttered something to Stan, and pushed under the rope to walk toward the bar. One of the security guards arrived three steps ahead of her: short, middle-aged, Hispanic, with a round face and smart black eyes that probably missed nothing.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

Rebecca stood back respectfully.

"Something weird with our syrup canisters," the male bartender said.

"It's just Coke!" the female bartender insisted.

"It's cycling hot and cold," the male said. "I've never seen it do that." His voice squeaked, and somehow that made it real.

Rebecca met the eyes of the guard and they exchanged a look. The guard knelt behind the bar. He touched stainless steel canister and jerked back his hand.