Read Online Mariposa by Greg Bear - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Bear
Tags: Science-Fiction
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nearby—along with a sophisticated fighter jet, a two-seat Sukhoi Su-27 that he sometimes flew out of the Lion City airport, with the help of a professional pilot.
"I've called the van," she continued, "and it'll be here in five minutes. Terribly inconvenient, but he says it's important."
"I will wait out front," Fouad said.
"You do that! It'll be here in a jiff."
He left the reception area and stood on the porch beside the parking lot. Crickets sang in the dark heat. He wondered where they found their moisture. His own lips were dry. Of course, crickets did not have or need lips. Cartoons from television again came to mind: they spat black juice and played guitars.
Or perhaps those were grasshoppers or locusts.
The security team was nowhere in sight.
Other than the timing, there was no good reason to believe he had been discovered. He had been exceptionally careful and Jane Rowland had trained him well.
Still, Talos was a place of unexpected eyes and ears. Price's dictum was that since he trusted everyone, no one should mind being closely watched. "We're all family here—partners in a big effort. I'm watched, we're all watched. It's no big deal."
Price had nothing to hide. Of course, reports of his activities ultimately ended up on his own desk.
Fouad did not know what to make of what he had seen of the information that now passed through the tiny machines in his blood. Banks, corporations, international holding companies, names—nations.
He was grateful he was merely a vessel and not an analyst.
Even so, as he waited under the Texas night—the stars bleached from the sky by the banks of lights—he made a few surmises, put together a few educated guesses.
It did not look good.
The Bureau had been right to send him here.
A shuttle pulled up to the curb, a long, broad black van with twelve seats, all empty. The door swung open. The driver was a young, muscular black with short hair. He wore a gray jumpsuit with red stripes on the sleeves and pants legs, as did all support service workers on the campus. He smiled at Fouad as he climbed up the steps and took a front seat, facing the windshield.
"Dry, hot night," the driver said. "Straight to the Smoky, Mr. Al-Husam. Good time to see the ranch. They had choppers up doing practice runs last time I was out there, a couple hours ago. Might still be putting on a show. Real fine."
The shuttle drove through darkness along straight smooth roads, better maintained than the city streets or highways. The headlights painted in brilliant white the occasional jackrabbit, one possum, one artichoke —no, armadillo . Like little armored rats, armadillos were common around here, unsightly and unclean beasts—or so Fouad surmised. They were frequently seen ruptured and ugly, squashed by passing cars. It was said the treatment for leprosy had been found in the pads of armadillo feet. No Muslim could have made that discovery—nor even come close to touching such a prehistoric curiosity.
Yes, definitely unclean.
The driver delivered him to the gate house for the Smoky, and from there, another driver used an open cart to take Fouad half a mile to the main house, around to a side entrance, and dropped him off at the door.
At no point did this seem to be anything alarming or out of the ordinary.
Yet the network on the campus had gone out. Or so they said.
Price's private office was simple but elegant, the very best money could buy, but without much in the way of ostentation or even artwork, and comparatively small—barely twenty feet on a side.
A modest low bay window looked out over another plot of tall grass and beyond that, a set of gray hangars lined the horizon.
As Fouad watched, the lights surrounding these buildings dimmed, then shut off.
The side windows were open and a clean, grassy night breeze blew into the room, prickling the hairs on his neck.
A curved bank of monitors covered the eastern wall of the office, providing a panoramic view of a broad, distant
"I've called the van," she continued, "and it'll be here in five minutes. Terribly inconvenient, but he says it's important."
"I will wait out front," Fouad said.
"You do that! It'll be here in a jiff."
He left the reception area and stood on the porch beside the parking lot. Crickets sang in the dark heat. He wondered where they found their moisture. His own lips were dry. Of course, crickets did not have or need lips. Cartoons from television again came to mind: they spat black juice and played guitars.
Or perhaps those were grasshoppers or locusts.
The security team was nowhere in sight.
Other than the timing, there was no good reason to believe he had been discovered. He had been exceptionally careful and Jane Rowland had trained him well.
Still, Talos was a place of unexpected eyes and ears. Price's dictum was that since he trusted everyone, no one should mind being closely watched. "We're all family here—partners in a big effort. I'm watched, we're all watched. It's no big deal."
Price had nothing to hide. Of course, reports of his activities ultimately ended up on his own desk.
Fouad did not know what to make of what he had seen of the information that now passed through the tiny machines in his blood. Banks, corporations, international holding companies, names—nations.
He was grateful he was merely a vessel and not an analyst.
Even so, as he waited under the Texas night—the stars bleached from the sky by the banks of lights—he made a few surmises, put together a few educated guesses.
It did not look good.
The Bureau had been right to send him here.
A shuttle pulled up to the curb, a long, broad black van with twelve seats, all empty. The door swung open. The driver was a young, muscular black with short hair. He wore a gray jumpsuit with red stripes on the sleeves and pants legs, as did all support service workers on the campus. He smiled at Fouad as he climbed up the steps and took a front seat, facing the windshield.
"Dry, hot night," the driver said. "Straight to the Smoky, Mr. Al-Husam. Good time to see the ranch. They had choppers up doing practice runs last time I was out there, a couple hours ago. Might still be putting on a show. Real fine."
The shuttle drove through darkness along straight smooth roads, better maintained than the city streets or highways. The headlights painted in brilliant white the occasional jackrabbit, one possum, one artichoke —no, armadillo . Like little armored rats, armadillos were common around here, unsightly and unclean beasts—or so Fouad surmised. They were frequently seen ruptured and ugly, squashed by passing cars. It was said the treatment for leprosy had been found in the pads of armadillo feet. No Muslim could have made that discovery—nor even come close to touching such a prehistoric curiosity.
Yes, definitely unclean.
The driver delivered him to the gate house for the Smoky, and from there, another driver used an open cart to take Fouad half a mile to the main house, around to a side entrance, and dropped him off at the door.
At no point did this seem to be anything alarming or out of the ordinary.
Yet the network on the campus had gone out. Or so they said.
Price's private office was simple but elegant, the very best money could buy, but without much in the way of ostentation or even artwork, and comparatively small—barely twenty feet on a side.
A modest low bay window looked out over another plot of tall grass and beyond that, a set of gray hangars lined the horizon.
As Fouad watched, the lights surrounding these buildings dimmed, then shut off.
The side windows were open and a clean, grassy night breeze blew into the room, prickling the hairs on his neck.
A curved bank of monitors covered the eastern wall of the office, providing a panoramic view of a broad, distant
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