Mariposa (22 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

The Smoky

Two shining black Torq-Vees exited the Monarch Gate, trailing a tail of dust as they veered south along the direct road to the Smoky.

Fouad rode left middle passenger in the second vehicle as they ferried him back to his temporary quarters on Price's ranch. His driver was a silent Haitian, one of Colonel Sir's mercenaries, and behind him sat three escorts, all beefy Anglos with shaved heads and black T-shirts, their left arms sporting tats: grinning death's-heads wreathed by laurels over the words "Fallujah 2004."

The Anglos were soft-spoken, tightly controlled—supremely fit middle-aged men who had survived many bad times.

Fouad could not help but respect their demeanor, their polite say-nothing-but-say-it-pleasant banter. They were much too good at their jobs to talk sports scores. Instead, without seeming to pry into his prior life, they discussed geography.

They even played a game of Muslim surnames, at which they were experts.

They were excellent company.

Halfway to the compound—surrounded by acres of scrub—Fouad looked left through the thick armored glass and saw another blazing Texas sunset, the beginning of another protected, isolated night.

The prelude to another day of being briefed for his new role as translator to the Saudi royal family—another long day of meetings, protocol, and cultural prep, where everyone behaved as if he were Axel Price's new favorite, his most recent handpicked protégé.

It was too polite, all dumb show. Fouad suspected no one believed he was fooled by this ruse.

Thirteen agonizing days after his intrusion into the Talos infranet.

The great gathering on the Talos Campus would begin in less than twenty hours. Already, support and cargo planes were landing at Lion City's Judah P. Benjamin International Airport—delivering armored luxury vehicles for a few of the guests, and also, perhaps, more logistical support for whatever grand dance Price was choreographing. The world's deepest, most powerful shadow bankers, international hedge fund managers . . . the richest oleocrats from Russia, South America, Canada (no surprise—and perhaps without the knowledge of the Canadian government) and of course the Middle East.

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.

Chapter Forty-Four

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."

"First, our sanity," Rebecca said.

"Dispensable," Trace said. "Across that border lies a whole new country. Believe me."

"Tell me—does it get better—more stable?"

"Yes and no. You're third stage. You and a few hundred others. You may not go through any of the big swings—I hope. Did Plover talk to you?"

"Yes."

"He's screwed things up royally for Axel Price."

"The vice president was key," Rebecca said.

Rebecca felt the loop start to coil and the knot to shrink. The visuals faded to a normal range of colors—not at all fairy-tale, just D.C. after an autumn shower. The sun was going down, she was cold, and she was walking beside a man who scared her.

"I'm still capable of being frightened," she said. "Quinn was beyond that. But he must have started out as a real a piece of work. I listened to his—"

"What do you know about Jones?"

She looked over Trace sharply, judging his facial muscles, his hands. "Nothing. Is Jones someone you worked with?"

"Jones is very close to our problem—perhaps he
is
our problem, but he could also be our ace in the hole."

"Is Jones a code name for a human?"

"No. A machine personality."

"You built it . . . him for Talos? Axel Price?"

"I worked for Mind Design. We helped program a key part of MSARC. And for a lot of money, we built in a couple of nasty backdoors. One for Price . . . and several that none of us knew about, devised by our owner and CEO, who did not trust Price. The extra entry points were supposed to shut down once the system went online . . . three weeks ago. They didn't. Jones controls all of them. Maybe he's one, maybe he's many, but the way MSARC works, he has access to nearly everything in the world hooked up to a computer."

"Jones is like a hydra. Many heads."

"Good enough," Nathaniel said. They strolled along the damp path. "But he's not just a computer. He's a self-initiated, evolutionary problem solver. A competer."

"Ah," Rebecca said. "It all makes sense."

"Does it?" Nathaniel asked.

"No."

Two joggers in their twenties—long white legs, pumping arms, hair pasted to their heads, damp and smiling—broke to pass around them. Rebecca smelled the female's spoor, rich as cinnamon. She looked at Trace, who sternly faced forward.

"Right," he said. "She's pregnant. Beautiful scent."

"Oh, my lord," Rebecca said.

Nathaniel looked up at the sky and took a deep, nasal breath. "Jones has had a nasty shock. If I could take a guess, he's very disturbed. He doesn't know what he's going to do next."

"He feels emotions?"

"Not like ordinary people. But he has attachments and a weird something like loyalty."

"Maybe we're turning into Jones," Rebecca said.

"Believe me, at our most variant, we're nothing like him—his emotions might be more those of an insect, or a lizard at the most complicated. But that seems to be changing."

"What's changed—changing, for you?"

"You've had self-defense training."

She watched him closely, as she would an unpredictable animal. "So?"

"You'll soon be ten times better—but you'll have to relearn how and when to move; otherwise you'll end up breaking every bone in your body. We lose some level of autonomic control, down to the cellular level—not all of it, just the nervous system, and only parts of that. Key parts. But let's get back to Jones. There's not much time."

"Okay. A hydra, right?"

"So you say."

"Right now, at least one of his heads is very upset—even angry. How odd," Rebecca said. "What does an angry computer . . . competer do to get even?" Then she thought of the obvious question, which had not occurred to her at first. Logic seemed to be working backwards. "What made Jones angry?"

"Murder," Nathaniel said. "Jones had seven programmers, including me. We called ourselves the Turing Seven. It was our job to help design him, build him, teach him, and debug him—that is, understand him. At least four of the Turing Seven are dead. Jones also had a master designer—our boss. We called him the Quiet Man. His real name was Chan Herbert. He's dead, too. Axel Price killed Jones's father."