Greg Bear - Mariposa

"Bad day," he said. "Soon to get a whole lot better."

The Smoky

Schmitz's Torq-Vee and two others had remained parked in front of Fouad's bungalow, as if the game was reaching its inevitable conclusion-as if fate or death was in the air.

Fouad sat in the living room's shadows, feeling the adhesive tug of bandages on his wrists and a cold sting as the local anesthetic faded-one of Schmitz's small mercies.

Schmitz seemed to be according him the same respect he would a dog about to be put to sleep. He had cut out all three of Fouad's Talos ID chips with swift strokes of a scalpel. Now Fouad could not go anywhere on the Smoky or the campus-or in much of Lion City-without setting off alarms.

He was more than an outcast. Price had removed his mark. Fouad was no longer part of the tribe, and that meant, around here, he was no longer human.

He estimated there were at least twelve men positioned around the bungalow. They could easily sweep in and kill him without disturbing guests in the other bungalows-politicians, bankers and financiers, the Saudi prince in exile-gathering for Price's investiture.

Fouad maintained calm through controlled breathing and other exercises that both prepared and removed distractions-part of Sufi discipline. If possible, he would not be led off to execution without a fight. Perhaps he could take with him one or more of the guests…

But that was fantasy. Schmitz was too smart, too well trained.

He got up from the rattan chair at the sound of feet coming around under the bungalow's windows, up to the rear patio door-and then the front door.

The door opened. Two of Schmitz's Haitians entered first-lithe, with fine dark features under small green caps. They had been in Fouad's classes, receiving language instruction. They sported black shirts, holstered SIGs, yellow stripes on their sleeves, khaki pants, and high black boots, perfectly polished.

Fouad watched with languid eyes.

Schmitz came in behind them. He swung his chin and nodded to the door. "Mr. Al-Husam, time for the festivities," he said. "Mr. Price insists you stay close."

Fouad walked slowly between the Haitians. They prepared leg irons and wrist cuffs linked by chain-standard Smith and Wesson restraints, not the most up-to-date design, he thought.

He knew of ways…

Schmitz seemed to hear his thoughts. "I have respect," he said. "Show me some, too-no stupid heroics."

Corpus Christi, Texas

The Vertexion building rose thirty-five stories over the surrounding beachfront hotels and houses, flat islands and causeways, clusters of condos and light industrial development-an outrageous silver spire facing the troubled early morning ocean.

Right and left of the spire sat seven low concrete structures, arranged like Venetian blinds laid on end, behind which rose three strange horizontal horns like giant Jai Alai scoops.

"What's your name again, sir?" the uniformed guard asked. His name was Carlos, according to his brass name tag, and he stood behind a high steel podium, with a stool to sit on when things got slow.

"Sangstrom," Nathaniel said. "Robert Sangstrom."

Vertexion was a little-known but important point of entry for Mexican and South American IT traffic of all sorts-and thus an important node for MSARC's information-gathering network.

"I see you haven't visited in two years, Mr. Sangstrom," Carlos said, and spun around a small, palm-size wireless screen that mirrored some of the security display. Carlos always spoke with a broad smile. "Good to have you back. I have messages from five people on the fifteenth floor-they'll be happy to know you've arrived, and look forward to the meeting later this morning. Very early, sir."

Outside the wide wall of windows, beyond a pebbled flat walkway and a feathery low wall of saltbush, the Gulf of Mexico threw five-foot combers onto a dark-shrouded beach protected by riprap-mounded chunks of rebar-studded concrete.

The predawn sky had filled with wooly black mounds of wet cloud. Thick drops spat on the window glass with metallic tinks. Corpus Christi was getting a wet peck of a kiss-and nothing more. All that moisture would swing northeast over north Florida and into Georgia and dump itself there, making Atlanta once again as wet as Seattle-and stealing life from all but a northern wedge of Mexico.

"Pleasure is all mine," Nathaniel said. "I'd like to take a shower before the meeting."

"Certainly. Mr. Jones seems to have moved into his new office-he has opened it for your convenience. There's a full bathroom and a wet bar. The floor hostess will fill you in on the rest of the amenities, and direct you to the meeting room when the time comes."

"Thank you, Carlos," Nathaniel said. "Scan my chips here?"

"Mr. Jones indicates that won't be necessary," Carlos said, and switched off the gently humming security bar. "He confirms visual ID."

Nathaniel passed through the deactivated detectors, afforded the same treatment as a senior executive or a visiting dignitary. He carried no luggage.

Carlos had never met Mr. Jones. Such was the power of privilege-executive systems were almost always the favored point of entry for industrial espionage and sabotage. Executives hated to be bothered with fussy security-and hated worse being admonished by nerds.

"Fifteenth floor," Carlos reminded him, and stared with a puzzled sort of longing through the wide windows at Nathaniel's metallic blue Bentley. Rain beaded like clear glass game markers on the fresh wax.

Nathaniel hummed a Bee Gees tune as he rode the fast elevator to the seventeenth floor-not the fifteenth. He had thirty minutes. If Jones was with him-and so far, that seemed a solid supposition-the entire dataflow monitoring system for Latin America would soon require a maintenance technician's timely attention.

That lapse in the bitstream would ripple around the world, up the line to Geneva, and MSARC would enter a mode of vigilant relaxation.

The same type of unauthorized portal that Jane Rowland had exploited, but on a much larger scale. The Quiet Man would have been amused and perhaps chagrinned to learn that Spider/Argus had long been aware of his private backdoor into Talos.

For over an hour, in essence, MSARC would see and hear much, but would not render any important decisions.

Nathaniel had told Jones-who did not speak now, only listened-that the Quiet Man would have wanted it this way.

The Smoky

Schmitz and the Haitians led Fouad into another wing of Price's domicile, a seemingly endless labyrinth of hallways and rooms that could never be fully explored or resolved.

Against a backdrop of a wall covered with western paintings-horses and cowboys settling their differences, with much dust-Price was conferring with two men in expensive and perfectly tailored suits-two distinctive, silken shades of twenty-first-century gray. One was Asiatic, probably Chinese, but the other was definitely of classic Yemeni Arab lineage, likely of the Banu Hanifa-a prominent member of the house of Saud, perhaps the Prince in Exile himself.

Fouad did not immediately recognize him, but pictures of the prince had been forbidden since the overthrow of the Hejaz and the subsequent founding of Arabia Deserta, administered by the six-nation Muslim Council. He had put on weight and grown a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache.

Relaxed, chatting and smiling, they turned as Fouad approached. The Chinese continued to smile, but the Saudi's face went stony.

"Who is this Egyptian?" he asked Price, who watched with some amusement.

"One of my instructors," Price said. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Just a couple of matters to resolve, then we'll continue." He gestured toward a plump black man in white livery. "Breakfast for our guests, Lionel?"