Greg Bear - Mariposa

"Pacemakers for heart and brain, hearing aids, older model stents," the second officer said. "We've never worked a scenario where everyone stayed upright and healthy." He braced with his boots and shook his head in honest pity.

Then he dropped deftly into a seat, strapped in, and assumed the proper position.

The Smoky

Schmitz and his two Haitians hauled Fouad aside in the hallway beyond the butterfly vault room and with a fair degree of firmness, but no malice, positioned him against a concrete wall.

Schmitz took out a small syringe and swiftly injected it through the sleeve into Fouad's arm.

"Bring him down to the ballroom in five minutes," Price ordered, whisking by with two other guards.

Fouad guessed the drug, saw the size of the dose, and quickly estimated its effect on a man of his body mass and age. Not good-an hour of confusion and weakness, and no doubt they would then drug him again.

"I wish they'd keep me better informed," Schmitz muttered, his mouth close to Fouad's ear. "This whole Mecca thing-that's legendary. Nobody knew whether it actually happened that way or not-but here you are. You saved the whole damned city, didn't you? A man with those talents, a man who survives that sort of mission, is a man to be admired-not paraded around like a prize monkey. You deserve better, Mr. Al-Husam. But it ain't going to happen. Not today."

Fouad's vision fogged slightly and his legs almost collapsed. As he struggled to stay upright, the Haitians supported him by his elbows. Schmitz had cuffed his hands in front, another small mercy-and a potentially deadly softness.

His chains made dull music as they hauled him toward the ballroom.

The main ballroom of the Smoky was the size of a basketball arena and sometimes doubled as one: prime red oak floor under gracefully arched cedar beams supporting a high curved roof, those beams now richly festooned with banners in Chinese and Arabic and Russian.

Long golden streamers dangled and twirled as the room quickly filled with at least a hundred and fifty well-dressed men and about a third as many women.

Schmitz escorted Fouad up a ramp and onto a gallery riser, several feet above the floor, where a single red-draped table and four chairs had hastily been arranged, illuminated by a single high spot.

They sat and a waiter promptly brought a pitcher of punch and four glasses.

Fouad woozily surveyed the incongruities.

"I think these good people hoped they might sleep in this morning," Schmitz observed.

The Haitians nodded agreement. "It is very early," one observed, his voice deep, mellifluous.

The ballroom crowd consisted of Middle Easterners, Europeans, Russians, Asians, and a few Indonesians, all having just arrived or politely roused from their cabins in the last hour.

Ten white men in slacks and sports coats, who might have been Russian or Middle European and who might have been more comfortable in uniform, kept to one side of the floor, watching with irritated frowns. They did not like crowds or pageantry. Possibly they had not reckoned on the scale of Axel Price's plans.

Serious men-men of might, international finance, and worldly consequence-did not relish the prospect of all the rules changing at once.

A slow waltz was piped into the ballroom and after a moment of hesitation six couples started to dance halfheartedly to a steady beat in the center of the floor. Fouad could hardly believe this spectacle. It almost made him doubt their sanity-or his. So familiar-but from where?

Another group of older men-without women-entered from the reception area. These seemed contented with their present lot in life but more pleased still by the shining prospects.

Even in his present state, Fouad recognized a senator, a congressman, and an admiral-a member of the joint chiefs. He fought back against a muzzy tide of anger-not productive. Not efficient.

"Bastards," Schmitz grumbled as he pushed back his chair. "Whatever your loyalties, traitors always stink up a place."

Fouad could not entirely understand this man, but here was yet no opportunity-no weakness and no vacillation.

"Undignified," Schmitz added, and poured Fouad a glass of punch. "You'll want to keep drinking. Those drugs can do a job on your kidneys."

One of the new arrivals, the senator-an elderly man with pale blue eyes and a shock of brown hair that poked over his forehead-was escorted to their small table by a blond woman in a long purple dress.

"Mr. Price has been telling us all about you. I just wanted to shake your hand, sir, on this fortuitous day," the senator said with a big grin, and held out his plump paw. He raised his eyebrows at the sound of the cuffs as Fouad thumped them on the tablecloth. "I see. A very dangerous man, but worth one hundred million on the hoof! Marvelous!"

Fouad struggled to fight the drug.

Others came flocking, standing beside the riser and gawking, as Price had obviously intended. Fouad turned away and clutched the table, feeling ill. Somehow, Schmitz shooed the crowd back. "Mr. Price is going to offer better distractions soon," he said. "Please move on and give us some space."

Across the ballroom, a huge screen began to unfurl, initiating a sequence of screens dropping around the room, lighting up with images and text feeds from news organizations around the world. The sound was not yet above the music of the waltz and the dancers continued to spin and step and spin again.

Fouad felt he might be hallucinating. This all reminded him of something from his youth, a frightening story…

Axel Price strolled onto the oak floor, wearing a tailored denim suit and pointed black boots, his handsome but undistinguished face angled to take in the nearest screen and the world's teeming details.

Six more of Colonel Sir's crack Haitians flanked him and kept close watch, all heavily armed, gimbal harnesses supporting computer-controlled assault rifles. Formidable-but a matter of concern to the ten men near the wall, who might have been Russians.

The music softened. The crowds gathered and began to reluctantly mingle-Arabs with Indonesians, Chinese with Russians, Eastern Europeans with members of congress and the military in mufti-and Price's assembly became one, with Price at the center and the world arrayed in glowing walls around them.

Schmitz poked Fouad and he sat up straight, groggily surveying the crowd, the floor, the swirl of video feeds.

"This is it," Schmitz said.

The two Haitians began to fidget in expectation. One broke a big, almost boyish grin at Fouad, his teacher, a man he had been raised by his Mama to respect but now must stand guard over-then dropped the grin back into sober contemplation.

Price held up his arms. "Thanks for traveling so far on such short notice, and apologies for not letting a whole bunch of you get some sleep. We're all up and about early this morning for a good reason," he said, his voice amplified throughout the ballroom.

On two of the screens, his image came up and the room briefly filled with a feedback whine. Guests laughed and tapped their ears, and he laughed along with them, then waved at the dancers, who had, mercifully, stopped their gyrations.

"Sorry to interrupt such a pretty show, but the moment has arrived. Years of opportunity, years of planning, to correct centuries of injustice and incompetence-of cruelty, greed, and spite, visited upon us by those who are now about to-"

A sound interrupted him-a single high-pitched musical note, totally out of place. At first the guests cringed, thinking the feedback had returned.

But the high note resolved into a jerking, mournful cry-a child weeping.

A young boy.

Price looked puzzled, then waved his hand angrily. Two of his Haitians staggered off to investigate, their weapons wide and awkward as they pushed through the crowd.