Greg Bear - Mariposa

Even so, William wore his hat low over his face.

Jesus, it's working.

The correction center was not Lion City's highest tech enterprise-surprising, considering how much Talos had invested in securing the rest of the county.

"Hey, Mallom," came a twangy female voice over the van radio: the transfer dispatcher. William imagined her in her mid-forties, a heavy smoker with pruny skin and hennaed hair. "Hustle it, young man. Prisoner is at the gate."

"Down the chute," William said.

The DOC folks here were relying entirely on steely eyes and strong iron. Human judgment all the way.

The transfer station was an underground concrete cavern backed by a loading dock, the dock flanked by five parking spaces on each side, reserved for prison brass and visitors. This wide, cool box was dimly illuminated by a red bulb on the right and the greenish glow from an observation window about six feet wide and three feet high, made of inch-thick bulletproof plastic.

As William drove the PerpTrans van through the steel security gate, lights came on over the dock. A guard poked out from the access door and waved in the van.

William joggled the van around in the narrow space and backed it up to the loading dock. Two men emerged from an old Toyota Corolla in a visitor space-no longer the original DOC prisoner escorts, Sanchez and Markette, but Bureau replacements, Special Agents Glenn Curteze and Jonathan Kapp.

Someone had slipped a powder into a few beers at the PerpTrans BBQ toot.

The agents would soon join Little Jamey in the back of the van. No doubt by the end of the day, heads would roll at Texas DOC. That did not concern William. He was sweating profusely. The uniform's inseam pinched his crotch. The sleeves rode up and his socks showed.

Two more guards came through the door and stood on the dock. They looked glumly serious. The guards disliked this ritual, the darkest part of their duty. There would be no joking and little conversation, nothing to relieve the tension.

Dead Man walking.

William remotely unlocked the van's rear doors. The guards opened them and Kapp and Curteze climbed in first, then prepared the chains and locking cross-bars.

William acknowledged their presence through the viewport behind the driver. They passed him their papers-Curteze offered up a shit-eating smile-and he stuck them in his folder.

A female guard approached the driver side door and William slid open a conversation port.

"New directions," she said, and handed him another slip of paper. "You choose the third segment, the third leg. Off the beaten path, if possible. Tracking isn't fully operational. They promise to have it fixed in twenty or thirty minutes. You can stay here until they confirm, if you want."

William frowned. "We're supposed to be in Huntsville this evening. We could bill you and wait until tomorrow… That's what our contract stipulates if you cancel and it's not our fault."

"Not an option," the guard said.

"They should have flown this one," William said.

"Do you have a plane? Because we don't."

"I hear you," William said.

"Maybe Mr. Price should loan us a private jet," the guard said.

All of Price's jets were in the air, winging executives and politicians from around the world to the Talos corporate shindig. That could explain the jam-up in tracking-the roads around Lion City were already crowded with unfamiliar vehicles.

Another point in their favor.

William brushed his lip with a finger. "We'll get him where he belongs. Just hand him over."

The guard nodded and returned to the dock.

Kapp and Curteze prepared for the transfer. The door at the back of the loading dock opened and they lifted Little Jamey along in his orange prison jumper. The boy looked sleepy. The prison medicos had sedated him for the transfer. His heels floated and his chains clanked.

Kapp and Curteze took charge of the prisoner, ran his arm chip under their scanners, then signed multiple documents formally transferring custody.

The van's rear doors closed. William sealed them. Ominous clunks and chunks sounded. An obnoxious little horn beeped until he entered the code on the prisoner's transport slip. The horn stopped with a happy chirp. The van was now authorized to proceed up the Tunnel to its last security checkpoint before Huntsville.

William could hardly believe they had made it this far.

The indictment, trial, and conviction of Little Jamey had ignited a firestorm among law enforcement agencies around the nation. Most of them, anyway.

He didn't know how many courageous people in Washington and Texas-or inside the Texas DOC itself-had cooperated to make this rescue possible, at risk to career and personal freedom.

None were known to William, nor he to them.

And they in turn would learn nothing about their new partners, Bureau East and Spider/Argus, each with their own ulterior motives.

Pendleton Reserve, California

The shack supported a small cistern that collected rainwater and delivered it through plastic pipes to a small flower garden. The garden was a prickle patch of desiccated stems and the last dried buds from the summer before-all gray. The cistern had sprung a leak-a bullet hole.

The hole showed up intensely purple in Nathaniel's bee vision.

"Someone's been shooting here," he said.

"Kids or dumb hunters," Camp said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Up by the road, too-road signs and mailboxes."

Nathaniel paced before the path that led to the shack, head down. His whole body ached with the intensity of his thought. Finally he paused and flung his hands up in the air. "Goddamn it," he said. "There's no way in hell I can see what's happening. This place used to be important-but why? Nobody's taken care of it for a long time."

Camp assumed a farmer's slouch with hands deep in pockets. He shrugged. "The Quiet Man isn't here?" he asked doubtfully.

"I don't think so," Nathaniel said.

"We heard his voice. He recognized us."

"He's probably watching from someplace remote-maybe the main building in La Jolla. " Though that seemed unlikely, as well.

"Then why guide us all the way out here? We should leave. Let's just chuck it."

"He must have a good reason."

"Lady or the tiger," Camp said, pointing to the shack, then to the blockhouse.

Nathaniel realized he was going to have to follow his instructions or abandon the scene completely and start over again-without guidance. That made his head hurt more.

"Stay here," he said.

"Give me the car keys," Camp suggested, snapping his fingers, and Nathaniel tossed him the ring. Then he started down the path to the shack-slow, cautious steps, eyes on the ground searching for disturbed earth, triggers, trip wires. The ground all around looked gray, uninteresting. Rain had washed away any evidence of foot traffic, but the grass near the trail had been trampled in a few spots. Four sad little eucalyptus trees leaned away from the shack, their largest branches broken off and littering the ground-also gray. Everything was gray except for the bullet holes.

He climbed the single step and paused on the porch, then looked back over his shoulder. Camp stood slouched as before, key ring dangling from one hand.

Nathaniel squinted and rubbed his temples.

The sun-warped wooden door made a click and opened. The whole front of the cabin seemed to explode with sudden color. Nathaniel averted his eyes until he could regain visual control. Some part of him was still capable of expressing fear, or at least caution-but from way down deep. Lizard brain stuff.

"All right," he said under his breath. "I get it."

He nudged the door with one foot. It opened stiffly. Watery daylight spilled into the interior, revealing nothing but a crumpled paper airplane on the dirty floorboards.