Greg Bear - Mariposa

BLAM-and then the sound of a saw cutting through rebar. Somewhere, they were using a CIRT pounder to blast a hole through concrete with shotgun shells for hammers. What did CIRT mean?

She couldn't remember.

Controller Impact Rescue Tool.

"Atta girl," she whispered. "Nine thousand acronyms in the naked city. This is just one."

Someone was in worse trouble than she was.

The mass above her lifted a few fractions of an inch, and she could push her arm around and touch her nose, pressed into the concrete, water up one nostril.

She managed to pry open one eye and wipe it with a finger, enough to get the big chunks of grit off her lower lid. Somehow she dipped a finger in the flowing water and washed that eye, not much improvement, but now she could look out to the light and see smoke-hazy shapes moving.

All right.

What next?

Voices over the noise. Someone calling, "Anybody down there? If you can't talk, try to cough. We know it's tough. We're working."

Mary, I know you're out there waiting for me to come and help make a home.

God, I hate bombs.

Okay then. It had been a bomb-a big one. A gigantic Coke bomb, seven cans full, maybe more, first hot, then cold, whatever that meant. She had never heard of anything like it. Maybe she was still squashing memories and images together. A visit to the no-host bar, a peek behind: frost and fire.

"Give us a sign!"

"I'm down here!" she moaned. "Get this shit off of me."

The weight lifted another inch and she turned her head to look straight out at the triangle of light. Where she could manage to focus, she saw a mound of white girders, parts burned gray, and chunks of stuff all different colors.

Red.

Lots of red.

Maybe she had wiped blood and not water on her eye.

Then a different shade of red, blurry and smaller, and below it, a face.

"I know you," said a man's voice, and she saw a well-meaning smile. "You're Rebecca. Say something, Rebecca."

"Ten, nine, eight, seven…" She imagined herself walking backward down the steps, counting, on her way out of the Los Angeles Convention center, about to go home.

"That's it. Keep talking. We're going to get this whopping big truck off of you."

"Truck?"

She remembered more. Flying truck.

The face went away and came back.

Ginger hair, tan coat.

"I know you," she said. "Your name is Trace. Nathaniel Trace."

"Sorry to have frightened you earlier. I'd like to have another word with you, Rebecca. If that's all right. Not right now, but when… you're free."

"Very funny."

Trace's smile was brilliant. He was not an ugly man, even with those scars.

"They're going to get you out," he said. "I see it happening. We'll talk soon."

The scarred face under the ginger hair pulled back and away. The giant blades of a fork lift moved slowly to within six or eight inches of her head. The blades lifted. Someone kicked a wooden block into the growing gap. The blades lifted again. Stuff shifted. The whole thing on top of her screamed and groaned, as if the big old black truck was still alive but trying to die.

Bomb truck.

Another groan, another wooden block, and then scraping cinder blocks. A fireman in a bright yellow rubber coat, face coated with soot, pushed between the blocks and got right up next to her.

They could have kissed.

"I hate bombs," she said.

"Me too, beautiful," he said. "Can you move your legs? Move your legs for me, honey."

She wanted to cry, that sounded so wonderful. Someone still cared. "I'll try."

"There's a lot of blood down here. Are you bleeding?"

"I don't know. I think I busted some ribs."

"You sound strong. Couple of more heaves, then we'll get it stable and I'll come back for you."

"Don't leave!"

The fireman winked and pulled out. Her foot felt like it was on fire. She tried to move her legs and could not. Other firemen moved in and more blocks were positioned.

In a compartment directly over her head, something big and hard fell with a nauseating clang followed by a prolonged, metallic fingernail screech. Rebecca tried not to think how many tons, where it might be balanced, how a robot in its lair-or a bomb tech's broken body-could suddenly lurch and upset the entire balance.

There was commotion beyond the triangle of light. Boots thumped past, raising puffs of acrid gray dust. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus. The bottom curve of a huge tire rolled by, followed by another, and another.

Big truck. Big crane. That made her feel better. How in hell could they get it in through all the debris?

Let them do their work.

She realized she had tensed all over, trying to keep the weight from closing in. That wasn't helpful. The tension of a tiny, trapped blob of protoplasm wasn't going to make any difference.

She relaxed, closed her eyes, let out her breath in a jagged sigh.

It was going to be a long night.

Washington, D.C.

Alicia Kunsler's armored limo pulled away from Reagan National and took an unexpected direction-to Dulles.

William sat beside her in the backseat, watching the Beltway give way to fields and forest land. He knew she had other things on her mind and had met him at the airport to save time.

The news from Spider/Argus had cast a pall. Kunsler had filled him in a little-just enough to both depress him and pique curiosity.

"I had a call yesterday from deputy director Scholes, west coast," she said. "He tells me they have reliable intel that Nabokov is in bed with the enemy. He's playing us. They're working under the assumption that the mission is compromised."

William half closed his eyes and both snorted and shivered. His shoulders seemed to shrug this off, and then he straightened in the seat and stared out the window.

"Credible?" he asked.

"No. Hell, I don't know-we haven't heard anything since Thursday. But the Bureau has two heads, and right now, Alameda is feeling threatened-low men on the funding pole. Scholes is working hard to squash me. This could be his best hammer yet."

"Maybe you should let me know who it is we're trying to save," William said.

"Not relevant."

"If I know him-"

"Not relevant, Agent Griffin. The less you know, the safer your career. If I go down, I can cut you loose with minimal damage."

"After all of this, why would Nabokov give in to Price?" William asked. "What's their theory?"

"They feel the Saudis are working hard to reverse the Arabian revolution-and they're looking for a U.S. connection. A point of leverage. Bureau East has been working on that assumption for a year, against Alameda's steadfast resistance-but now they've flipped. They agree, but they're playing it against us. Price has a long relationship with the royal family. Nabokov is a Muslim."

"Which is how he got into Talos in the first place."

"Yeah. Scholes thinks they've turned him," Kunsler said. "His thinking is clouded, to say the least-Muslim equals traitor. Unfortunately, Scholes has political cover with a senior senator who went to Harvard with the AG, who gets along very well with the Israeli lobby and who, incidentally, hates Muslims-in private, of course. Fortunately, Spider/Argus is still on our side, and they have a lot of influence. We need Nabokov's information-now. We're trying to figure a workaround. Maybe two."

Rain dotted the thick glass. The limo rumbled and hissed over the wet roadway.

Kunsler broke the quiet. "Now listen close. There's something else bad-but also good. You worked with Rebecca Rose, right?"

"I did," William said. "What about her?"

"She survived the convention center bombing."

"Jesus!" William said, with a blunt nerve buzz of genuine shock.

"Two hundred others didn't. I'll be meeting her tomorrow in LA."