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shadows.
    The door closed. Maybe he had imagined it, like the trees in his bed. Maybe it had never been there.
    Then: a steady inner voice. The same voice he had created soon after the slaughter in Arabia Deserta as a kind of psychic baseline—in remembrance of his former broken self.
    Time to get moving, Mr. Trace. They have a lot of influence here. Very long fingers.
    He had not heard from that voice in months.
    He had presumed Mariposa had killed it off.
    If, as the Quiet Man supposes, they want to find you, if they need to find you . . . This is the place. The desert across the water is wide and the sands are deep. They can do whatever they want here and no one would ever know.
    His body jerked and then convulsed. He bounced himself off the bed, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the nightstand.
    Slowly twitching on the cold wood floor, he regained control. Finally he could move again, but his fingers felt numb. He got up on wobbly legs and stumbled into the bathroom, into the walk-in shower, where he stared groggily at the water selection nobs.
    He chose desalinated, hot—hotter than hell.
    Treading on art glass tiles set in the fish mosaic floor, he tolerated the scalding water until he just had to scream—then jumped out and toweled himself down.
    Much better. The numbness had faded. Now his skin felt cool and electric.
    Still naked, Nathaniel picked up his bag. Hardly anything here was important enough to pack. A few clothes. Toiletries. He could leave the rest without regret, as if it belonged to a different man.
    He dressed slowly, luxuriating in the feel of fine linen on his arm hairs.
    The fabric brushed his scars.
    The condo intercom wheedled. The security system that watched over his class of people in the Ziggurat asked him if he would like to receive visitors—and displayed a picture of three men and a well-dressed, attractive woman.
    They were waiting in the spacious lobby, hundreds of feet below.
    He did not recognize any of them, and so he did not give permission for them to rise to his unit.
    In the lobby, as he watched, the group split up.
    Best to find an unobvious way out.
    The Ziggurat's security system was accustomed to arranging for exits after dubious late night activities, or drinking in the many bars.

Chapter Nine

    Talos Campus

    Fouad emerged from the annex, put on his spex, and stood stiffly upright in the lounge—a slight heat pulsing through his torso. The prochines in his blood had never felt like much of anything before. Now, actively bumping up against each other—chock full of distributed data—they seemed to be coming up on the radar of his body's immune system.
    A fever at this point might attract attention. Axel Price was almost psychic in his ability to sniff out actions contrary to his plans. Fouad did not want to stay at the building's hub any longer than necessary.
    Something was wrong with the building's network; his spex flashed two small yellow antenna symbols, out of range. He walked clockwise around the lounge, glancing north along one of the long Buckeye corridors, lined with classrooms.
    Two men in gray shirts and black pants ran in from a garden entrance. Their boots squeaked on the linoleum—armor vests, campus security. For a moment, Fouad thought they were aiming right for him and his stomach muscles tensed.
    Armor was unusual on the campus, except in training.
    "Need any help?" Fouad called.
    "Get the hell out of here!" the larger of the two shouted as the pair aimed for the next radius corridor—one of the spokes—their faces red with adrenaline rush.
    Then the big guard slowed, lowered his chin into his bull neck—and spun about. He marched back toward Fouad—crown sporting brown fuzz, broad face, wide rectangular mouth sucking air and showing brownish teeth.
    Big Guard. Happy to keep things secure—even happier to be aggressive.
    The second guard stopped, shook his head, and reversed to join his partner. This one was slighter and shorter but wiry,