Greg Bear - Mariposa

And to top it off, a select list of congressional representatives and perhaps a couple of Senators.

It would have been perfect if he could access the information he carried, but of course it was coded deep in his bloodstream, and thus far, no one had given any hint that Price suspected as much.

They would have killed him then and there-and then cremated him.

The lead Torq-Vee stopped outside the main ranch house. The second vehicle paused for a quick inspection, then proceeded to the outlying bungalow. There, under the fiery sky, they dropped him at his front porch.

"I have tea and coffee, if you would like to join me," Fouad offered, smiling broadly, unctuously happy to be so respected, so highly elevated-as he knew these strong, experienced men would both appreciate and expect. Like him, they were far travelers in a dangerous and diverse world, but their prejudices lay even deeper-injected long ago by parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.

Generations of ideas about the true rulers of Earth, the true favored of God.

The most affable of these tattooed men-Captain Rick Schmitz, U.S. Army, Ret.-thanked him for his offer. Quick, pleasant grin, hard yet friendly eyes.

"No thank you, Mr. Al-Husam. We've got more folks to escort, and we're told Mr. Price wants you up early tomorrow, refreshed and ready to go. The prince himself might be coming in early. Have a nice night."

The Torq-Vee rumbled off, its thick, armored tires shivering the sandy ground. Of course it could engage a sound suppression system that would almost magically control the tire angle and pitch and reduce that distinctive, warlike noise to a whisper. But that ate up fuel and reduced travel time, and why bother in this part of the world?

This was the heart of Price's empire. And perhaps the starting point for something new and unexpected.

Fouad had been thinking a great deal of history and economics and had put together several scenarios that were making more and more sense. He was mostly ignorant of what he carried, but that did not make him helpless.

His father, who had died in Egypt the year before, had a confessed habit of thinking "far too large for my pay grade. I hope you are smart enough to stay humble." Fouad of course would never be that smart-and his father had smiled as he spoke those words, more than dispensation to disobey-a sly suggestion that it might be essential.

His father had known too well that the USA was a fickle fatherland.

Fouad climbed the board steps to the screened porch, pushed his boots through the bristle brush mounted on the right-as he might have in many parts of the Middle East, also plagued by dust and on occasion mud-and ran his arm past the security sensor. The door lock snicked open.

He reached for the handle and then froze, hearing a noise that separated itself from the light chorus of alternating crickets that accompanied the growing shadows.

A distinctive slithering, gravelly sound.

He turned and looked down.

Two snakes-sidewinders, he thought-S-curled slowly along the pebbly margin of the path to the porch.

He had seen perhaps a dozen snakes since arriving in Texas, of course-mostly rattlesnakes, never sidewinders. That two might make their way into this compound was not surprising-perhaps they were shy natives. Price did not encourage the killing of Texas wildlife, but the locals outside often did target practice on hapless reptiles.

Heads raised, the two reptiles stared up at him with shining black eyes. The slithering stopped, the heads swayed in unison, and then a small musical tone sounded.

The heads dropped.

The bodies straightened.

They were not real.

Despite himself, Fouad smiled in boyish delight. Clever toys! Perhaps Price was paying for Disney-like robots to repopulate his prairies-an expensive hobby.

Just in case, he remained on the top step.

The snakes emitted two more tones, followed by a tinny voice. "Confirm ID by speaking your name," the voice instructed.

He bent on one knee, fascinated. "Al Smith," he said.

"No match. Confirm ID by speaking your name."

"Fouad Al-Husam," he said.

"Match. Repeat your name."

He repeated.

The snakes rolled over and two rectangular hatches, covered with scaled skin, popped open to reveal transparent tubes and a watchmaker's hint of automated innards.

"Thank you," the voice said. "Please remove our contents and perform the instructed functions, then replace the contents, close both hatches manually, and we will be on our way."

Still hunched, ready to spring back at a false move, Fouad stepped down and pinched out one of the tubes. It was a simple mechanism for drawing blood-hidden needle, ampoule.

He stared in astonishment at the implications of such a thing, such a wonder-and felt a chill, as if staring into his own grave.

They badly wanted his blood and the prochine memory it contained. They did not think he would live to escape Lion City.

Washington, D.C.

The Mall

Supernatural.

Fairy-tale pretty.

Golden sheets of drizzle fell away over the capital like a lady's discarded shawl. A rainbow drew a vivid crayon bridge above and to the north of the Washington monument. The monument itself stuck up from beyond the solemn, graceless stone blocks of the World War Two memorial like a needle waiting for the thumb of a careless giant.

Rebecca walked the path along the reflecting pool, sick to her stomach-and not with worry. Worry did not seem to be a problem.

Starting just this morning, food wasn't sitting well.

But colors were amazing. Smells overwhelmed. The sound of traffic from Constitution Avenue was almost painfully rich and detailed-extended in both high and low frequency. She could make out cars, buses, trucks, and with hear ears alone, follow them down the street as individual vehicles…

She had easily lost Baumann, getting lost in the tourist crowds. But after just a few minutes, she felt a desperate kind of exhaustion, all her senses overloaded.

And here came a motorcade, sirens blowing aside traffic. Not the president. Rebecca covered her ears and closed her eyes. She had to stay alert.

It seemed to be starting, just as Plover had warned.

A hand touched her shoulder and made her jump like a startled cat. She turned full circle, hands out in claws, hunched over, and stared at the blur of colors, no outlines, no sense, until something popped-his face.

Faces were important.

A man's face. Blocky, late thirties, ginger hair, startling green eyes. She saw it wrapped in a red circle and laughed at the visual joke. Her new brain had a sense of humor.

"I know you," she said, straightening. "How did you get into the Eisenhower building?"

Nathaniel held his finger to his lips. "We don't want to be conspicuous."

They drew cautious, sidewise inspection from several men and women and one escorted child, people out walking after the storm. Rebecca stared after the departing child, who stuck out her tongue.

"I'm a kid again, is that it?" Rebecca asked.

Nathaniel took her arm. "Laugh like we're old friends."

Rebecca laughed. "Aren't we? Old friends?"

"I'm flying level, but you're a kite," he observed. "Keep it tight. We've got things to discuss. Things you need to take back to your boss lady. And we don't have much time."

"Christ, I am a kite. I don't care. Even though Quinn's dead," Rebecca said. "He hanged himself."

"No, he didn't," Nathaniel said. "We don't get suicidal. Homicidal, maybe."

"Quinn said he was… His attorney… I didn't want to believe it. Things can't be that far gone."

"They've been going south for a long time now. We're right on the edge of losing it all-this country, our freedom, and for you and me-anybody who went through Mariposa-our lives."