Greg Bear - Mariposa

This time, the maneuver seemed to work. Big Guard took hold of the skinny man's arm, but he reversed and tugged hard-hard enough to pull the arm out of its socket, with an audible pop. Without any sign of distress, the engineer slammed his other fist back, chopping his assailant squarely on the bridge of his nose.

Big Guard fell to his knees like a stunned ox, then toppled, head cracking on the floor.

Fouad trained his SIG but the line was bad-he might hit Little Guard.

"Shoot the bastard!" Little Guard shouted, frantically kicking and sidling away.

The engineer spun like a dancing clown, his injured arm dangling outward, limp. He had to be on drugs, yet his movements had an improvised genius; a wiry, high-speed ballet of showy blows and dodges.

Little Guard was up again, wobbling but still trying to be game. The engineer executed one final move that Fouad could not follow-a backward run, good hand delivering a blind blow from a position of perfect but unlikely balance-force focused all wrong, more self-injury almost certain-but the blow connected.

Little Guard rocked his head back, wobbled, and slumped. The engineer pranced and watched him fall sideways.

He twisted and landed flat on his face.

Another painful crack.

Now the engineer turned on Fouad.

"I heard you coming down the hall!" he shouted. "My God, you're louder than an elephant!"

Fouad could have fired his SIG-certainly preferred that option over trying to physically restrain the man-but there wasn't much more damage that could be done, for the moment, and more guards would be coming.

"You're injured," Fouad said, his voice light, calm, as if speaking to a child.

"I'm not the one shooting up the place. Too freaking fast for bullets. They're trained to kill-I'm just a geek. Where are they? Send more cops!" He laughed like a loon. "What's fucking keeping them?"

"I am here," Fouad said.

"You're a teacher. Languages, right? Jesus, look at this mess!"

The skinny man was breathing slow and steady, deep, solid. No bullet wounds, only spots of blood on the floor-broken noses, perhaps. Judging by the way the he leaned, he had cracked ribs as well as a dislocated arm. The man was a wreck, but still utterly confident and not in the least concerned by the SIG.

"Doesn't your arm hurt?" Fouad asked.

The engineer stared into Fouad's eyes. "Maybe. I don't know. Trying out new moves, I guess."

There were no audible security alarms in Talos buildings. Guards and other first responders were alerted through earpieces or spex. Strange then that Fouad's own spex still showed no warnings-just two blinking yellow antennas indicating he was still out of range.

"No signal, right? I've cut the network all over the campus," the engineer said. "You look strong. Bring it over here."

"What's your name?" Fouad asked.

"Hey, don't think I'm crazy," the man said. "I'm scared-more scared than you, maybe. But it feels great to be scared! Come on. I don't have a gun."

"It wouldn't be a fair fight," Fouad said, keying in to the engineer's manic rhythm. "I might get hurt."

The man laughed. "You know it, man. You're trained to kill-I can hear it in your voice. All I do is talk to computers. Geek versus killer. You know you can take me."

Fouad stepped to the middle of the hall, gun centered on the programmer's chest.

The five sprawled guards were starting to move. The programmer paid them no obvious attention. One guard had fallen over his Glock-it skittered as he pushed up, a few centimeters from his outstretched hand. His fingers twitched.

Without a backward look, the engineer jumped and horse-kicked the gun down the hall, twisted his foot around, and tapped the guard with his heel.

The guard collapsed with a truncated whimper.

Here was total awareness of environment, more like a martial-arts master than a mouse pusher. All judgments off. Nothing could be trusted.

"You know self-defense," Fouad said. "All Talos employees are so trained."

"Yeah, but I flunked." The programmer raised his good arm, the left arm, and waggled his fingers. "Maybe I can deflect bullets with my thoughts. Anything's possible. Let's try it. Use your pop gun. Shoot me."

Fouad lowered the pistol. "No fighting. We should talk. You're more interesting than anything else around here."

The programmer looked disappointed. He shrugged, then put his hand on his limp arm, testing it. Despite what must have been incredible pain, he wobbled and tugged at the joint, trying to reset it, his attention off Fouad… and yet, almost certainly not. He seemed to have a greater sensory bubble of awareness, a heightened sense of space and position. Again, like a martial arts master.

"I popped it bad. Bet I could take you with one arm…"

"Let's just talk. Tell me what you're feeling."

The engineer laughed. "Ever see combat?"

"Yes," Fouad said.

"Me too. In Arabia. I was never supposed to fight, I'm important, you know-a software designer, a programmer, an essential asset. But the driver screwed up. He took seven of us down Death Alley by mistake and insurgents blew us all to shit. The driver's head ended up in my lap. My fucking lap! Dead school kids outside the truck-spread out like raspberry jam. Do you have nightmares, sweats, that sort of thing?"

"Sometimes," Fouad said.

"Interfere with your work?"

"Not much," Fouad said. "I pray. Allah forgives all His children."

"You're a Muslim!"

"Yes," Fouad said.

"A Muslim in Texas. That has got to be fun. These bastards-" He swung his good arm at the prone men. "They're hard enough on geeks. Guess I showed them something new, huh?"

"You should come with me. I'll take you to a doctor. Your mind is strong but your body is weak. Have mercy. You can't learn your potential if someone here shoots you."

This finally seemed to make sense. The programmer was pale as a sheet and starting to shiver. He rubbed his temple. "My head really hurts. What's your name?"

"Fouad. I'm an instructor… in languages, as you guessed. What's yours?"

"Nick. I'm pretty important. Systems about to come on line. Back in Texas to check it out, the last details-then, wow! I get my own internal Krell brain boost. Do you know Axel Price? If you see him, tell him the treatment worked-I'm better than ever."

"I will," Fouad said.

A full squad of guards rushed clockwise along the circumference behind Fouad. From the other direction, behind the fallen guards and the programmer, ten more gathered, assault weapons drawn-pointing at Fouad as well as the skinny man.

They were well trained, not trigger-happy-for which he was grateful.

Fouad waved them back. "He's unarmed and he's injured. He's prepared to surrender."

The guards moved in, assault rifles at ready, unconvinced. Three of the five on the floor were again trying to get up.

"Shoot the bastards! Shoot 'em both!" Big Guard shouted, but his hand slipped in his own sweat and he fell and cracked his jaw. That was it for him.

Fouad secretly enjoyed this. For a moment, his sympathies were with the programmer-with Nick.

A short, blocky man in a dark red shirt-senior staff, chief of security-joined the group gathering beside Fouad.

Three of the guards pulled steel flashlights with big flat heads from their belts. The programmer yelped with delight. "Try it! Try me!"

The three circled at the maximum distance the hall allowed and swept him with super-dazzling flashes of light, brighter than a dozen suns. Nick yelped and covered his face, too late. The brilliance flooded his retinas, stunned the nerves behind his eyes, temporarily locked his brain in something like paralysis.

Helpless, off balance, he stumbled and fell. The guards swarmed him like ants over a grasshopper. In seconds the programmer was strung up like a roped steer.