Forewarning:� This story concerns adult fantasy topics, especially in the area of (big surprise for this site) breast enlargement.� It also hopefully contains characterizations and a plotline interesting enough to make the reader briefly forget about where the sex scenes went to.� (Answer:� later.� Honest.)� Since all of the above are considered to be adult topics, especially the idea of plot, you have to be over the age of discretion in your home country to read further.� Sorry about that.

 

Comments and correspondence can be sent to [email protected], with the understanding that the tone of the missive will be the tone of the reply.

 

The HTML edition was converted/created by ErikZ, webmaster for The Overflowing Bra story archive site (http://www.overflowingbra.com/), with permission.�

 

Once upon a time...

 

1

32:� Dramatis Presentationae

 

��� �Kyle Nigilo automatically glanced up at the track lighting as he entered the presentation room.� "First time speaker?"

���� "Yes," Carmody started to reply � and Nigilo pulled a chair away from the conference table, dragging it beneath the lights.� He hopped up with an ease that belied his bulk and started to adjust the lamps � then paused.

���� "Carmody, could you stand over here?"

���� His assistant complied, and Nigilo started swiveling the cones.� "I want you to stare forward, as if you were watching for a response.� Let me know when the light is in your eyes."� Carmody focused on the last GenTree executives straggling in through the single door, mumbling and rubbing the last of their three-hour, six-martini lunches from their eyes.� "Anything yet?"

�� ��"Not quite, sir.� Keep going."

���� Another adjustment, and Carmody stared into a field of glaring white.� "Now?"

���� "Blind as a government inspector, sir."� A few snickers floated up from the table.

���� "Okay."� Nigilo jumped off the chair and pulled it back to the table.� Carmody sat down on his left.� "We've got about three minutes.� Briefing, please."

���� Carmody looked at the table.� There were ten people altogether, eight of whom looked extremely unhappy:� the meeting had been scheduled for 4:30 Friday, destroying their chances to sneak out early.� "The presenter is Sadira Archer �"

���� Nigilo coughed.� "Say what?"

���� "Archer, sir.� A successful graduate from our scholarship/bonding program, twenty-two, in her first year with us.� Genetic engineer, R&D, currently assigned to the 21:3-TGA-178 project � the editor.� She's using Section 24-C of her contract to call the meeting."

���� "Very good, Carmody."� Nigilo arched his back and gave his tie a quick shift to the left.� "But what kind of name is Sadira Archer?"

���� The first answer that came to mind was the smart-ass one.� Also the only one.� "It's Sadira Archer's name, sir."� More chuckles, which were silenced with a quick glance from the boss.

���� "I've never met her."

���� "She spends a lot of time in the labs, sir."� And you never venture outside your office unless you smell something through the door � money or cunt.� Preferably both.

���� "Understood.� And she called us in because...?"

���� "She didn't say, sir.� It's in her contract:� she doesn't have to say.� One conference per year, no questions asked."

���� Nigilo adjusted the tie again � to the right this time, back to where it had started from � and folded his hands on the table.� "Very well.� And we'll go over the language of that contract later, correct?� There's no point in being bothered with these meetings unless we know why we're wasting our time."

���� Carmody winced.� "Yes, sir."

���� The door swung inward, and Nigilo saw Sadira Archer for the first time.� The initial part to come through was the rear � a rather nice one from what he could see of it:� she was wearing the long gray (slightly stained) lab coat GenTree Research assigned to employees, and it tended to obscure nearly all of the feminine figure.� (He'd been trying to get it changed for months.)� This was followed by long black hair, falling to the middle of the back in a chaotic sprawl, as if down was simply the most convenient direction to go.� The thick folders piled high in cradled arms followed the suggestion and cascaded to the floor.� She dropped to her knees, scrambling to recover the folders.� Carmody twitched slightly, but kept his seat.� No one helped.

���� "Sorry," she muttered in a curiously accentless voice.� "Sorry, be with you in a minute..."

���� The non-helping continued apace.

���� She finally got the files back into her arms and stumbled around the perimeter of the table, letting each slide from the pile onto the table in rough proximity to the seated executives.� Nigilo watched her dispassionately.� She looked much younger than twenty-two, the dark hair framing a slim, line-free face.� Narrow nose, nice lips, skin shaded into a perpetual dark tan from what had to be extremely mixed heritage, medium height, flat-chested, gray-eyed, and sweating visibly.

���� Good.� She was nervous.

���� She moved to the presentation area, looked out towards the audience, and blinked several times in discomfort.� Nigilo smiled.� "Whenever you're ready, Ms Archer."

 

���� Sadira blinked.� Voice by Mr. Freeze, lighting by KGB.� "We will have the secret of the genome, Ms Archer..."� "One moment, please �"� Wonderful.� That sounded professional.� She fumbled in the huge coat pockets, driving down past wadded notes, crumpled bills, and numerous Life Savers � they had to be here somewhere �

���� "Ms Archer?"� The fifty-below voice again.� "We're waiting."

���� There!� She pulled the sunglasses out and gave the lenses a few futile sleeve wipes before slipping them on.� She clearly saw three faces fall.

���� It only took a moment more to locate the program disk in an upper pocket:� she slid the smooth square into the table slot and turned to face the lit screen on the wall.� The room darkened � except for her own personal lightshow.� "You're looking at a computer simulation of the CTGX27 sequence on what is conventionally referred to as the X chromosome."� Several people began flipping through the folders, feigning interest:� one seemed to actually be reading.� She fumbled with her chest pocket protector and pulled out a thin cylinder, pushing the small stub upward.� "The sequence begins here �"

���� It wasn't a laser pointer.� It was a Bic pen, the cap of which was now on the floor.� The coughing fit behind her was in stereo.

���� Sadira took a deep breath and searched again, this time successfully.� "� begins here and terminates here.� It appears on every single copy of the X chromosome, male and female.� Dis �" Damn!� "This sequence directly below it �" a few taps on the embedded keyboard "� also appears on all variations, but needs a combination of factors to become active."

���� "Ms Archer," the frost man � the only one who had spoken � broke in, "Your point."

���� I was just getting started!� She jabbed the pointer at the screen.� "These sequences control breast development and growth, respectively.� Without the first, the breast tissue cannot form properly.� The second tells formation to commence.� There has been evidence of the occasional accidental activation in males, causing gynecomastia, which is surgically corrected."� A small shudder ran across her shoulders.� She hoped no one had noticed.� "These areas were identified three years ago by a group of drunken fraternity students who decided to make a lasting contribution to science and managed to make the identification before they sobered up."� The first honest laugh of the day came up from the table, and Sadira allowed herself a smile.

���� "They also managed to identify this sequence here."� The screen shifted down to another innocuous section of the helix. "This recessive, in combination with other factors, causes varying degrees of virginal hypertrophy � macromastia.� Their theory on the effects of alcohol consumption on penis size are still undergoing testing � also on college campuses �" More laughter, and her spine finally unlocked.� "However, these three sites have been conclusively determined to control those functions. Generally, the sites activate at puberty and shut down at maturity."� Time for the point.� "I propose to activate them deliberately."

���� Silence for a moment, and then a low murmur began to work clockwise around the table.� She spoke above it.� "This would result in natural breast enlargement, with none of the risks associated with either �" brace, brace "� surgery or implants of any kind.� No silicone or saline leakage, no threat of rupture, and no accidents with anesthesia � safe and natural."

���� An eager voice spoke up from near the door.� "You have a theory on how to activate the gene?"

���� Sadira nodded.� "I've been studying gene typing and blood workups from girls entering puberty.� I believe that I've identified the factors which activate the development and growth sequences, and can genetically engineer a virus which would trigger them in an adult female."� Time for the bad news.� "The only real disadvantage over the conventional method at the moment is time:� growth would occur at the normal pubescent rate � at most, a few inches or so a year.� The average surgical enlargement of one cup size might take six months.� I'm confident that a way can be found to speed this up."

��� "What about using the macromastia gene to speed the growth?" someone else asked.

��� Sadira nodded:� it was a fair question.� "The gene is a recessive, and occurs in a very small percentage of the population. Normally, all it does is ensure that the breasts will reach a larger than average size during puberty.� In some cases, however, it does cause vastly accelerated growth.� It might be possible to induce a controlled hypertrophy in those women with the sequence � but the vast majority of them wouldn't want the procedure.� I'm looking for a way to accelerate development in the majority population, so the current model doesn't consider that sequence interacting."

��� She triggered the computer again:� the genome was replaced with a computer representation of a female torso in profile, with numbers superimposed to indicate the underbust/overbust measurements.� The numbers were identical � and then the breasts started to slowly swell.� "When the breasts reach the desired size, the patient is given another virus that triggers a "stop" command � and the procedure is over.� Again, completely safe."� The on-screen mammaries stabilized at 32/35 and rotated to face the table.� She gave them a moment to study the simulated results, then turned the screen off.� "Questions?"

���� The murmur intensified, excited � and then the frost descended. "Exactly when did you identify these factors?"

���� She looked closely at him.� A large man, blond hair, perfect teeth, expensive suit, and an attitude that said "My benefits package is worth more than your entire life."

���� "On my own time �" it couldn't hurt "� sir, after working hours.� My contract says I'm allowed to use the lab for projects that might prove beneficial to the company at a future date � on my own time."� Wonderful.� On the defensive already.� Impressing everybody...

���� "Of course, Ms Archer.� But why?"

���� She stared at him.� "I just explained that, sir.� Safe enlargement without need for �"

���� "Surgery, yes.� A noble idea.� But how would you test it?"� He steepled his fingers and surveyed her, scanning from waist to face and back again.� "Only humans have that particular genome, and only human females are suitable for testing.� You are, in your regular hours, working on a cure for a fatal disease.� We can test your results there with relative freedom � there's no shortage of volunteers who wish to be cured of leukemia.� But small breasts, while perhaps damaging to self esteem, are not fatal."� He was looking through the lenses into her eyes.� "We would never be permitted to test it on humans, no matter how many volunteers came forward, and we can't test it on animals.� Even if you came up with something, how would we know if it worked?"

���� "I came to ask for more backing," Sadira said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.� A very strong hint, waving heavy signs in the cold air.� "I've gone as far as I can with the equipment I have access to in my lab.� I need clearance for use of the central computers:� if I can run simulations on them, I can determine the exact effects �"

���� He raised a hand, and her voice cut out.� "But that's no substitute for actual experience, is it?� All the computer simulation in the world can only suggest how your virus might react with an actual subject � and again, for something as trivial as cosmetics, we'll never be allowed to find out for ourselves.� I'm sorry, Ms Archer, but we're going to have to turn you down."

���� He didn't sound sorry.

���� He did sound right.

���� She removed the disk and tried to keep her eyes on the nodding people at the table.� They really wanted to look at her feet, which were nervously scraping the floor.� She felt like a little girl caught at mischief, an exceptionally stupid one.� She hadn't considered the testing, hadn't thought of it at all.

���� "It was a nice dream, Ms Archer, and a profitable one.� I'm aware that there are millions of dollars in the breast enhancement industry � you make that very clear on your Page 12 chart.� But it's also an unworkable dream.� The only thing we can do with your research is find a "stop" for virginal hypertrophy � and the testing pool is limited and reluctant to proceed when surgery is an proven alternative."

���� This time the shudder ran across her body.� No, it's not.� Sometimes they grow back...

���� "Don't let this discourage you from further work, Ms Archer," he said, and there was more than a hint of insincerity in his voice.� "You just have to think things through."� He stood up, and the rest of the room went up with him, as if attached by strings.� They filed out quietly, most of them leaving the briefing folders on the table.� Sadira stood in place, waiting for the door to swing closed and the sound of footsteps to vanish.� She glanced at the ceiling: the soundproofing looked good.

���� "Stupid," she muttered, then, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"

���� The soundproofing was very good.� She didn't even get an echo.

 

���� Nigilo motioned Carmody over with one hand as they started back towards the executive wing, flipping through his folder with the other.� "What's your final impression of our little impulsive?"

���� Carmody considered carefully.� "Shortsighted, but intelligent despite that."

���� "Do you think her research is valid?"

���� "I don't know enough about the field to say, sir."

���� "I know you don't," Nigilo said smugly.� He also had no technical expertise with genetic engineering, but he didn't have to. "Find out.� I want a thorough background check on Ms Archer by Monday, cube the intensity of the scholarship hunt.� I want to know her social mores, her religious beliefs, and her favorite underwear color.� I want this research shown to our best people and I want their opinion.� And �" he paused as they reached a T-branch "� I want to go home.� Stay here and get things rolling.� Keep me updated."

���� "Understood, sir."

���� "Good."� He started to turn left, then, still looking down the hall, said, "She seemed rather distressed at not being able to continue her work."

���� "I'm not certain whether it was at your refusal or her own lack of foresight," Carmody carefully replied.

���� "I'm hoping for an emphasis on the former," Nigilo answered.� "Find out."� He headed down the left branch.

���� Carmody took a right.

 

���� Jason intercepted her on the way back.� It wasn't intentional.� She ran him down in the hallway.

���� They sorted out arms and legs among a hail of confused apologies, and wound up helping each other up, which nearly sent them to the floor again.� "I wasn't looking where I was going," she explained unnecessarily.� "It was my fault."

���� "Okay, your fault," Jason agreed, smiling as he brushed the shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.� He looked as if he'd been designed by a sculptor with too much material and a stepladder:� he was classically proportioned in body and passably handsome, but all the mass was spread over two meters of height:� it always gave her the impression that she was looking at him through a funhouse mirror.� "Not like you could see where you were going.� My ribs will accept the apology later."� He got up.� "We both agree this was an accident, then?"

���� "Yes," Sadira agreed, getting to her feet.

���� "You're not going to get revenge by reprogramming my speakers to play Chopin at 78 rpm again?"

���� She smiled.� "No.� I never repeat a prank."

���� Jason nodded nervously and leaned back against the wall just in time to avoid an exiting employee: the workday had finally reached an end.� "The presentation went badly."

���� "Very."� Sadira finally removed the sunglasses.

���� "Then will you tell me what it was about now?� Since there's no bonus money, there can at least be a satisfaction of curiosity."

���� Sadira sighed and told him.� Exhaustively.

���� Jason nodded.� "They were right, Sadira.� No testing."

���� "I know that."� She looked at her feet and scraped one across the floor.� "Now.� I was so eager to get this done � I just didn't think of the consequences.� Three weeks of preliminary work and not one brain cell bothered to consider the next stage."

���� "And they reached up and bit you."

���� "Clamped solid on my ankle."� She shook her head.� "I've had enough with feeling stupid for one day.� It's the weekend:� I'm going back to my lab to grab material and then I'll spend six hours feeling like a melting ice cube in a bubble bath."� She started past him.

���� "Sadira?"� She stopped and turned.� "Did you really solve it?"

���� "Most of it."

���� "How long did you say you worked on the project?"

���� "Three weeks.� Most of that was encoding."

���� Jason stared at her, then flopped against the wall.� "Three weeks," he said tonelessly.� "Imagine if it were something important.� People died of cancer because you couldn't get your priorities straight."

���� Sadira spotted the grin.� "Well, I just don't care about the cancer patients," she replied in the same register.� "They choose, they smoke, they die.� This was about something more important than saving suicides.� Besides, curing cancer is thousands of sequences.� This was two.� Much simpler."

���� "Regardless."� They both smiled, and she started moving again.� "Why breast enlargement?"� She stopped again, beginning to feel like a car with a bad clutch.

���� "Why...?"� She shrugged.� "Can I use your computer?"� Jason nodded in faint confusion and led the way into his lab.� She stepped up to his disgustingly clean workstation.� "I'm just going to use the LAN to tap into my computer.� Hang on..."� A few practiced taps brought up the right file.� "There.� My inspiration."

���� Jason leaned in to examine the picture.� Sadira knew it by heart.� The family had gathered in front of the Christmas tree, with her at the far left of the photo, looking uncomfortable against the icy window.� At the far right, as if placed there for balance, was a young woman with a strong resemblance to Sadira � except for one area.

���� "Who?" Jason managed to get out after a second.

���� "Apology accepted.� She affects a lot of people that way."

���� "Your sister?"

���� Sadira nodded slightly and continued, deadpan all the way.� "Fraternal twin:� I'm older by three minutes.� She developed and I didn't.� I got boyfriends and she stole them.� I worked thirty hours a week as a waitress for spending money during college.� She went straight from high school to seven hundred a day at the strip clubs.� She's working as a feature dancer now.� The photo is from when we were seventeen.� She got bigger."

���� "Out of curiosity only," Jason asked, "how big?"

���� "I stopped glancing at her bras after she passed "Q".� We haven't even spoken in years.� I'm rarely home and � she never is."

��� Jason examined the photo more closely.� The family resemblance was strong:� the younger sibling had lighter skin and fairer hair, but they shared the same smoky grey eyes and basic features:� a good makeup artist could turn them into identical twins with an hour's work.� But this Archer had her breasts pointed forward like a weapon about to be fired, a faint smirk on her face accompanying the most subtle side glance towards her sister.� He had to concentrate to see that:� it was hard to look away from the bust.� "So you developed this horrible hatred of large-breasted women and decided to create more of them?"

���� "Not exactly."� She adjusted the brightness of the screen.� "I used to feel that way � the hatred � but I roomed with a girl in college who taught me personality isn't determined by build.� Jasmine is incredibly competitive, and she used every weapon she had.� I had grades, she had breasts."� She looked up at Jason.� "Our genetic structure is so close � but she did and I didn't.� I got curious."

���� "And you decided to find out why," Jason concluded.

���� "Ya � yes.� Stupid, right?"

���� Jason leaned against a high-backed chair.� "I have three brothers, remember?� We � compared everything.� No, not stupid.� At least you found an answer?"

���� "I examined my own chromosomes, and I have the macromastia sequence � no great surprise:� most of the females in my family wear a D-cup or larger.� If you think Jasmine is built, you should see my cousin Kay."� Sadira leaned forward and looked at Jason's rapidly glazing eyes.� "Then again, maybe you shouldn't."� Jason hurriedly wrenched his gaze away from the screen.� "I don't have hormone logs for my body from puberty, but I figure I was one trigger short." Sadira shrugged.� "Test subjects.� If I thought it was safe, I'd be the first test subject."

���� Jason's thick eyebrows went up, and he turned back to the monitor.� "That big?"

���� A half-playful "No!" and another shrug answered him.� "I don't believe I'm telling you this..."� She couldn't quite muster the embarrassment:� too far into honesty for that.� "Look, when we were growing up, she was a Polaroid Instamatic � blink and she'd develop.� With me, it was 'something close to nothing, no different from the day before.'� I'd just like to have � something."

���� "There's always implants."

���� "No," Sadira said firmly.� "There isn't."

���� "Then there's always a bubble bath.� Go home, Sadira.� Start again Monday with a fresh attitude and wrinkled toes."

���� She smiled and headed for the door.� "Good advice.� Why does no one else give me good advice?"

���� "You listen to no one else?" he suggested as she left, closing the door behind her.

���� "Is the bath big enough for two?" he asked the door, then turned and looked at Sadira's image on the monitor screen.

���� "Later, maybe," he almost convinced himself, and shut the system down.

 

���� Someone had put a new sign on her door.� This one read Warning!� Chaos theory testing in progress!� Sadira left it there and placed her palm on the reader.� The machine decided that she was still herself and unlocked the door.

���� The lab wasn't really that bad.� She knew approximately where everything was and on a good day, could find most of it:� that pile was mutation data and the one next to the soda cans was genome reaction during chemotherapy and the one half-hidden beneath the layered Hershey's wrappers contained some of the breast research...

���� Sadira picked her way across the room to the computer and turned it on, plucking a zip disk out of the morass surrounding the keyboard.� She placed it in the proper slot and set the computer to download the enhancement material to it � no sense having it clutter up memory now, and she couldn't bear to erase it completely � then walked over to the sample case.

���� A puff of misty air washed into her face as the environments met, and she stared into a refrigerator full of virus tins.� The vast majority of them were proto-viruses with virtually no genetic code of their own, ready for grafting and mutation.� On their own, they couldn't even cause the sniffles, but they could get into the body and penetrate cell walls:� handy for carriers, test runs, and working on her grafting skills.

���� The minority consisted of one specimen, all the way at the back.� She reached in past the harmless cases and pulled it out carefully, cradling the small transparent tin in her palm.������

���� "Hello," she said softly to the case.� The BE-1 virus sat placently against the red film of the tin bottom.� The new containers were based on the old strep throat cultures:� viruses placed on the surface, even airborne ones, bonded to it and were given some limited nutrients.� She could open the lid and safely regard the contents with a microscope without worrying about infection unless she came in contact with the surface � and not even then for this one:� the virus she had bonded her factors to was a blood agent.

���� It had been an experiment, something to do on an afternoon when the data she'd requested from Bethesda was taking a year to download, and she'd had access to the practice equipment.� She'd just wanted to see if the activation codes would properly bond, and three hours later, the tin was filled with a happily replicating organism.� She hadn't put it in the briefing report because doing anything more than study work with viruses without a pile of paperwork was against company rules.

���� Sadira had been curious.� More than that, she'd been bored, and the two together formed a deadly combination.

���� BE-1 was proof that the triggers she had isolated could be grafted � but not that they would work.� And any virus that was no longer needed had to be destroyed.

���� "So," she asked the tin, "What do I do with you?� Fire, flood, or famine?"� Burning would destroy the culture, as would acid, or just leaving them in the tin until they ran out of nutrients in three years...

���� The computer beeped at her:� download complete.� Put together with the files and handwritten notes strewn about her apartment, she had it all.� She carried the tin over to the desk and set it down while she deleted the information from the central directory, then removed the zip disk �

���� � tried to remove the zip disk.� It didn't want to come out:� the ejection mechanism wasn't working properly.� A small fraction of the disk was visible:� the rest was stuck.� She gripped the nub between short fingernails and pulled hard.� The disk abruptly released, and her hand flew back, pulling against a loose folder and starting an avalanche that knocked the tin off the desk.

���� She quickly looked down:� the tin was rolling across the floor, going behind her.� Sadira spun, trying to get a visual bead on it, and somehow managed to lock her feet into each other.

���� The crash was muffled by the papers strewn across the floor.

���� The fingers of her left hand tapped against a bit of exposed tile with annoyance.� The right was against something cold.

���� Sadira pushed herself up to a sitting position, reached out with mostly-faked dignity, and recovered the virus tin, which had been stopped by her hand.

���� She stopped.

���� She looked closely at the tin.

���� The lid was missing.

� ���She looked around and found it lying against the door.

���� Her right hand stung.� She set the tin down and brought the hand up for closer examination.

���� The paper cut, she decided, had come from the scrape with the folder.

���� Slowly, she gathered the lid and tin together, then set them both in the small flash-disposal oven.� The cycle was automatic: one button to press, and she was freed of the need to think about anything but putting a Band-Aid over the cut, taking the disk, and leaving.

���� She didn't think about much of anything all the way home.

���� Every so often, she would almost have a thought.� It would start to press in from the back, something like I have just been infe�, and then it would be muffled by comforting layers of thick wool as the shock settled in again.� The one thought which did get to finish was I'm not contagious, which should be the absolute truth:� the virus was designed to trigger and die, nothing else unless she had completely flubbed the graft, which she couldn't have � and the fog closed again.

���� Somehow, she got home and mechanically prepared a huge dinner � Sadira had a nasty habit of forgetting to eat anything beyond a few sugar supplements at work and trying to make it all up later.� She microwaved, broiled, and consumed the whole thing within an hour, not really paying attention to what she was eating, or how much it was taking to make her appetite recede.

���� She did remember the bubble bath, but it failed to soothe, and she simply went to bed.� An hour later, she settled into deep, dreamless sleep as the last of the shock wore off.

���� Her first truly clear thought, and the last of the night, was I'll check my blood sample �

   

2

34:� Rude awakenings

 

� � first thing in the morning.

���� Her mind stretched and reached, trying to find her body.� Sadira drifted far during sleep, and was usually reluctant to come back.� For a second, she felt as if she was floating as pure presence, without a body, with no want for one, and then she began to slowly settle back in, feeling the fingers of her right hand gently flex.� She tried a toe wriggle:� check.� "You sleep like you were dead," Jasmine had told her years ago, and since then she had checked things in sequence as she came back, making sure everything was still alive.

���� Knees:� no problems.� Jaw � a deep yawn � working fine.� Upper joint test meant it was time for the morning stretch, so she gathered together every working part she had and tried to move the entire unit up �

���� � something gently shifted on top of her rib cage.

���� The memories of the previous day, as usual, came in last.

���� Sadira sat up in the bed as if driven by pistons, but the sheets she had cocooned around her body stayed with her as if she had been cast in a sitcom, refusing to fall below her shoulders.� Frustration overrode fear, and she struggled out of the confining cloth, finally shifting the wrapper to her waist.� She steeled herself and looked down.

���� Her vision was very slightly impeded.

���� She swung her legs off the bed in a single smooth motion and pushed away from the mattress, ready to run for the bathroom �

���� � her feet had still been in the cocoon.

���� The floor was carpeted and cluttered, but there was less to fall on than in the lab.� Her ribs hurt � something on her ribs hurt �

���� � and somehow she was on her feet and moving for the bathroom.

 

���� Sadira didn't wear underwear to bed:� just a one-piece, full-length pullover nightgown.� As soon as she reached the bathroom, she reached to her waist, bunched the material, and pulled it up and over.

���� A shocked and pensive face stared wildly at her from the reflective surface for a moment before shifting its gaze down.

���� The swelling started a short distance below her collarbone, going out and down in a smooth curve before dipping back inwards to rejoin her torso.� Smooth, rounded protrubances with a darker surface in the center, and an even darker, slightly raised surface in the center of that...

���� "Breasts," Sadira said slowly, then reached over to the small makeup tray and took an eyebrow pencil.� She lifted the lower surface of the small mound � breasts.� My... and placed the pencil below it, then let go of both.

���� The pencil stayed in place.

���� Slowly, she reached out and thumbed the nipple.� It seemed the same as ever.� The new surrounding surface was warm � warmer than the rest of her body.� She pressed down with one finger on each breast and felt tissue clump underneath.� She remembered the unique feel very well, but she had never had it on her own body.� Just with �

���� She squelched the thought and cupped them.� Her hands smoothly covered the surfaces.� Sadira took her hands away and they were still there.

���� "I'm not dreaming," she said slowly, "and I am awake.� Therefore, this is real, and that means �" the positive built first, overwhelming the growing subconscious realizations and blasting out in a shout of joy "� the virus works!"

���� She ran out of the bathroom, the wild energy carrying her back onto the bed for no particular reason � no, because she was feeling giddy, she was feeling like she should have felt when she was twelve and finally getting a chance to catch up to Jasmine and then she would have jumped up and down on the bed for sheer delight, because she was twelve and that was what she was supposed to do.

���� A decade had passed, but it still wasn't too late.� She bounced and jumped and failed to do a backflip, which made her bounce some more, hair whipping around her body like a mad Maypole, bounding with full awareness of the corresponding movements and vibrations of her breasts, her breasts, until she fell back on the mattress, laughing, exhausted, exhilarant.

���� "It works!" she laughed, eyes closed and hands moving back up for another feel.� "The activation virus works!"

���� But it's not supposed to work this fast.

���� The laughter stopped.

���� No, she argued back.� The virus activates within seconds of entering the bloodstream, dies, and the message is cell-to-cell afterwards.� That was the design.

���� But the growth isn't supposed to be this quick, came the quiet reply.� Sadira sat up and curled her legs up to her chest, elbows on knees, chin in hands.� Normal growth rate:� I never modified that.� It would have taken months to reach this size.� I grew � �She opened her eyes and looked down, then got up and went looking for a measuring tape.

���� Three minutes later, she remembered she didn't own one:� she didn't sew, didn't do carpentry, and had just generally never bothered.� It just seemed like something she should have had in the house.� She quit her search of the kitchen junk drawer and looked up to see the remains of microwave dinner boxes piled high on the counter, surrounded by a wall of chocolate pudding cups and boil-in-bag box instructions, Sadira being one of those people who always had to read the label no matter how many times she made the same dish.

���� "How much did I eat last night?" she wondered.� A tangle of emotions and thoughts rolled through, carrying an unwanted passenger.� She was hungry.� Very hungry, and much too hungry considering the amount of food she had eaten the previous night.� She felt her abdomen.� Flat, empty.

���� Think.� Food equals calories, cells need energy to divide, so I was eating to power the growth.� If I eat less, I can slow this down.� The hunger pangs intensified slightly:� she winced and glanced at the clock.� Ate, slept about ten hours, didn't feel anything � but I wouldn't notice a bomb when I'm out.� Growth is not proceeding normally, but growth is proceeding.� What makes me different from the norm?

���� All the factors of the equation settled into place, and her brain dashed to the solution.

���� The fog began to close in �

���� � a burst of will forced it back.� She wasn't going to blank out, not now.� She was going to solve this problem.� Somehow.

���� She was going to need help.

���� Sadira turned on her computer and logged into the company system.� Sure enough, it had an employee directory with addresses.

���� She got dressed, gathered up all the data she could find in five minutes, and headed for the car.

 

���� Sadira was becoming increasingly hungry as she drove, and it was taking more effort to ignore.� She turned up the radio to full volume and stared fixedly at the road.� When the blast of Smashing Pumpkins proved worthless, she pulled over to a hardware store and managed to buy three minutes distraction along with a measuring tape.

���� The hunger got worse as she resumed driving.� It was becoming hard to focus on the road:� the pangs had increased to a nearly physical pain, and the only way to stop it was to eat, and if she ate, then �

��� The road tilted and jerked to the left, and she jerked the steering wheel, trying to get the little Rabbit back on level ground.� Fortunately, there were few other cars on Helena's roads on the chilly Saturday morning:� she didn't hit another vehicle in her two-lane crossover before jumping up onto the curb.

���� The brakes brought the car to a stop just before the street sign would have.� Sadira leaned across the steering wheel, breathing heavily until the dizzy spell passed.

���� Low blood sugar.� She lifted her head.� Her body didn't seem to come with it.� Okay.� Eat something.� She backed onto the shoulder and drove very slowly to the first available fast-food outlet.

���� One McMuffin didn't reduce her appetite.� A large McMeal didn't blunt the edge.� It took three more plus two large glasses of orange juice before she felt well enough to drive.

 

���� Jason looked through the peephole and saw a distorted nose warping back towards distant, dwindling features.� Skin tone was his only real clue.� "Sadira?" he ventured.

���� "Yah."� Jason moved to open the door:� she heard the chains rattling on the other side.� "Jason, wait."

���� He paused.� "Something wrong?"

���� "Kind of.� Just � just let me talk when you open the door."� Sadira unzipped her jacket, letting it fall open at the front.

���� He shrugged and pulled back the last lock, then swung the door in and looked down.

���� He kept looking until Sadira said "Finished?"

���� "You didn't."

���� "Not intentionally.� That stupid I'm not."

���� "But you designed the virus."

���� "That stupid I am."� She sighed.� "Can I come in?"

���� He stood aside and let her enter.

 

���� Nigilo answered the phone on the first ring.

���� "Carmody, sir.� I have the information you requested on Ms Archer."

���� "Quick work."

���� "There wasn't all that much to learn:� our prior files had most of it.� Shall I fax it to you now?"

���� "One minute:� I'm low on paper."� Nigilo opened the front panel.� "Give me some of the basics in the meantime."

���� He could almost hear Carmody's slight nod.� "She's from Brooklyn � you may have heard her "slip" a few times in the presentation.� IQ 169, a dedicated student who works best on things she cares about most.� She was assigned to the leukemia project because she had the disease when she was eleven:� treatment was successful thanks to chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant from her only sister.� She's been in remission since and can be considered cured at this point."

��� "Twin sister?" Nigilo inquired.� He knew the odds were against a match even within the immediate family:� it had been one of his central points when he'd argued for government funding.

��� "Fraternal, but they're very close � genetically.� The social relationship isn't nearly as strong."

��� "Any other scientists in the family?"

��� "The mother is a nurse � physical therapy.� Her father works as an auto mechanic."

��� "The sister?"

��� "Exotic dancer."

��� Nigilo pushed the paper into the feeder.� "All right.� What about personality?"

��� He heard paper shuffling.� "Quiet type, doesn't date much, but she has a love of practical jokes.� She's something of a legend in the Desmond science halls for her rewiring of the temperature controls in the teacher's lounge."

��� Nigilo snapped the panel closed.� "Paper's in.� Go ahead, but keep talking."

���� His fax beeped, and data began to flow as Carmody said "Other than that regrettable character flaw, she has a clean reputation with her professors:� high recommendations from all.� No broken laws, not even a speeding ticket.� Methodist.� Basic white panties.� There's a rumor that she 'experimented' with a roommate, but that's fairly normal these days.� She's very impulsive, tends to leap first, but builds a parachute before she hits the ground."

���� "Indeed."� The fax finished printing, and he began reading.� "You'll be at the office today?"

���� "I will now, sir."� There was no sarcasm or regret detectable in the thin voice.

���� "I'll join you."� He hung up and continued to read.

 

���� Sadira finished her hasty summary of events and leaned forward in the chair.� Jason was still sitting quietly, one finger laid across his upper lip, pondering.

���� "The thing is," she said, "I only got ta do haf the work before the presentation."� She paused and got her accent back under control.� "There's lots of research on the hormones and chemicals that are generated when puberty starts, but very little on what happens to make the process stop.� I found the factors that start the growth, but not the ones that end it."

���� "So exactly what is happening to you?" Jason carefully asked.

���� Sadira's eyes focused on a place beyond his sight.� "I have the macromastia sequence.� I also had leukemia before I went through puberty:� radiation, chemo, and bone marrow treatments."� Her voice became very soft.� "The repeated trauma could have damaged something or neutralized a hormone:� I went through puberty, but I never developed."

���� "But that just means that if the gene had activated, you would have grown to a larger than normal size over several years."

���� "Yes.� But � there's a variation that sometimes hits women at puberty or during pregnancy, where the breasts grow considerably in just a few months.� There's reports of growth as fast as an inch a day when the spurt was at its strongest � and the body's priorities shifted to funnel energy for the growth."

��� �Jason leaned in:� she was nearly whispering now.� "So with me, with the genes active, with my having the macromastia sequence, I'm getting an analog effect:� extremely fast growth necessitating large amounts of energy, to the point where I have to pig out just to stay even.� High acceleration of metabolism."� She peeled the Band-Aid off her hand and briefly glanced at the smooth skin.� "Thought so.� This was a paper cut yesterday.� One small side effect for womankind."

���� "But the speed is so high �"

�� ��"And just barely possible, theoretically.� As long as I power it, and if I don't, it'll eat me alive."� She paused.� "I needed more research, I needed to find out exactly what factors ordered the halt of breast growth.� I needed the central computers for the processing power and funding to gather samples.� I didn't put it in my report because I wanted to impress them with what I'd done and talk them into the rest."

���� "But it should end naturally," Jason pointed out.� "When you reach the size they should have reached �"

���� She cut him off, her voice louder and higher, the words coming faster.� "What good is dat?� Why activate a gene if it can shut down any time it wants?� Dis stays on 'til somethin' tells it ta turn off!� More control!"� Some part of her knew she was shouting;� the same part didn't know how to stop.� "An' I measured myself in da fast food joint:� two inches in twelve hours, dats four inches a day, and I'm still growin':� I can feel it.� An' it's not gonna stop, an' the weight is gonna start gettin' worse, an' what happens wen I get too big ta stand up?� What about wen I can't even move from the weight, and dere's only so much weight the heart can support, only so many miles of blood vessels it can pump through before the pressure drops too low, dat's one of the problems fat people have, not enough oxygen from the lungs for der mass, an' what if I get so dam' big dat I just go an' DIE...!"

���� Jason slapped her.

���� Sadira's eyes widened and she gasped, a small choking sound, as if the words had been pushed back down her throat, then pulled back her right arm and slugged Jason in the face.�� He fell back into his chair, hands flying up to his head.

���� Sadira finally blinked.� "Jason, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that!"

���� "I meant to," he said through his fingers, massaging his jaw.� "I didn't expect to pay for it."� He brought his hands partway down, then wiped a trickle of blood away from his lips.� "No good deed goes unpunished.� You feel better?"

���� "Calmer," she semi-lied.� She'd been knocked down to a more outwardly controlled level of panic.� "I don't believe I just lost it like that."

���� "I don't believe you held it together that long," he replied as he stood up.� "I'm going to get a drink.� Do you need anything?"

���� "Some fruit, please.� I'm hungry..."� She trailed off.

���� "All right," Jason said reassuringly.� He rubbed his jaw again.� "Was gonna go to the dentist next week, anyway...� I assume you want me to help you work up a cure?"

���� Sadira nodded.� "If one geneticist can do it in three weeks...

���� "Then two take a month, and four never get anything done."� He stepped behind the counter that divided living room from kitchen and started peeling an orange.� "But where?� Right now, we can still disguise you with heavy clothing, and we can strap you down for a day or two after that, but then it's going to be pretty obvious.� And if anyone spots you, then we're in trouble."

���� "Before the presentation, I might have been able to plead spontaneous macromastia.� Pregnancy or something," Sadira agreed.� "Afterwards � well, they'll figure it out fast enough."

���� "Coincidence won't cut it.� And, being bureaucrats, they'll panic and isolate you to prevent a crisis that isn't coming.� I was looking through the folder:� I don't think there's any way to spread it normally.� Even with a mistake, the only chance would be blood to blood.� But by the time they believe that � if they do � you've lost time, and you can't work with a partner in isolation."

���� "Are you sure about that?"� Jason looked at Sadira's shocked face.� "I wanted you as a personal partner, but I thought GenTree would let us head something up.� If someone caught a disease, they wouldn't let them try and find a cure?"

���� "Sadira, I've been working for our benefactors a year longer than you.� If it was a disease, they might let you die because if you worked out a cure and lived, you might blab to the media and ruin their precious reputations.� This � I don't know how they'd react, but the odds are against good."� She still looked unconvinced.� "Sadira, they bonded me, same as you:� they pay for school and I work for them one year for every year I was in school.� I would have left after a week without that, but I signed on the line, and they have copies.� Genetic engineering is still seen by the public as risky, and our bosses are very paranoid, very edgy, and very media-conscious."

���� Her eyes narrowed.� "But when someone is suffering �"

���� You poor na�ve kid.� Jason came around the counter and pushed the small coffee table back so he could kneel down in front of her.� He did so, placed the orange in her lap and took her hands in his.� "Sadira, if we work together, then we can stop this.� But if you go to them for help, then we risk � we risk you, and that's something I'm not willing to do."� She looked at him with a combination of surprise, confusion, and bemusement, as if she expected the ring to come out of his pocket at any second.� "Please trust me."� She kept looking at his face.� On impulse, he stuck out his tongue, pulled his arms up with the hands loosely dangling from the wrists, and began panting.

���� Sadira's face twitched into a smile, and then she started laughing, doubling over with convulsions of mirth.

���� Jason kept begging.

���� "Okay, okay!" she finally got out.� "I do trust you."� He assumed a more human posture.� "But we have to work fast, and where do we go �"� Her eyes went searching again, and found something.� "Ivory."

���� "Who?"

���� "Pamela.� My roommate.� She runs her own genetics lab back in Manhattan.� She'll give us all the help we need."

���� "Your roommate is rich enough to own her own lab, and you work here?"

���� "I signed on the dotted line," she explained with a slight smile. �"But we're good friends, and she's a hell of a geneticist. We'll have equipment and resources, plus a third partner to work with."

���� "Okay.� Montana to New York, and then we work like blazes."� Jason stood up and quickly walked to the front closet, threw the door open, reached in, and extracted a suitcase.� "You and I are about to become very sick.� We don't know how long it'll take to feel better.� Can't make it into the office at all."� He threw a travel kit into the now-open case.� "It'll take a week or more before your size becomes �" he paused "� inconvenient, and you can still work after that:� I'll help you with whatever needs to be done.� Once we stop the growth, I get better, you stay sick and have reduction surgery, then you get better, and �"

���� "I can't have surgery."� Jason looked at her:� she was standing up again, facing him from across the room.� Her breathing was fast and hard.� "I can't go into a hospital for this, Jason:� I can't."

���� "Once we cure you, they can't pick up anything from your blood.� It'll be safe."

���� "Jason."� The word was firm and unyielding.� "I can't have surgery."

��� He didn't know the cause, but he did know a phobic response when he saw one.� "We'll talk about it later," he said.� "But if we don't work very, very fast, then you're going to have to convince people that you either had spontaneous, non-initiated growth or went in for one hell of an enlargement, and I don't think people are going to buy either one."

���� "I've got to go home," she said suddenly.� "I have more notes at my apartment:� studying what turned the sequence on might give a clue to the off signal.� And I think I left some print files back at the lab.� You can't go:� you don't have my handprint."

���� "That'll be everything?" Jason asked, packing faster.

���� "The rest of it is on the disk �" she patted the jacket pocket "� and it stays with me."

���� Jason considered.� "Okay.� Wear a thick coat to work:� it's still cold for March and you can conceal what you've got now, but don't let anyone see you.� The labs are pretty empty on a Saturday, but be careful anyway.� Go in, get the files, drive to the airport, and I'll put us on the first flight to New York.� Two hours good?"

���� "Maybe three.� Traffic around the airport might be bad."

���� "I'll go there directly and allow for pileups.� Start driving."

���� Sadira got up, pocketing the orange.� "I'll drive fast."

���� "Not too fast:� we can't afford a speeding ticket."

���� "Got it."

���� "Sadira."� She looked at Jason.� "Be careful.� The clock is running."

���� "I will," she said softly, and left.

   

3

35:� The effects of American cinema on young adults

 

��� Sadira was trying not to think about Ultimate Consequences again, but that meant she was constantly remembering exactly what it was that she wasn't supposed to think about.� Which, of course, constituted thinking about it, dropping Tolstoy's Paradox squarely on her skull.� So, as she ran around the cluttered apartment trying to find her notes, she concentrated on sub-aspects.� Like running.

��� Sadira had been an excellent base stealer for her college team.� There hadn't been an ounce of extra weight to slow her down, and she could slide in on her stomach without bruising anything.� Now, every time she moved, she felt subsidiary movement from her bosom, bounces and shifts and vibrations, oh my, distracting enough for a first-timer so that she found most of her work by falling over it.

��� That was another thing to notice:� the weight.� Only a little so far, a couple of pounds at most when put together, but it was there, and it was going to get worse.� Sadira was naturally clumsy � Jasmine had described her as moving like a fawn three seconds after birth � but how much worse was it going to be when she had ten, fifteen, twenty or more pounds of weight constantly pulling her down?

��� The generated image of step/crash/stand/step/crash/etc was distracting enough to get her through the kitchen hunt, recovering a Post-It from the refrigerator door Double check Q74-CTG29 relationship on CH19, and into the bathroom.� She grabbed a file folder from its resting place next to the toilet, two more from the magazine rack attached to the bathtub, straightened up, and saw the mirror again.

��� She'd taken Elementary Chaos Theory in her junior year of college, fulfilling the requirement for a science elective outside her major.� The teacher had begun the first class with a quote on the blackboard:� "You can never step in the same river twice."� Because the water molecules would have moved, and the banks eroded a bit, changing the flow, and a million other factors which said that the universe was predictably unstable.

��� It followed that you could never look in a mirror twice and see the same person both times.� With her, it was just becoming more noticeable.

��� She had grown a bit more since that first glance, probably the result of the McRefueling, no more than another inch � but the difference was startling.� At that moment, she had achieved the Cosmo proportions:� the build which every fashion and beauty magazine said she ought to have.� The one all the clothing designers seemed to be working for.� The one which society seemed to punish women for not having.� She was there, to the millimeter.

��� No more buying shirts in the extra-large pre-teen areas so there would be no sagging of material at the front.

��� No more growing her hair ridiculously long just so she could claim something extremely feminine about her appearance.

��� No more soft snickers and snide meant-to-be-overheard comments from other women while changing, first in the locker room in high school, and now at the health club.

��� No more quiet remarks overheard when leaving the dance floor.� "She's a cute girl, but..."

��� And, within a few hours, the achievement of that standard would be no more.� She would have moved past it, into a new realm of clothing perils, snide female remarks, and rude male ones.

��� Despite the time factor, despite everything, Sadira spent three minutes staring at the image, firmly memorizing it, before finally resuming her hunt.

 

��� In the end, she thought she'd gotten it all.� In the last few minutes, she'd just started grabbing any loose paper and shoveling it into the trunk of her car.� She'd also packed a few changes of clothes � mostly panties, socks, and pants:� there didn't seem to be much point in bringing many of her blouses.� The one she was wearing had become slightly uncomfortable.� The fabric wasn't expanding as fast as she was.

��� On the way to the lab, she made two run-and-gun stops:� a convenience store, where she emptied out the chocolate bar racks, and a Sears, where, armed with her underbust size and a decent working knowledge of bra theory (from proximity to Jasmine and Pamela), she bought one bra in each size between where she was now and where the department store's range ended.� This turned out to be all of three bras:� C, D, and DD/E � Sears wasn't sure what to call it.� The sales clerk gave her one weird look at the request and another when she asked to wear the first one out, giving the clerk the tag for scanning.

��� She was wearing the C when she drove past the security checkpoint, pulled into the GenTree parking lot and screeched into her first-year spot at the back out of habit before relocating right next to the entrance.� Sadira checked the heavy coat as she got out of the car.� It did bulge a bit, but it bulged all over: �she had never really gotten the hang of cleaning down.

��� "Okay," she whispered.� "Go �" and ran into the building.� She skidded to a halt in front of the handprint scanner, pulling off the winter glove as she braked.

��� "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

��� She froze and spun around, trying to keep the fear off her face, and then she saw who had spoken.� "Hi, Stan."

��� The older man waggled a finger at her and dropped his voice out of the basso-profoundo he'd used to startle her to a more nasal tone.� "You know the rules, Ms Archer.� You Monday-Friday types can stay here twenty-four a day then, but come the weekend, you go home and rest so you don't burn out.� Only us Wednesday-Sunday types are allowed in now.� Unless you've screamed "Eureka" and came in with a cure for the common cold �" he sniffled "� then go home and rest."

��� "It's okay, Stan.� I just forgot a few things on Friday."� Friday, the fifteen of March.� She should have been bewaring Ides.� "I'll just grab them and get out."

��� "You're going to work at home, aren't you?"

��� "No, Stan.� I'm not going to do any work in my apartment."� That was the truth.� "This is personal stuff."� That was, too.

��� "Okay.� But if I catch you working, you're in trouble."

��� No kidding. �"See you later."� She put her hand on the scanner and waited for the elevator.

��� "Sadira?"� She turned to see Stan examining her closely, a hint of confusion on his weathered features.� "Did you do something with your hair?"

��� "I jumped around a lot," she admitted as the elevator door opened.

 

��� It all seemed to take so long.� Five floors up to her lab, and she could count the millimeters passing.� Time passing...

��� The elevator door finally opened � it only took an hour � and she ran into the hallway, following the gray line straight towards her lab.� The sport bra kept things reasonably in place, but she was still too aware of the shifting masses.

��� Handprint.� Enter.� Grab everything.� Drop most of it and re-grab.� When if? she got this problem solved, she was going to invent file folders with a heavy friction base on the outer surface.� You'd need a crowbar to get them apart, not the smallest puff of air or shift in balance.� More files.� No real time to check the contents:� just rely on memory for which piles contained what and keep moving.�

��� Sadira kept working until she had a stack which she could barely see over, then opened the jacket and rolled a few small files into the inner pockets.� She scooped the teetering pile off the workstation and somehow managed to clear the door without losing anything, holding them close to her body for balance.

��� The file at the top kept catching the air from her forward movement, opening to block her sight.� She had to keep stopping to let it settle, and she couldn't spare a hand to twist it around.� If she put the pile down, it would most likely collapse, and she'd lose more time...

��� "Do you need a hand?"

��� She managed to get a small glimpse in over the edge of the manilla. �There was an average man standing about fifteen feet away.� Completely and utterly average, height, skin tone, hair color, dress, posture.� Even if she memorized his appearance, she'd barely be able to pick him out of any crowd.� He could blend into practically any city in the world.

��� "Carmody," he responded to the unasked question.� "I was at your conference yesterday.� You might not remember me.� I don't speak up a lot at meetings."

��� "It seemed like only one man was doing the talking," she replied, carefully inching a little farther down the hallway.

��� "Yes.� Well � Mr. Nigilo does that a lot.� Can I take a few of those?"

��� Sadira thought about it:� extra speed, less risk of dropping things, small chance of his opening the files and seeing what she was taking, good shot at talking her way out of that.� "Please.� I just have to get them out to my car."

��� Carmody nodded and stepped forward, reaching for the pile.� She smiled gratefully � not that he could see it behind the file � and looked down to see where he was grasping:� maybe he was chivalrous enough to take the entire burden.�

��� She saw the edges of her jacket.� Her open jacket.� She'd never zipped it closed after stuffing the files inside...

��� "Just free up my neck," she said quickly.� "I can handle the rest."

��� She saw him hesitate in momentary confusion before redirecting his hands to the top of the pile.� A man who was used to doing what he was told:� he just took a few inches worth.

��� All right:� she'd left the car unlocked to save a split-second or two.� He opened the door and dumped the stuff on the passenger seat while she went around to the trunk, opened it � hiding herself � and closed the jacket.� Still solvable.

��� They walked down the hall together.

��� "Is this the breast enlargement research?" Carmody inquired.

��� Sadira stumbled slightly and managed to recover before the pile went down.� Carefully edited honesty was the safest policy:� after all, what else would take up so much material?� The leukemia data had to be kept on the computer so others could access it.� "There's no point in having it clutter up the lab now," she said truthfully.

��� "True."� They kept moving.� It was taking forever to get to the elevator.� "But I hope you're not planning on throwing it away:� the political climate may change someday, and you might get to use it."

��� I'm one step ahead of you there.� "No, just relocating it."� Walk carefully.� Don't be clumsy now, don't trip, keep it together...� The elevator was getting close.� Carmody stepped ahead of her.

��� "I'll get the button," he offered, and reached out, his hand vanishing from sight.� Sadira automatically leaned forward to see what he was doing, her breasts pressing harder into the pile with the motion �

��� � and the folders cascaded down in a rain of manilla and fallen hopes.

��� Carmody instinctively dropped, hands sweeping loose papers into a pile, then glanced up to see if she was going to help.

��� The moment passed.

��� "Sadira," he said carefully, as if talking down a suicide.

��� She spun and ran all of twelve feet to the emergency stairway.� Sadira pulled at the door, trying to get the lock to disengage.� This is an emergency, her mind said inanely, but the door refused to open. �Computer controlled.� Opens for fires or elevator breakdowns, but not for this.

��� Carmody was getting up.� Sadira ran.

��� She didn't know where she was going.� This was the only elevator bank in the research wing, and the executive wing wouldn't recognize her handprint.� The windows didn't open � not in a place where people messed around with viruses � and it was fifty feet down to the street.� There wasn't even enough snow left in the parking lot pile to aim for.

��� She reached her lab in what seemed like seconds and waited a year for the handprint scanner to work.� Her door clicked open, and she dived inside, slamming the door behind her.

��� Maybe he wouldn't look for her here.

��� Like hell he wouldn't.� What other room on this floor could she get into?� Grafting was on three, the scientists' conference room on seven...

��� The bathrooms.� Maybe social teaching would have kept him from searching the ladies' room.

��� All she'd accomplished was to buy some time � he couldn't have missed hearing the door slam � and lock herself in.� (It would have been nice if she'd bothered to think in the middle of the panic.)� She had to leave the room eventually:� even if by some miracle, she was able to develop a cure in the next five minutes, she'd never get down to Grafting to put it to use.� Not if Jason was right.

��� But if Jason was wrong �

��� She heard the handprint scanner begin its cycle.� She relaxed:� Carmody couldn't get into her private lab.

��� The door began to open.

��� Unless, of course, he could override the security codes immediately, which he wasn't supposed to be able to do.

��� She looked wildly around the lab.� There had to be something �

��� Carmody stepped inside.� Sadira brought her arm back, syringe at the ready.� Carmody froze, looking at the needle.� It was all that was visible of the sampling cylinder enclosed in her right hand:� she used them to get those few viruses that were held in liquid mediums.

��� She couldn't let him see that it was empty.

��� "Don't move," she told him.� "Yell for help and you're dead.� This virus is fatal."

��� "Sadira �" he started, taking a small step forward.� She brought her arm a little farther back, as if to throw.� He stopped moving.

��� "I said, don't move."� She was starting to feel like a movie character, something with lots of shooting which was supposed to pass for meaningful dialogue.� Sadira used the template.� "I was a pretty good baseball player.� I could put this in your face from twenty feet."

��� "Your defensive skills garnered you the honored position of guarding the lineup card.� Designated hitter," Carmody replied, still not moving.

��� Great, and how the hell did he know that?� "Yah, but I could hit," Sadira admitted defensively.� "And as far as that goes, as a target, you're a lot bigger than a glove."

��� "So," Carmody said carefully, "you expect me to believe that you were crazy enough to develop a fatal virus.� I've seen your psych profile, Sadira.� It's a little hard to swallow."� His left foot ventured forward an inch.

� I have to say something that would make this bluff credible...� In her best Brooklyn-tough voice, Sadira replied "'ey, I wuz crazy nuff ta infect myself with this shit �" using her left hand to indicate her chest "� so whut makes ya think I wouldn't kill ya ta buy some time?"

��� That was probably the wrong thing to say.

��� Carmody moved.� Backwards.

��� "Hold it."� He held.� "You're gonna help me.� Back in the hallway, and if you run, you're gone."

��� She followed him out, both moving slowly, back down to the elevator bank.� There was no one else on the floor:� all the rooms on the fifth were occupied by the Monday-Friday shift.� They reached the elevators without further incident.� "Pick those up," Sadira ordered, jabbing the needle at the files.� As he worked, she tried to re-zip her jacket with one hand and still keep the needle pointed at Carmody.� She failed.

��� Carmody stood up, virtually invisible behind the folder pile.� "I'll get the elevator," she said, and hit the button.� "You are politely walking me out to my car.� Say a word to Stan and you're dead.� In fact, do anything besides walking me out to the car and you're dead.� Got it?"

��� "Understood," Carmody replied as the elevator door opened.� She stepped in directly behind him, keeping the needle point near his back.

��� "When we hit the lobby, we're going to stay very close together.� Let's walk."� The door opened again, and they stepped into the lobby, Carmody first, Sadira just behind at an angle where he was shielding Stan's view of her torso.

��� "That's a lot of personal stuff, Ms Archer," Stan noted.� "Are you sure that's not work?"

��� "Maybe a little work," Sadira confessed.� "Carmody, be a dear and open the door?"� He did so.� "Goodbye, Stan."

��� Once outside, "The light blue Rabbit.� Door's unlocked.� Dump them on the passenger seat."

��� "Sadira, it's not going to work."

��� "What's not?"

��� The portion of his face that she could see in the rear-view mirror seemed to be confused.� Apparently he was just reciting what he thought were his lines.� "Whatever it is you're planning."

��� "Got it," she said flatly.� "Get away from the car.� No, farther back." She saw Stan watching from his post behind the door, starting to stand up as he caught the glint of the sun off the needle.� "A little more..."

��� She dropped the needle and dived into the car, somehow getting the keys out of her pocket on the first try.� It took three to ram the right one into the ignition, enough time for her to hear the shatterproof needle bounce on the pavement, to see Stan start moving for the door, and Carmody starting forward again.

��� She slammed the door and hit the autolock as Stan hit the front steps, and had the car started by the time he reached the bottom.� Carmody wisely dived back as she gunned the motor and sped out of the parking lot, heading for the security gate.

��� The exit didn't have a scanner:� if you were allowed in, you were allowed to get out.� The barrier raised when the sensor spotted a car approaching.

��� Sadira hoped it worked fast.

��� It didn't work fast enough.� She rammed through the gate, the barrier, a small portion of it bouncing off the windshield, which was not shatterproof:� a network of cracks spread across the surface as she made a screeching turn onto the access road and sped away.

 

��� Seven minutes and five miles later, when her car coughed and stalled out, she was driving through Central Helena, heading towards the airport.� Sadira glided to a halt next to a parking meter, then tried to re-start the engine.� It caught � and stalled out again.

��� No one had been following her.� More from curiosity than any real confidence in her ability to fix the problem, she got out of the car to take a look.

��� The trouble, such as it was, was pretty obvious.� Few cars run well when a large fragment of barrier punches through the radiator grille and, with the subsequent vibrations of normal driving, continues to work its way inwards until the splintered edge severs several vital hoses and punctures the radiator.

��� It did explain why all those cars had been honking at her.

��� "Shit," Sadira said, then "Shitfuck!" which seemed to sum it up a bit better.

��� If she called a cab and went to the airport � well, by the time the cab showed up and got her there, then GenTree could have gotten some people to watch the airport, and if they caught her, then �

��� That was thinking too much like a movie character.� They might be able to work that fast, but...� But "somebody's on the run:� check the airport" was a pretty fundamental assumption.� And what if they called the police?� And what if they contacted some sort of biological control agency?� They'd lock her in a room for a few months while they worked things out, especially after her little assault on Carmody, and by the time they were done, she'd have filled the room...

��� "No way," Sadira muttered.� She looked up the street:� maybe if there was a cab company right there �

��� � no.� Something potentially better.

 

��� She had gotten all of the material into the suitcases, even through she had to sacrifice some of the clothing (but none of the chocolate).� So she had several reasons to keep a wary eye on the bags as she gave her message to the answering machine, finishing just as the attendant called for departing passengers to get their rears in gear.

��� Sadira was the last person on the bus.

   

4

???:� Jason hears a "What!"

 

��� It was getting very late.� Sadira was even later.� She had left his house at 10:30, agreeing to meet him by 1:30.� At the worst, two o' clock, maybe three.� He'd been to the main counter several times to page her, and a few more to ascertain that traffic conditions around the airport were perfectly clear.

��� Helena International Airport barely qualified for the name:� the only direct out-of-country flights that landed there came from Canada.� Everything else was a transfer or minor stop-by, which meant that the huge complex pictured with an international airport turned into one medium-sized building with lots of gates.� Jason had already memorized the map and the timetables of all planes leaving for New York:� there were two more, one at seven, three hours away, and a red-eye at one a.m.

��� He'd marched up and down the length of the lobby and car-unloading zone.� He'd called Information and then her apartment.� He'd bought and read every newspaper he could find, and now knew far more than he wanted to about the price of plums in Pakistan.� A grandmother had picked him out of the crowd to tell about her ungrateful children and he'd listened, just to pass the time.

��� He'd made one interesting discovery.� One of the magazine stands carried X-rated material, and the cover of a flimsy rag called Gent had Jasmine Archer on the cover.� It had taken a moment to recognize her, and that based on her resemblance to Sadira:� Jason had only looked at her face on the monitor screen towards the end.� The face was not the part the cover was trying to draw attention to, and it didn't have to try very hard.� The name didn't help:� she was identified as Princess Pirou � probably short for Pirouze, a character from The Arabian Nights.� And why not Princess Jasmine?� Because You Don't Fuck With The Mouse.

��� The previous question of "How big?" got a partial answer:� the magazine listed her at 150 ZZZZ, which sounded like the gene site controlling bullshit.� A visual inspection only gave him "Damn big."� No one else in the magazine came close.

��� He only looked at one picture in her layout:� the first one, a clothed shot, with Jasmine standing in semi-profile to the camera, wearing an overly-tight sweater.� Her arms were held level from her shoulders, bent backwards at the elbows, pushing in on the flesh between.� The edge of her right breast overlapped the forearm, and the forward projection within the bra reached close to the elbows, with the lower reaches between the lowest rib and the navel.

��� Two things kept him from looking further:� the sudden nagging feeling that it would somehow be demeaning to Sadira, and the expression on Jasmine's face.� It was haughty, demanding, a dominatrix out of costume.� It said that she thought absolutely nothing good of the person who took the picture, much less those who might look at it.� Jason suspected there were men who got aroused by that.� He wasn't one of them.

��� He did read the bit of text that accompanied the picture.� It was suggestive, generic, and uninformative.

��� At least he knew why Sadira had never mentioned her sister until Friday.� He'd brought up his three brothers (Heracles, Castor, and Pollux � which had taken some explaining) on about the fifth of roughly sixty snack breaks together, when he'd been able to drag her away from her work, reminding Sadira that even geniuses needed food to live.� Having an extremely busty sister was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, nor was having one who worked as a feature dancer.� But if he had someone in his family tree who could summon up the expressions he'd seen on screen and photo without effort or awareness, he wouldn't talk about them, either.

 

��� At 4:00 p.m, he bought the tickets.

��� "Two for the seven o' clock to New York," he told the ticket agent, "and two for the red-eye.� If I don't use them, refund them to my credit card number."

��� "Sir, purchased tickets cannot be refunded if they are not used.� All I can do is credit the purchase towards another flight."� The agent seemed to take a lot of pleasure from telling him this.

��� Jason leaned in, letting his height loom over the seller.� "Are you sure about that?"

��� The agent stood firm behind his paperwork and the knowledge that there were a lot of bored airport security guards around.� "Changes only.� No refunds."

��� And if she shows up and I'm not here, she probably won't be allowed to change them.� Jason resumed a completely upright position.� "Fine," he lied.� "And I want to leave two of those here for pickup.� The name of the traveling party is Sadira Archer."� He spelled it.� "If I'm not here when she comes in, tell her to leave without me, and I'll catch up."

��� The agent looked up at him, then said, "That's a lot to remember."� A hand crept up from behind the counter, palm up.

��� Jason looked at it, then at the agent.� "And you get off shift in an hour and wouldn't be here to tell her anyway, right?"

��� "I get off in four hours.� I intend to split the funds with my replacement if I can't do my job by then."

��� Jason sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, and the words went out the same way.� "And both of you will, every fifteen minutes until she shows up, page her to the ticket counter."

��� "I think that might be possible." �The hand wriggled.� Jason slowly lowered bills towards it until they were snatched out of sight as if by a cheap novelty bank.

��� Jason grabbed his suitcase, resisted the urge to swing it at the agent's face, and ran for his car.

 

��� Jason's intentions in going to GenTree were to 1.� Find out if Sadira had made it there � there could have been complications from the virus.� 2.� Make sure she'd managed to leave without getting caught and isolated somewhere � in which case, he was about to study the fine art of the breakout.� 3.� Get her address from the employee directory.

��� Traffic was clear, with no one rubbernecking the wreck of a blue Rabbit:� he took it as a good sign and got to GenTree in forty-five minutes.

��� "Hi, Stan," he said automatically as he headed for the elevator.� "Just picking up a few things."

��� "Yeah," the older man grumped.� "That's what she said."

��� Jason took his hand off the scanner and turned to face the security guard.� "That's what who said?"

��� Stan's right hand moved to cover his face.� "Oh, darn it � Mr. Pterros, I wasn't supposed to say anything about this.� You won't tell anyone, will you?"

��� "I can't," Jason said frankly.� "I have no idea what you're talking about."� He did have several horrible worries.

��� "Thanks," Stan told him sincerely, and went back to studying the front door with great intensity.

 

��� Jason moved very quietly when he got off the elevator, without being sure why.� It's naturally hard to sneak around when you're 6'6", but he tried it anyway, moving slowly, scanning the environment.� There were no signs of a struggle � which for him, meant there were no neon lights flashing A struggle took place here!� The hallway was oddly quiet:� the weekend was the near-exclusive work time for Marketing and Sales, and the off-time for Research.� There was a good chance he was the only person on the floor.

��� He reached his lab without incident and placed his hand on the scanner �

��� � voices.� Not too far off, maybe eight, nine doors down.� Right around where Sadira's lab was.

��� He removed his hand from the scanner before it could beep and very, very slowly made his way down the hallway, arching his back to avoid the scanners, trying not to get hypnotized by the quiet shimmer of fluorescent lights on white walls.

��� The door to Sadira's lab was partially open, but the voices had stopped at just about the point when he would have been close enough to make them out.� Jason wondered if he could risk a peek inside �

��� "What!"� Strident, angry, a man who didn't like the word "No" unless he was saying it.� "The entire drive?!"

��� "Not the whole thing, sir."� Colorless, submissive.� "There are no files on the drive pertaining to breast enlargement."

��� "And you watched her take the print files out."� Jason briefly smiled:� whatever had happened, Sadira had cleared the building.� "Hell, you helped her carry them."� Not without incident, however...

��� "It's not a total loss, sir.� While she's deleted the files from the hard drive, she doesn't seem to have taken any special precautions after that deletion."

��� "Exactly what are you trying to get across?"� More controlled, but even angrier:� man on verge of a nervous break-neck � someone else's � and he had the voice:� Nigilo, Project Viability Director, among other things, and certainly among those whom Sadira had presented to.

��� "That the files were removed with the Delete function, and nothing else.� Any good file utility should be able to recover most of it."

��� "So we can get the computer data back."� Calmer still, but Jason could feel the anger running like an undertow inside the ocean.� "Will that give us enough without the print?"

��� "I can't say until I've gotten it back, sir."

��� "Then get it back, Carmody," Nigilo ordered.� Footsteps came closer to the door, and Jason got ready to move � then reversed, getting fainter.� The pattern repeated:� Nigilo was pacing the floor.� "And start working on a way to get her back."

��� The pacing was driving Jason nuts:� from the tone of the conversation, he didn't think Nigilo was going to wait around for the file recovery.� He could break for the door at any second, and when he did � well, most of the other employees knew Jason hung around with Sadira.� If Nigilo knew, he might not be able to clear the building.� He started to inch back down the hallway.

��� "Oh, Carmody," Nigilo off-handedly mentioned, "I had someone test the contents of that syringe Archer held on you.� One hundred percent pure bona-fide air.� I suppose you could have had an embolism or something if she'd injected it �" the voice acquired a honey coating "� so you shouldn't feel bad about letting her get away."

��� Jason blinked, then headed for his lab.

 

��� He held his left hand on top of the scanner to muffle the beep, then turned his lights on at the lowest possible level, just enough to find the computer.

��� Sadira had been caught, seemingly by Carmody, then gotten away and not headed for the airport.� Had she been followed, and tried not to lead them to him?� Had she, in confusion and with base instinct, gone home?

��� In order to discover that last, he was still going to need the employee directory.� He moved to turn on the computer �

��� � his message light was flashing.� He'd cleared it before he left on Friday, and he could think of only one person who would try to call him on a Saturday.� He picked up the phone and held it as close as possible to his ear before triggering the playback.

��� "Jason," Sadira said softly, and he nearly collapsed in relief.� "If you're hearing this on Saturday, then you got worried and went to work to see if I'd gotten trapped, and I correctly recalled your extension number.� I'm clear, but nothing else is working out too well." A quick summary followed, with Jason raising eyebrows, widening eyes, sucking in air, exhaling in relief, and suppressing groans as the words required.� "When the car went down, I was less than a block from a Greyhound station.� I'm calling from the pay phone there.� There's a bus leaving for Billings in five minutes, and I'm going to be on it.� I'll catch a flight to New York from their airport."

��� There was a long pause.� "If anyone tries to follow my car, they'll probably follow it to the impound yard, but if I'd tried to get to the airport � well, it was the most logical place for me to go, and they might have caught us both."� Another pause.� "If it sounds like that little paranoia lesson you gave me rubbed off, bingo:� I don't like that Carmody had immediate access to my 'private' lab..."� A deep breath.� "If you can, head for New York:� don't try and meet me in Billings � use a Canadian airport if you have to.� You still have a car.� Make sure you're not followed �"� A sigh.� "You know the drill.

��� "I'm not sure I gave you Pamela's full name:� it's Pamela Anne Shaw.� I don't know exactly where her lab is in Manhattan, but her home number is � grab a pencil if you can � "� He did and wrote it down.� "Tell her what's going on and try to recreate as much of my work as you can:� you're both brilliant and hopefully motivated."� He could hear the smile.� "I should join you pretty soon.� If I can get ahold of a computer, I'll use Pamela's new Net address and send over the contents of the disk."� A very long pause, and he could hear a summoning announcement in the background.� "Don't worry about me.� I'll get there."� A soft, terminal click.

��� He erased the message �

��� � the machine beeped as the tape cleared, gunshot-loud in the paranoid silence.� Jason jumped, spinning as he came down to face the door �

��� � no voices, no sounds of movement.

��� He allowed himself one very brief, very quiet "Whew!", checked Sadira's address, and quietly left the building.

 

��� He drove by Sadira's apartment building and looked up at the third floor:� there were lights on, and he could see several people moving inside.

��� There were no similar lights at his own building, and no obviously ominous cars, but he didn't risk a trip inside: eventually, someone was either going to look at the security tapes or ask Stan who else had been in the building, and then they'd look.� They might be in the building without having reached his apartment yet � he drove away.

��� By the time he finished sneaking out and surveying the landscape, he'd missed the seven o' clock flight.� A quick call to the quasi-local airports confirmed that he wouldn't be able to reach any flight but the Helena red-eye unless he wanted to wait until nine a.m. Sunday.

��� Somehow, he killed six hours, writing down what he could remember from his quick flip through Sadira's notes, speculating on where to begin looking, and drinking coffee by the gallon.� Finally, at midnight, he pasted on the bad fake mustache he'd purchased at the novelty shop before reaching Sadira's building, and drove to the airport.� After parking, he put on sunglasses, pulled a hat low over his eyes, and, for a last desperate disguise step, ran hunched over through the terminal.

��� No one stopped him, and, afraid that he'd be kept off the plane for looking like a suspicious moron, he dumped the mustache before reaching the gate.

��� The last thing he heard before boarding the plane was "Sadira Archer, please report to the main ticket counter.� Sadira Archer..."� It seemed he had gotten good value for his money.

   

5

36:� Conspiracy theories

 

� There are 240 miles between Helena and Billings, most of which is taken up by picturesque scenery � if you happen to like endless amounts of dead grass and barren trees, with the occasional dead shrub thrown in for variety.� Sadira didn't, so spent most of the ride reading through the files in her jacket pockets, with the occasional check of her watch and mile markers thrown in, just to make sure time and distance were actually passing.� What little time was left over was invested into wishing the driver would go faster.� The wish was not fulfilled:� the bus kept to the speed limit all the way through and made two stops for snack food.

��� None of the previous activities went as well as they could have, because Sadira also had to deal with her seatmate:� a five-year old girl named Olivia whose parents had allowed her to do this marvellously grown-up thing called Traveling Alone.� Olivia was very proud of this, and talked about it at every opportunity.

��� Olivia frequently went to the bathroom, and she had the window seat.� She wanted a piece of Sadira's chocolate, which she wound up getting under the theory that she couldn't talk while eating it (wrong).� She wanted to know what Sadira was reading, and Sadira, who had reached the point of desperation at the 115 marker, told her, using the longest words and most convoluted, incomprehensible technical terms she could think of, until neither she nor Olivia had any idea what she was talking about.� It bought her all of five minutes and, towards the end, one bad moment.

��� "Does your chest hurt?"

��� Sadira stared at the sincere brown eyes for a second, then looked down at her left hand, which was rubbing the base of a bra cup � which was starting to get a little tight.� "Not really," she said, and pulled her hand away.

��� "You look a little different," Olivia observed.

��� Sadira, who didn't have a tremendous amount of experience with children, said, "I look different from a lot of people."

��� "No," Olivia insisted.� "From when you got on."

��� Sadira tried to remember if the girl had actually had her eyes resting in one place long enough to get an impression.� "I'm older now," she said, suddenly inspired.� "I'm going to get wrinkles � and if you sit too close, my hair's going to fall out � on you!"

��� Olivia giggled and scrambled over Sadira's lap, knocking files to the ground, then ran to the bathroom again.

��� Sadira recovered the papers, then leaned over to the window and looked out at the greying sky and leafless trees.� "Hurry," she whispered, and wasn't sure who she was saying it to.

��� She stayed in the window seat until Olivia got back and promptly demanded it.� Sadira, who had been waiting for the moment, offered it up only after Olivia had sat down � and Sadira scrambled as awkwardly as possible over her, heading for the bathroom.� It was about time to change bras.

 

� ��The D was still a little loose as they pulled into Billings at six p.m.� Most of the passengers were meeting people at the terminal � Sadira spared a minute to make sure Olivia's aunt picked her up, afraid the woman wouldn't be there and she'd be granted custody � but with typical geographic logic, there was an overpriced taxi stand outside the terminal to pick up the overflow.� Sadira walked up and asked for a ride to the airport.

��� "Can't," the burly man said.

��� Sadira glanced inside the three available cabs.� Empty.� "Are these reserved?"

��� "Naw, they're available.� I just can't take anyone to the airport.� You're not press, are you?"

��� She decided to be direct.� "Would being a member of the press get me to the airport?"

��� "Naw.� A lot of reporters have been calling the company.� I was wondering if you were another one.� You're gorgeous enough to be on the air."

��� Sadira, who was still trying to puzzle out the airport problem, almost missed the last comment � then, when it registered, had to clamp down on all possible responses.� Cute, yes, she got that.� Good-looking, on occasion.� Beautiful, once.� Gorgeous, never.� She could feel her face fighting to twitch as she said "And why can't anyone go to the airport?"

��� "The NextMen."

��� Sadira quickly looked around for the hidden camera, didn't find one, decided she wasn't going to be on America's Most Frustrated People, and said "Who?"

��� "One of those radical groups who bought a parcel of land out by the airport.� You know, peace, justice, kill everyone who doesn't agree with peace and justice?� Airport's expanding, tried to buy their land, so they planted a bomb."

��� "They planted a bomb."� Sadira was starting to feel like a parrot.

��� "Well, they said they did, so the cops closed down the airport and surrounded their place.� Hey, only in Montana, right?� FreeMen, NextMen, branch-Branch Dravidians, Dykes on Bikes � weirdos give the state a bad name."

��� Sadira, who was thinking of several bad names to call things, managed a slow, tight nod.� Montana:� land of the free, home of the brave, refuge of the lunatics.� "Look, I need to get to New York, tonight if possible.� Where's the nearest airport that's still open?

��� "Well, if you head west, you're got Helena �"

��� "Not an option."

��� The cab driver scratched at his stubbly chin, thinking.� "Well, if you want direct, and you can't afford to hire a charter, the closest place to head for is � let's see � Buffalo or Bismark.� Cheyenne would have more flights than Buffalo, but it'll take less time to get to Buffalo.� Bismark's a capital like Cheyenne, so there'd be lots of flights, but you're looking at �"

��� He stopped abruptly, staring at her face.� Sadira wondered what expression was on it.� "Wyoming.� North Dakota.� Those are the closest places to catch a flight to Nu Yawk?"

��� The driver suddenly smiled.� "Far from home, ain'tcha?� Hey, me too!"� He leaned against the cab.� "Sweets, it ain't like home.� They don't got three airports in thirty miles around here.� If you're flying, it's two hundred miles to Buffalo, about four hundred to Cheyenne and Bismark � and by the time you get there, you're looking at red eyes.� Besides, it'll all be closed by then, anyway."

��� Sadira blinked � almost said something � took a deep breath � noticed the driver watching the breath.� Speaking slowly, editing every syllable for negative content, she got out, "And why will it all be closed?"

��� "The snowstorm.� Bad one coming through tonight, hits us and points east and south.� Not Helena, though.� Should get in around nine, and then they'll ground the flights.� The charters won't even carry then."� He smiled widely:� Sadira saw several cavities.� "'course, a cab could cover some ground, maybe drive fast enough to beat the storm."

�� �And there was no possible way you could have mentioned that earlier.� "I can't afford two hundred miles worth of cabfare," she said, and turned away.

��� "Hey, Beautiful," he called after her, "who said I wuz gonna charge ya money?"

��� Sadira practically ran back into the terminal.

 

��� A few fast checks confirmed that:

��� A.� The NextMen weren't going anywhere, and even if they pulled out in five minutes, the police would still keep the airport closed until morning so they could make sure it was clean.

��� B.� The storm was going to dump up to eight inches by morning� � normally not too much for Montana residents to deal with, but it had been a hard winter, and salt reserves were low all over.� Accumulation in the south and east could be much higher.

��� C.� There were no buses or trains leaving for Points East before morning.� Nothing was heading back for Helena, either.

��� D.� Sadira's current bra size, subject to increase � the longer it took to get to Manhattan, the farther she'd reach into the alphabet.

��� Sadira decided she hated Montana.� There were just as many psychos in New York � but at least there, she'd known to look for them.

��� Her hunger pangs reached another peak, and she found herself considering the problem over a large meal at a nearby dinner.

��� I can rent a car, but driving to New York, as non-stop as I can make it, would take at least three days.� If I rent and drive to one of the other airports, the storm will hit by the time I get there.� I can head back for Helena, but that puts me back in the high-risk category.

��� She called for a second helping of pie and came to the inevitable conclusion during her third salad.� I've lost the day.

There's no way I'll get anywhere tonight, but even with Sunday schedules, I can catch a train to a major transit point tomorrow � maybe Chicago � and go from there if the local airport isn't open.� Or I can drive out to one of the other airports and wait for things to clear there, if I don't have another sugar fallout on the way...

��� Having reached the inevitable conclusion, Sadira spent fifteen minutes in a valiant attempt to think her way around it.� But the near-continuous process of consumption-growth was wearing her out, and she finally admitted to herself that she was in no shape to drive, five minutes after her body had burrowed into the hotel bed, half conscious and fully clothed.� It was the last thought of the night.

 

��� As Carmody retrieved the files, Nigilo went about retrieving a work staff, placing calls to every scientist he had under his thumb to remind them that if they didn't do exactly what he said, he was going to press down.� Within an hour, he had a full research team gathered on the fifth floor, sworn to secrecy, examining each bit of data Carmody resurrected.� This gave him very little to do but pace the floor, which he did in abundance.� He also ordered a loitering intern to clean Archer's lab, both to look for left-behind files and to give him more room to pace.

��� All of the reports were in by two a.m., and he sat down with Carmody and two of the scientists to discuss the situation.� For irony's sake, it was the same conference room Archer had given her presentation in:� Carmody even checked the disk drive in vain hope that she had left the original behind, before inserting the reconstructed one.

��� Jonas went to the presentation area and began working the keyboard.� Nigilo had "gotten" him two years ago:� the man had a fondness for animal testing, and when the animal supply was a little slow in coming, he used whatever he could find.� Stray pets were a special favorite.� Nigilo had curbed him (he hoped) and hidden the negatives well.

��� Carmody looked around the table.� "Recovery of the data was roughly 95 percent successful:� what few dropouts occurred are in areas that could be filled in later with some deduction."� He motioned to Jonas.

��� The scrawny man continued to bring his full weight down on the keyboard, operating it like a punching bag, (a nervous habit � he could barely type) for a full seven seconds before he became aware he had been addressed.� "Yes," he started with a cough.� "Well, from all I've seen, the theories are perfectly valid.� Everything Ms Archer has reasoned makes sense to me:� the process she proposed should indeed cause breast growth."

��� "She's logged a significant amount of time in Grafting," Temperi noted.� His scientific specialty was mutation:� his personal specialty was usually around 14 years old.� "It's quite possible that she could have constructed the virus �"

��� "Which means nothing," Nigilo tensely breathed.� "We know she built the virus, we know she infected herself with it, and destroyed the rest � if that tin in the sterilizer is what we think it is.� Can we recreate the work ourselves?"

��� "No," Temperi said, looking as if he wanted to catch the traitorous word which had escaped from his lips.� "We might, in a few months, be able to build an enlargement virus:� there's certainly enough here to start with."� He stopped, searched for words, got interrupted.

��� "What do you mean, a few months!" Nigilo shouted.� "I saw the dating on the files:� she got it done in three weeks!"

��� Jonas looked up from the keyboard three seconds off synch, the first to speak in the descended silence.� "Because we're not that smart," he admitted.� "She's a genius and she was focused in a way that I can barely imagine:� given the available starting data, I could construct the enlargement virus, operating alone, in about six months.� With Fred here �" he pointed a skeletal finger at Temperi "� maybe four, three at best.� And there aren't that many of us qualified to graft who �" he swallowed tightly "� you can rely on.� The crew would be small."

��� "And we only have half of a half," Temperi put in, rescuing his partner in guilt.� "All of Archer's data points to the eventual construction of two viruses:� one to initiate growth, the second to halt it.� Everything we have concerns the creation of the first.� We might be able to start the growth, but we have no way of stopping it."

��� Nigilo glanced at Carmody.� "You said she appeared to be about a B or a C cup � in your expert opinion."� Carmody nodded.� "Then we also have to consider that we've been lied to.� She told us that much growth might take a year, and she's obviously sped that up.� All of the data on the computer may be a false trail."� Carmody focused on his eyes, but Nigilo didn't notice.� "We may have to come up with the whole thing from scratch because the bitch decided to throw us a razor-edged loop.� Just like a woman �"� He became aware of Carmody's expressionless stare.� "What?"

��� "Nothing, sir."

��� "Then look somewhere else."� Nigilo steepled his finger.� "Just like the woman.� Lies to me, then gives me more lies to follow.� Assume none of the information can be trusted until verified."

��� "That'll slow us down �" Temperi started to protest.

��� "Then work faster," Nigilo barked.

��� Carmody stood up and joined Jonas at the keyboard.� "The search of Ms Archer's apartment has thus far revealed nothing, but the place is in such poor condition that it may take us days to go through every scrap of paper.� From the guard and security tapes, we have the knowledge of Mr. Pterros' unexplained presence in the building a few hours after Ms Archer, and his sneaking around on Five."� He looked at Nigilo.� "It's very likely that he heard some part of our discussion.� He has not returned home, and we are currently gaining access to his apartment."

��� Nigilo stood up.� "Do you two have anything vastly intelligent to add beyond what you've already said?"� They blankly looked at each other.� "Then go learn something."� The scientist fled.

��� Nigilo came around the table and sat down on the surface, next to the keyboard.� "There is a second virus.� I don't believe Archer would start something she couldn't stop, impulsive or not."

��� "Sir," Carmody hesitantly began, "there is the possibility that the infection was accidental �"

��� "I don't believe that, either."� He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table.� "Why build a virus unless you meant to use it?� And you're dismissing what she told you."

��� She was under pressure...� "True, sir.� At least the virus doesn't seem to be spreadable."

��� "Good.� If she had something that could wipe out the world, she already has too much of a head start."� The smile was thin enough to be starving.� "Of course, if she did, I still wouldn't alert the biohazard control agencies.� It's too late, after all, and why die with the blame?

��� "Well, then, Carmody, this is what I think.� I think that Archer had the project complete and ready to go at the time of the presentation.� I also think that when I had to publicly reject her, she decided to sell the information to someone else, and what better proof could she give them than a functioning test subject?� And Pterros � they talk a lot, they eat together, they concoct a little plan to make some money � search his lab, too."

��� "I've already gotten an intern to start," Carmody assured him.

��� Nigilo nodded approvingly.� "But she forgets some things, comes back for them, and you play your part in a hostage drama.� So:� who is she going to sell to, and where are these people located?"

��� "Sir, we have limits."� Nigilo's approving face collapsed into a holding pattern.� "This is going beyond industrial espionage.� We hire people to break into homes and raid sites for information.� That's in the company budget.� We do not have the resources to search through five billion people to locate two.� Wherever they have run to, they are going to be exceedingly difficult to find."

��� "Bullshit," Nigilo snarled, pushing himself slightly away from the table.� "They haven't had long to run, and there's only so many companies that have both the resources and the connections to begin marketing this before we could build the first virus.� They can't have the resources to produce it themselves �"� He glanced at Carmody.

��� "I'll check their finances," the assistant replied.

��� Nigilo nodded again � then stood up completely, adjusting his tie.� "Do either of them have company-backed credit cards?"

��� "Archer does.� Pterros turned his in six months ago."

��� "There's a slight chance she's still using it."� His fingers caressed the corner of his lips.� "Genius, Carmody, does not always mean smart.� Get a list of the last purchases:� one might be an airline ticket."

��� "One detail, sir."� Nigilo waited.� "Ms Archer's college roommate was a geneticist:� there is a chance that she's headed to meet her."

��� Nigilo thought it over.� "Does this roommate have the resources and connections to carry through my proposed operation for the virus on any significant scale?"

��� "Not the resources.� I haven't been able to learn her connections, but her operation is very new."

��� Nigilo shook his head � then reconsidered.� "But she may be a third partner, or make friends easily.� Check it out.� And I have a detail of my own."� He brushed Carmody aside and put several commands into the keyboard, activating the screen.

��� They both looked at the picture until Nigilo said, "This is why I wanted you to search all the directories.� Fortunately, she forgot to delete this.� I think it gives a pretty clear indication of her state of mind, don't you?"

��� "Sir, I'm not sure what you mean �"

��� "It's obvious, Carmody � but then, you were an only child, correct?� Sibling rivalry is a powerful force.� With the right minds, it can move careers � or lead to a foolish act."� He gestured at the image of Jasmine.� "You saw Archer:� you see her.� Try to imagine that you're a young girl, Carmody, and you're growing up with her for a sister."

��� His voice dropped, softer, a slight hiss creeping into the words, the ones he was convinced were completely correct.� "What's the real reason she developed the virus, Carmody?� Jealousy taken to the point of insanity, where even if the virus wasn't perfected, wasn't tested, she'd try it on herself, and that lovesick fool Pterros only to happy to help her?� Is the profit motive primary or secondary?� Oh, she's lining her pockets, but she's filling out her blouse as well.� I don't think the C you saw is anywhere near the end of the process.

��� "And the sad part � the real tragedy � is that if she'd just waited a few days, or even been a little more involved in office politics, I would have come to her with my plan, and she'd have status, money, and her new body.� But she had to jump the gun and screw me.

��� "Well, I still want those viruses, and I want the money and status, and I want her to pay for even thinking she could cut me out."� He stared at the screen, all expression gone.� "Find her, Carmody," he said quietly.� "Pull resources from other areas:� I know you can make the accounting work.� Hire detectives, alert our friends.� If we have any spies in labs where she might go, tell them to be on the lookout.� Try to get records from any other credit cards they might have � but don't report anything stolen:� they're an excellent means of tracking.� Don't involve the biohazards, don't involve the police.� I want both of them back here alive, and I want her in condition to work.� Give all our people full descriptions."

��� He focused on the young woman in the picture, shying away from the cold.� "You and I are now heading the search for Sadira Scheherazade Archer;� English-Saudi, twenty-two, black hair, grey eyes, five-five �" his face momentarily quirked in the slightest of smiles "� bust size and weight variable upon request."

   

6

38:� City mice, country mice

 

� The plane landed at six a.m. Sunday � Montana time:� Jason set his watch ahead two hours as they touched down.� It took several painful minutes to work his way out of the plane:� the economy red-eye flights didn't have seats which were kind to tall people.� He'd frozen into a cramped package of knotted muscles in the third hour, and if he'd had a sword with which to try the Gordian solution, he would have considered using it.�

��� When he could finally move for more than three seconds at a time, he limped over to a phone and dialed the number on the torn bit of DNA printout.

��� It started ringing.� After the fourth bell, he started waiting for the answering machine.� By the eighth, he was hoping for a neighbor to break in and answer, and he got his miracle in the middle of the twelfth.

��� A loud click, and then a female voice, deep, somewhat throaty, a little tired �

��� "Well, obviously you're too stupid to count.� That's as good a reason as any to remove you from the gene pool."� A brief pause.� "But then, you woke me up before twelve on a Sunday.� That's an even better reason." Another brief pause, during which he could hear buttons being pressed.� "Okay, I've got you on Caller ID:� could you hang on while I use a reverse directory to get the address?� After that, it's two minutes to get the gun, and then you just wait around until �"

��� � and quite serious.

��� Somehow, Jason found his voice.� "Ms Shaw?"� His brain was another matter.

��� A yawn.� "Ah, you can talk.� Still not a good reason for chancing your being able to procreate and make a new generation of morons."� Shuffling sounds.� "How presentable do you want your corpse to be?� .22's make smaller holes."

��� "Ms Shaw �" the words came in a rush, as if by saying them fast enough, he could block the bullet from coming through the earpiece "� Sadira asked me to call!"

��� A long, long pause, then "I'm listening."

��� Jason summed up the situation in fifty words or less.

��� He got dead air for a response, then, "Tell Sadira � no, she's probably listening on an extension � Ebs, I know you too well, and when I show up and you trigger a CO2 capsule under your shirt, I'm not going to be surprised.� The set-up was a little too unbelievable.� But according to this area code, you're in town and I'd be glad to see you, so where can I pick you up?"

��� "Sadira isn't with me," Jason said desperately.� "She was going to use the Billings' airport.� She hasn't called you?"

��� Was it possible to hear a puzzled look?� "Well, duh, no, she hasn't."

��� "Ms Shaw �"

��� A sigh mixed into another yawn.� "Great, now I'm my aunt.� If you know Sadira well enough to have her put you up to this pitiful stunt, then Pamela or Pam."

��� "Pamela �"� An inspiration.� "I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that everything I told you is the complete truth, and that Sadira needs your help."

��� "I see."� The doubt came through clearly.� "Exactly what do you hold sacred?"

��� He could adopt the begging posture again, but it was a little hard to pick up over a phone.� There had to be words, something that would convince her � "Pamela, she's in trouble, and she needs your help.� Isn't that enough?"

��� Another sigh.� "If this is a practical joke �"

��� "It's not."

��� "I have no intention of laughing.� Where are you?"

��� "I'm at the airport."

��� She laughed, higher and merrier than her voice had led him to believe possible.� "Which airport, country mouse?� There's a choice of three."

��� "Kennedy.� The Trans-United terminal."

��� "Okay.� You wouldn't happen to have a weather forecast handy, would you?"

��� He did:� there were several monitors arrayed above the phone bank presenting various sorts of tourist-helpful information. "High of forty-five, sunny."

��� "How sunny?"

��� Jason blinked and stared at the screen.� "Just sunny."

��� "Great."� The word was not said with sincerity.� "How do I spot you?"

��� Jason quickly described himself.� "All right.� Be at the front of the terminal.� I should be there in less than ninety minutes if the traffic gods are with me."� Her voice was getting fainter:� she was taking the phone away from her mouth.

��� "Wait!� We should try to spot each other.� How do I recognize you?"

��� "Oh, that one's easy," she told him, voice clear, bemused.� "I'm the Invisible Woman."

��� She hung up.

 

��� The Invisible Woman picked him up at 9:15.

��� Pamela Shaw was about 5'10".� She was probably also the girl whom Sadira had roomed with in college who taught her that personality (definitely the best word from some bad choices) wasn't determined by build.� There was a very impressive bustline pushing out the front of her coat � not quite on a par with the Gent photo of Jasmine, but Pamela's arms swung free at her sides instead of pushing the mammaries forward.� Her movements were sure and confident, strolling through the crowded airport with complete assurance that the few people who were staring, frozen, would get out of the way in time, but ready to shift away if they didn't.� There were very few of those:� everyone else cleared a path for the apparition.

��� Every other detail of her person was covered in cloth.� She wore a hooded jacket with a headband and scarf over her face, so the only exposed area was her eyes � and those were concealed by skier's sunglasses.� She wore gloves that blended into her sleeves, and long pants that shifted to reveal thick socks.� There wasn't a millimeter of skin visible.

��� "Hello, country mouse," said the muffled voice as she strode up to him.� "Big mouse.� Is that all your luggage?"

��� Jason looked down, tried to make some sort of eye contact, failed dismally.� "That's the lot."

��� "Follow me.� There should be a nice clear trail."� The last was said with the faintest hint of rancor.

��� There was, all the way back to the car, a black Neon with tinted windows.� "Feel free to mess with the passenger seat until you're less uncomfortable.� You should be able to straighten your legs if you work at it."� Jason spent a futile three minutes fiddling with the controls, managing to get his knees to a thirty-degree angle.

��� Pam reached up to her face with both hands, removed the sunglasses � then, before he could try to see her eyes, pushed back hood, headband, and scarf in a single practiced notion.

��� Her hair was white � not light gray or platinum blond, but white, devoid of any other color, styled short and curling over small ears.� Her skin was the same, without even the blue and red tracings of blood vessels to lend it hue.� She turned to look at him, and he saw nearly invisible lips pursed in an ironic little smile, accompanied by dancing blue eyes.� "Blink anytime you're ready," she said, "but I can't drive with all that stuff blocking my vision.� Or I could put it all back on, and you could watch the road instead of me."� She examined his face.� "That's a question.� Let's hear it."

��� "I thought �"� He stopped, then went ahead anyway.� "I thought albino eyes were pink."

��� The smile got a little more sincere.� "Contacts, country mouse."� She started the car.

 

��� Sadira ran her morning check.� The first thing she found was discomfort.

��� She rolled over onto her back � which alleviated some of the feeling � unwrapped herself from the blankets, and looked down.

��� "Damn," she said.� It didn't seem to cover the situation.� "Wow."� That didn't work either.

��� Without another word, she carefully got up, went to one of the bags, fished out the measuring tape, then headed for the bathroom and pulled her shirt off in the front of the full-length mirror.

��� She had just been filling in the last crevices of the D-cup bra when she'd gone to sleep:� her breasts were now uncomfortably squeezed into the cups, extra flesh protruding from top, bottom, and sides.� She had bought a sports bra:� completely elastic, with no hooks to give way.� The undergarment had stretched as far as it could.� Sadira reached down and, with some work and even more discomfort, got the bra off.

��� "Well," she finally said, "that was a waste of fifteen dollars."� Freed from the compression bra, her breasts seemed to have expanded instantly.� They were still quivering on her chest, and she put her hands up to stop the motion � then found her hands could no longer cover them completely.� The DD/E was not going to fit.

��� Sadira explored.� The areola had expanded without fading, but they remained in proportion to the remainder of the breasts.� Her nipples, which were rapidly becoming erect from the tactile inspections, had grown to a similar degree.

��� She placed her hands underneath them and lifted:� now, she could feel real weight, a few pounds for each hand.� She let go and watched them jiggle back to a full stop.

��� They were high and firm � gravity had hardly had a chance to dig its claws in.� The warmth generated into her hands seemed stronger � but then, there was more mass to generate it.

��� The nipples were very sensitive (more nerves, said some detached portion of her mind):� there was a delicious tingle from the rubbing, something that felt like it was going to be very hard to stop �

��� � she stopped �

��� � then reached down and lifted her left breast, orienting the nipple so that it was pointing roughly straight up, lowering her head towards it.� She couldn't quite reach herself, but it was a near thing.� Another six hours ought to do it, thought the same part, which had nothing better to do.

��� Finally, she used the measuring tape.� Thirty-eight inches.�����

��� Sadira went to the little writing desk the hotel had provided and sat down.� Hard.� Her breasts jiggled to a stop.

��� "Maybe I could build a virus that would reduce bust size," she mused, then started laughing.� "Right.� How?� Matter to energy?� Three weeks and they could drop me over Nagasaki!"� The image wouldn't go away:� being lowered out of the belly of a World War II plane, the most buxom atom bomb on record �

��� � the bombardier said to the pilot, "Don't worry.� If we miss and she doesn't detonate, she'll bounce back to us."

��� Sadira laughed until she cried, tears staining the small note pad on the desk, and then went to the window to look at the snow.� The world looked back at her, white, pure, renewed.� She thought of Pamela, a snowball fight in their junior year, and Ivory threatening to go naked into the battle, becoming an invisible target �

��� � more laughter, and she took a shower.

��� The hot water felt absolutely delicious.

 

� ��They reached Pamela's apartment in sixty-seven minutes.� Traffic was horrible.� Pamela was worse.� She drove with absolutely no regard for laws:� local, state, federal, physics.� The Neon shifted lanes into spots feet too small for it, merrily cascaded around the edges of curbs, and at least once, attempted a pole vault.� Jason, in those few moments when his eyes weren't squeezed shut in terror, looked at Pamela's face and found quiet concentration.� She was neither trying to scare him or show off.� She was just driving.� What really scared him was that most of the other cars were being piloted the same way.� The ones that weren't were either parked or wrecked...

��� He had never been so happy to get out of a car, leg cramps and all.� Dead men couldn't feel pain.� Pamela re-wrapped before getting out, then shed the layers again when they entered her apartment.

��� Pamela lived in a small brownstone in what his television memory said was SoHo.� The apartment was basically one divided room:� a small bedroom, a high counter, and a tiny kitchen, with a miniscule bathroom visible at the back.� It had been furnished with economy:� there seemed to be plenty of room for the hundreds of thick books which lined the shelves.� The rest consisted of a few stools, a huge bed with a dozen pillows, and a good computer system, all painted in dark shades.� Pamela marched in and sat down on the lush, low bed.� The sheets looked like velvet.

��� "Okay," she said.� "Off with the clothes."

��� Jason said the most intelligent thing that came to mind:� "Huh?"

��� "The clothing."� She shifted her jacket off.� The padding it provided had not been enhancing her bustline:� the material seemed to have been stretched thin in that area.� It had been stretched in the black ribbed sweater she was wearing, and he could see the huge masses quiver with every motion.� "From the smell I was enjoying in the car, you've been wearing them well over a day.� The shower's over there."

��� Jason blushed � and saw surprise wash across Pam's face.

��� The phone rang.

��� Pamela dived across the bed towards the little nightstand, coming to a stop with one hand on the phone, the other on the floor, and her breasts dangling over the edge of the bed.� She suddenly rolled over and slid down at the same time, so that her legs were visible from the knees up, with the rest of her body vanished into the space between bed and tinted picture window.� "Still not twelve.� What do you want on your tombstone?"� Then, "Sadira?"

 

��� "Still trying to solve the overpopulation problem?" Sadira asked dryly.

��� "Actually �" Sadira could hear the blush in her friend's voice " � I was in the middle of unintentionally embarrassing your friend into a coronary.� I wasn't going to intentionally get him for another hour."

��� Jason stepped closer, looked down, and kept looking despite himself:� from his angle, he couldn't see Pamela's face:� just a rise of sweater with a phone cord vanishing behind it.� "Is she okay?"

��� "I'll check:� Sadira, the country mouse wants to know if you're okay."

��� "You nicknamed him?"

��� "All the better to get his attention with.� Answer the question."

��� "Fine � all things considered.� I'm snowed into Billings, the most local airports haven't opened, and one of them is under siege.� The trains are still running, though:� I'm heading east in about an hour.� At least Jason found you."

��� "This isn't a joke, right?"� Pamela briefly raised the phone and regarded it with a mixture of worry and humor.� "Actually, tell me it is a joke.� It's easier to believe."

��� "Thirty-eight.� And growing."

��� Pamela awkwardly propped herself up on her elbows, cradling the phone between left shoulder and ear.� "Damn.� Wish I could see you."� She blew a tight burst of air from an extended lower lip.� "You know what I mean."

��� "I know."� A tapping sound came through the line, fingers on plastic.� "The reality barrier is bruised, but holding."

��� "It's probably better if I saw your data.� How many files did you tie to his tail?"

��� Sadira winced at the phone, and knew Pamela felt it.� "None."

��� "None?� You were paranoid enough to set up this whole Escape From Montana and you didn't split the information?� What kind of runner are you?"� Jason, between gasps of terror, had provided some additional information.

��� "A rank amateur.� Got a new Email address yet?"

��� "[email protected].� What have you got?"

��� "Computer access.� Billings has an Internet cafe, and I'm sitting in it."

��� Pamela noticed Jason's questioning face and relayed the news before saying "Nice work."

��� "Not really:� I was looking for food.� The computer was a nice surprise.� I'm going to send you my zip data:� the modem's fast enough to give us just enough time."

��� "Fax?"

��� "Got a week?� I don't."

��� "Disk."

��� "I'll send now."� A pause.� "Going through."

��� "Okay.� I've got twitching whiskers here:� let me put him on."� She passed up the phone:� Jason virtually snatched it out of her hand.

��� "How are you feeling?"

��� "Passable.� Hungry."

��� "Any other effects?"

��� "My temperature is up a bit, but that's just from the higher metabolic rate.� No trouble sleeping, but I've eaten so much before bed the last two nights that even with the blast furnace, it still takes until morning to get hungry again."

��� "You haven't been able to curb your appetite?"

��� "I can't.� It's eat or shut down, and given the alternative..."� Sadira gently sighed.� "It'll take too long to reach a clear airport by car, so I'm taking a train to Minneapolis and then flying from there:� the time consumption will be about the same.� I'll call in whenever I can."

��� "We'll be at the lab?"� This with a glance at Pamela, who nodded.� "Take down the number."� Relay:� Pamela to Jason to Sadira.

��� Pamela reached out for the phone:� he ignored it.� "Just keep your eyes open, okay? �I was in GenTree after you were, and you left no one happy."� He summed up.� Silence was his response.� "I hate being right."

��� "I'll be careful."� But there was uncertainty at the edges.� "Put Pamela back on."� He handed the phone down.

��� Pamela took it and said "Just remember the applicable rules, Ebs.� This is a Complex situation."

��� A moment of quiet, then, "Right.� Stay alert �"

��� "� trust no one �"

��� They chorused "� and keep your laser handy!"

��� Sadira whistled softly.� "Now if only I had a laser..."

��� "I'll build you a plasma rifle.� Get here safe, Citizen."

��� "Yes, Friend Gamemaster.� See you in a day or so."

��� Pamela smiled.� "I just thought of something stupid.� We made each other up, did each other's hair, studied, traded pranks � did we ever trade clothes?"

��� She knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say:� Sadira replied "Once," and Pamela remembered.� "Start working, Citizen.� I'll be there soon."

��� Pamela slowly worked her way back to a standing position, then hung up the phone.

��� Jason's face held anger and control in equal measure.� "I wanted to say something �"

��� "She hung up first, Mousey."� Pamela stretched.� "The best thing we can do for her is start working on this problem.� I'll turn on the computer.� You �" she pointed to the bathroom "� shower."

 

��� Carmody stepped into Nigilo's office.� He didn't look as if he'd slept on the floor.� He had.� Nigilo did look like it, and he had commandeered the chair.� "My apologies for the delay, sir.� It's difficult to get information out of a bank on Sundays."

��� Nigilo rubbed his eyes and sat up a little straighter.� "Where?"

��� "A bus ticket to Billings, yesterday at one p.m."

��� Nigilo's eyebrows went up.� "A bus ticket?"

��� "That's what the agency said.� Admittedly, it's not a place most people think to look."

��� "No, it's just too slow..."� Nigilo's brow furrowed.� "Any major genetics companies in Billings?"

��� "One minor one.� I'll investigate it, but the probability is very low."

��� "And Billings was snowed in last night...� Well, at least she hasn't thought to dump the credit card."� He reached for the phone.� "Track the options."

��� "Yes, sir."� Carmody left.

��� Nigilo picked up the phone and hit an autodial setting.� As always, he got a pickup on the first ring.� "Ron?� Need some work?"�� He smiled.� "Then you've got some.� There's a little trap I'd like you to set..."

   

7

39:� Meeting of the minds

 

��� Jason stepped out of the bathroom to see Pamela on the phone, standing this time � but doing slow turns in place as the conversation proceeded, wrapping the cord around her body, gradually creating the appearance of an inefficiently made, high-tech mummy.

��� "Hi, Aunt Susan.� Can I get a favor?� It's going to be kind of expensive.� Uh, thanks, that's � sweet.� Okay, I need an emergency bra shipment, Federal Express it.� No, not my standard order.� For a friend.� This is going to be � it'll come to me � about a 32 underbust.� Five-foot five, very slim.� Cup size?� Start with a J and send me one of everything for the rest of the alphabet.� Could you stop laughing for a second?� No, this isn't for me:� since when do I take a 32 or a J?� Look, if I told you what this was about, you wouldn't believe me.� Maybe I'm going to seam-seal them, fill them with helium, and have a parade down Houston Street.� Yes, I know bras that size need custom fitting, but I don't have a choice.� It's okay if the cups are a little big.� Look, if I try to tell you what's going on, will you stop laughing?� Fine.� Believe whatever you like.� The truth is that my old roommate got infected by a protean editor and is growing at about four inches a day.� They don't have to be custom made:� current stock is fine.� They only have to last about six hours each...� What do you mean, it's my turn?� I don't know what comes after Z:� you're the expert.� Send whatever you think we might need, ten days supply or so.� The shoehorn isn't funny.� Aunt Susan � okay, I'll watch for it."� She hung up with her left hand, shaking her head.� The rest of her body had been immobilized by the cord.

��� "Your turn for what?" Jason asked, toweling his hair.� He had gotten dressed in the bathroom � a tricky prospect:� there had barely been enough room for him and the suitcase.

��� "My turn to deal with all the weirdness for a while."� Pamela shrugged with her one available shoulder.� "She used to tell me crazy stories when I visited her in the summer.� I always thought she was trying to make me feel better about my own body.� 'It's all part of being a Shaw.'� I guess she thought I was trying to pay her back for having to listen."

��� "But she'll ship the bras?"

��� "She ships for free:� beyond that, I'll pay, one way or another.� And pay, and pay � I'll have to visit on my next vacation.� If I ever have another vacation."� She slowly spun in reverse, untying herself in stages.� "I love England.� Lots of cloudy days."

��� Jason kept toweling.� "And no one in your company ever takes a vacation because if they did, you'd kill them."

��� Pamela finished unwraping and looked up.� "Not good, Mouse, but a start.� Killing an employee is putting them on a permanent vacation � and for my company, it's impractical."� She reached for her jacket.� "I've got the data:� let's put it to work."

��� "What kind of team did you assemble?"

��� "Don't worry."� The nearly-invisible smile quirked faint lips.� "The entire work force will be there."

 

��� "All right.� That's a one way to Minneapolis on the bullet train, with a free transfer ticket to the airport shuttle line.� And how did you want to pay for that?"

��� "Do you take American Express?"

��� "Always."� The clerk gave Sadira an easy smile.� It was a pleasant change from some of the other looks she'd been getting.� She'd caught several people's eyes on the way over, men and women.� A few had just glanced once and then moved on.� Others had looked longer, or kept glancing back, and a few � oddly, mostly the women � had just outright stared, and then fallen to pointing and half-heard chatter.

��� She could understand why people were looking, though:� the front of her coat had ridden up, so that material which ordinarily covered her abdomen was now outlining her bosom � which had stretched the coat up in the first place.� (There hadn't been enough time to send the data and buy new clothing)� It wasn't exactly comfortable:� the tightness had some compression effect, but not enough to hide her build, and nowhere near enough to serve as an effective bra.� Sadira was trying to find a way to walk which minimized bouncing and maximized speed.� She wasn't having much success.� She had thought of a movement pattern that involved practically no upper-body shifting � but the Groucho Walk turned to be an attention getter.

��� Somehow, though, all the looks and snickered comments felt � familiar.

��� Probably just residue from hanging around Pamela.

��� She fumbled in her pockets again, finally reaching a tangle of plastic rectangles.� "Just a second."� Sadira pulled out the lot and spread the hand.� Blockbuster, alumni card, Discover, American Federation of Geneticists...� Bingo!� "Here you go.� One AmEx card..."

��� Sadira looked at it closely.� One American Express Corporate card, proudly backed by the credit of GenTree Research, which happily paid off any excess she acquired in a month and then deducted it from her salary.� Lisa in Accounting had once come up to her in the cafeteria line and snidely inquired whether she always had dinner alone.

��� She'd known, because she could look at the purchase report, and find out what Sadira had purchased with the card.

��� "No," she said softly.� "I'll keep this statement low.� Make that Discover."� She paid for the ticket and transferred her luggage to the attendant:� five minutes before boarding.

��� It was just enough time to find a nice, comfortable bucket seat, the kind with an angle that automatically emptied pockets whenever anyone settled in.� Sadira sat down, thought for a moment, scribbled her cash advance PIN number next to her signature, and then made sure the AmEx card was good and accidentally lost before heading for the train.

��� Ten minutes after the Amtrak pulled out of the station, the green rectangle was spotted, gazed at with appreciation, and pocketed again.

��� Twenty-five minutes after that, a man walked into the station and started showing a head-and-shoulders picture of Sadira to everyone whose attention he could catch.� He was friendly and a little desperate, because his story claimed that he'd given her the wrong travel schedule, and she was going to miss her sales meeting.� This made him very concerned about where she might have wound up.

��� Unfortunately for him, the ticket clerk's shift had ended twelve minutes before he arrived.

 

��� Pamela hit the lights and stepped aside.� "There," she said, her voice mixing equal amounts of embarrassment and pride.� "Welcome to Terragen."

��� Jason had started to worry when the drive had led them just north of Central Park to an area where the streets had single letters for names, and most of the people walking them looked too stoned to spell them.� He had kept worrying when they'd gone into a building whose best days were past when the bricks were still mud.� What he'd thought was the final level had been reached when Pamela had led him through an exacting series of locks, keypads, and steel bars that looked like the approach pattern to Serial Killer Row.� His first glance at Terragen actually relaxed him a few hundred points on the Stress Index � but he'd already been in the millions.

��� "We're the entire staff."� It was not a question.

��� "On the other hand, my payroll is really easy to meet."

��� The lab took up most of the seventh floor:� support columns sprouted in odd places, trying to substitute for the knocked-out walls.� Maze-like paths ran their way around equipment modern and antiquated:� a top of the line Mark XII Mutator sat a foot away from a microscope that had most likely been stolen from a seventh-grade science class.� The cold storage area was a Westinghouse Bachelor's Semi-Fridge, the disposal had been modified from a pizzeria brick oven � but in between sat a computer with enough memory storage to accommodate four aisles of the Library of Congress � and a monitor screen which glowed green, because green was the only color the ancient electronics could produce.

���� "All mine," Pamela said.� "My father left me a trust fund on the grounds that I graduated with a doctorate and used the money to build a business.� I spent as efficiently as I could."� She stepped past him and made her way to the computer.� "The high-rent district was not a priority.� I bought what I needed to create a functioning lab and use the rest to get through the rough spots � of which there are many."

��� Jason joined her at the computer:� the 28800 baud modem was joined to the computer by a cracked cable festooned with electrical tape.� "How does a one-person lab keep going?"

��� "Mostly by helping other scientists meet deadlines on the sly in exchange for silence and a portion of the funds.� I'm trying to push some projects to the government � if I can get one good batch of funding, then I can expand the place and hire people:� most of the building is available for use.� No one's listening so far."� She leaned against the monitor.� "Do you think it would help if I went to the committee meetings wearing a really low-cut blouse?"� The zip disk was placed in the attached drive.� "The benefits would probably be mixed."

��� Jason stared at her.

��� Pamela stared back.� "We're going to be working together � hopefully for no more than a few days.� I'm sorry if I've offended your delicate sensibilities, but the sooner I get this to the forefront of your mind, the sooner you can dismiss it.� You can work better if you're not distracted."

��� Jason thought it over, nodded solemnly, reached down for his belt buckle, and started undoing it.

��� Pamela looked down at his hands, then jerked her eyes back to his face.� "What do you think you're doing?"

��� Jason's face was carefully blanked as he said, "We're going to be working together � hopefully for no � " Pamela was obviously trying to hold back her reaction, but the giggling was starting to escape "� more than a few days.� I'm sorry if I've offended your delicate sensibilities, but �" escalation to full laughter:� he kept going "� the sooner I get this to the forefront of your mind, the sooner you can dismiss it."� She doubled over, her hands braced against a support column.� "You can work better if you're not distracted."

��� She kept laughing, one hand on the column, the other wiping her eyes, until she finally managed to look back towards him.� He nodded again, hooked his fingers under the waistband, and made just the slightest hint of a downwards motion.� This put her back on the column, and she didn't face him straight on until she made sure his hands were away from his pants.

��� "Good one, Mouse," she managed to gasp.� "There may be hope for you yet."

��� "Then we get to work?"

��� She smiled, and Jason finally saw that behind manner and mannerisms, there was an attractive face, as if Donatello had designed a paint-by-numbers sketch.� "We get to work.� Find something to sit on that isn't expensive.� Let's unzip this and see what we've got."

 

��� Nine hundred miles from Billings to Minneapolis, files arranged at her side, food available, and meals being served in transit.� (Sadira, just to be safe, had taken a seat in the dining car)� The Amtrak Bullet was capable of hitting two hundred per on the longer straightaways:� it would take a little under six hours to reach the Twin Cities, putting her there at four p.m. local time.

��� Sadira intended to use the time well:� she pulled the first file up to table level and splayed out the contents.� (Another reason for switching to the dining car was comfort:� it was no longer possible for her to look straight down and read �� the position she'd been using her entire life � and the passenger tray table was too small.)� No seatmates, no distractions, nothing but information and desperate innovation for the next six hours.� And lots of chocolate supplemented by the occasional bit of food.� Sadira had tried several times to break the addiction, but this was driving it to a new level.

��� She got about fifteen minutes of useful production before the man sat down in front of her.

��� Sadira looked up and met large, friendly eyes.� The man looked as if Central Casting had sent out for the Genial Uncle:� late forties, a little overweight, but in a way that was obviously comfortable for him.� His hair was graying unevenly and combed away from the bald spot without pretense.� His wool sweater sagged in all the proper places, and Sadira was willing to bet he was wearing blue jeans.� What she could see of the briefcase sitting next to him had been dented, worn, and loved through thousands of miles.� Every wrinkle in his face was a smile line.� He looked about as unthreatening as a human can without having their hands in the air.

��� "Hullo," he said with the perfect Genial Voice.� "I should have asked first, I know, but is it okay if I sit here for a while?"

��� Something in the appearance/sound combination made it difficult to say no.� Sadira managed by being indirect.� "I've got a lot of work to do.� You might be more comfortable somewhere else."

��� "Yes, but I've got something rather silly to propose, and besides, where else would I be able to enjoy such a fine view?"

��� Sadira had, after listening to Jason, realized that GenTree might be trying to follow her, and had dumped the credit card accordingly.� It was an almost unbelievable leap to think that they might have planted someone on the train, and found a person no one would be paranoid about to boot �

��� � but she was quickly realizing that paranoia was fairly all-encompassing.

��� The man took her moment of reflection for acceptance, and reached below the table.� "Allow me to present you �"

��� � Sadira's right hand made a fast dive for the fork and knocked it off the table �

��� The man didn't notice.� "� my card," he finished, presenting her with a paper rectangle.

��� Sadira looked closely at it.� The card was lavishly decorated with gold and silver foil, and all the writing was in the most elegant calligraphy computer printing could muster.

��� She raised an eyebrow at him and quoted, "Douglas Pollota, Photographer Plenipotentiary and Extraordinary, Freelance and Unbeheld, Expert and Sage, Aging and Balding."

��� "Well," Douglas shrugged, "I do like to be completely honest."� And at that, and with the table in the way, he bowed.� "I seek out beauty and record it for Prosperity � ungrateful and low-paying though Prosperity generally is, it is still a job worth doing.� I travel far and wide � mostly wide �" patting his stomach "� in search of those few rare treasures worthy of my attention �"

��� Sadira brought both hands above the table, gripped an invisible shovel, and began flinging insubstantial material towards the solid window.

��� The photographer's right index finger traced a circle on his cheek.� "Ah, but I've overdone it again.� I always wax effusive when I'm about to be rejected.� It's a habit that would be so easy to drop �"� face and voice dipped into absolute sorrow "� if only someone would accept my overtures."

��� Jasmine would have been the first to point out that Sadira was hardly world-wise � Sadira would have placed by about three-tenths of a second � but she'd picked up enough clues to reach a conclusion.� "You photograph women in the nude and sell the pictures to magazines."

��� "Well, not quite," Douglas confessed.� "I'm not nude when I create my art:� I find, sorrowfully, that it has a detrimental effect on the ladies' mood."

��� Sadira laughed.� "You're very charming �"

��� "� I do my poor best �"

��� "� but no."

��� "No to what?"� The look of confusion on his face was slightly faked.

��� "No to posing.� No to being in magazines.� No to just about anything you could come up with."

��� "Ah, but now I must reel onwards, stunned by such a thorough rejection, carried wounded from the battlefield, distressed that I once again failed to bring Beauty to the public eye."� He tilted his head to the left, resting the slight jowl in his palm.� "At least tell me two things before I am sent into the cold.� Were you flattered?"

��� Sadira opened her mouth and promptly closed it again, then thought of ten things to say and rejected all of them in favor of the truth.� "A little."� And found she was blushing.� "What's the second?"

��� "Looking at your features � an simple feat for a man of my willpower � I note that you bear a strong resemblance to a certain Princess of my acquaintance.� Are you related?"

��� "If you're comparing me to royalty, then we're going to have to get a snowblower in here."

��� "No, not actual royalty, although �" his expression soured "� she certainly expects to be treated so.� I have just left a broken royal reception with her, and should have another one shortly if she so favors me.� The not-very-fair-in-the-treatment-sense Princess Pirou."

��� Sadira's attention perked.� "Pirouze?"

��� "She used to speak it so."

��� "Her middle name."� Sadira shook her head in disbelief.� "That's the best she could come up with?"

��� "You are related, then?"

��� "Unfortunately, yes."

��� "Having spent some time in her company, it is easy to comprehend your motives in speaking so."� The sour expression went into a lemon orchard and bit down.� "I was to record her in Helena this day after she had finished her slate of daily public appearances.� Originally, her Highness was to receive me on Monday, but she kept putting me off, claiming responsibility to her fans.� She was using the time to write them letters."

��� That didn't sound right.� "Real name Jasmine Archer?� My height, my age?"

��� Douglas regarded her sympathetically.� "Her fans had to send in a postal money order with their letters � ten dollars for every hand-written page they wished in return.� Those attempting to worship by Email were told to write an physical address, whereupon they were told the rules."

��� Sadira exhaled.� "That's Jasmine."

��� "She would not entertain me thus; after postponing repeatedly, she left for her next palace this morning, an hour before she had told me to arrive."

��� Sadira reached out and patted his right hand, an automatic gesture perfected after hours of consoling Jasmine's ex-boyfriends, none of whom had ever rebounded to her � she'd seen to that.� "You're hardly the first."

��� "Oh, I will suffer again:� she will no doubt claim error on my part, and I will agree and attempt to venture past the gates once more.� Money is a powerful love, but a painful one."

��� Damn it, I like him.� It's like running into Falstaff.� "Methinks you need consolation," she told him in her worst Old English accent.� "Cans't I buy thee a drink?"

��� "That, milady, is my line," he replied, and signaled for the waiter.

 

��� It had taken two aspirin each to get through the data.� They'd read the contents of the disk straight through, ignoring the graphics which Pamela's computer couldn't support (she agreed to haul over her home monitor in the morning), dashing with increasingly glazed eyes through the text. �By incredible luck, their reading speeds were compatible to the letter:� there was no "Go back; I didn't finish," or "Are you done yet?"� It had still taken hours, and Jason was sure he was going to forget most of it.

��� Pamela finished typing.� She had an unusual style that he'd quickly figured out:� her breasts were large enough to obscure the keyboard when facing the screen straight on, so she sat sidesaddle to it and did most of the typing with her left hand.� She looked up at him.� "So what do you think we do first?"

��� "Call Bethesda and get everything they have on the subject sent in.� Start looking for cancellation hormones �"

��� "� start hoping it is a hormone."� Pamela frowned, her brow furrowing.� "Sadira deduced the "go" signal more or less from scratch, but she had a database to work from.� There's megs of material available on the initiation of puberty, and virtually nothing on the end.� Maybe I can pay the local teenagers a few dollars each for blood samples and cheek scrapings � but we'd have to get someone whose system was on the verge of shutting down:� what are the odds against that kind of timing?"

��� "You're assuming it's a one-time thing," Jason argued.� �There may be a continuous signal that tells the breasts to hold size until another factor arises � pregnancy, mainly � and that would always be in the body."

��� "In which case, we have to pick it out from the fifty billion other constant status reports in the bloodstream.� Going by the already-accumulated vast national database, we can eliminate at least five."� Pamela smacked the side of the monitor with an open hand:� the screen shimmered for a moment before stabilizing.� "Never follow children, animals or geniuses!� Where are we supposed to start looking?� Every adolescence is unique:� some factors vary from person to person, and if the signal is a one-time, millisecond burst, we'd have better luck at the lottery!"

��� "I don't believe that."� Jason stood up and walked to the Mutator.� "Have you ever known Sadira to start something she couldn't finish?"

��� Pamela looked at the screen.� "No," she admitted.� "Things got away from her, but if she started a program, she knew where it was going to end � no hopeless causes.� She might not have known on the conscious level:� she's so smart she occasionally stumps herself � but she always had it at the end.� It was like the highest intellect worked on another level and was trying to push the knowledge into the main area."

��� "Sounds about right.� I was working on a computer game during a break � 7th Guest �"

��� "I've played it."� A quick look passed between them, summarizing numerous sleepless nights and frenzied swearing at the screen, the designers, the man who had placed it within sight in store, the one who should have bought it before they saw it and spared them the torture.

��� "Remember the puzzle in the chapel floor?� The tiles?� I spent two days trying to jump from one end to the other along the right path.� I asked her to look at it and she hit it on the first try.� It was like she wasn't even looking at the screen:� something else was working things out."� He ran his fingers across the control panel.� "Something in her saw a solution.� Where was she planning to look?� She couldn't chance randomly catching a subject at the moment of cessation."

��� "There would be no way to perform continuous monitoring.� She'd need a large sampling group with a lot of base data �"

��� Something very much like telepathy flashed across the room.�

��� Pamela risked it first.� "There's one segment of the population where you can predict breast growth with absolute certainty, and have a guaranteed limited amount of time for it to proceed �"

��� "� no more than nine months, and know that it's going to stop after that, with plenty of medical data and blood testing, sometimes up to the moment of birth �"

��� "Pregnant women." they finished together.

��� "You call Bethesda," Pamela said.� "I'm going to risk a run for pizza.� This is going to be a long night."

��� "No," Jason said.� "You call Bethesda and I get this thing running."� He patted the Mutator.

��� "A little optimistic, Mouse?� I'd like to think we could solve it in time to inject Sadira at the airport, but it's really not all that likely."

��� "Do you have proto-viruses?"

��� "In the fridge.� Repeat:� why?"

��� "When we find the factors, we're still going to need an organism that can relay them to the proper site.� Biologically, there's every chance the trigger for the off-signal is received in the same area as the initiation site, or close by.� We have the blueprints to build one that heads for the starting line, and we can modify it when we have the sequences, instead of starting from scratch."� He found the On switch, hit it, and they both listened to the gentle surge of power as the indicator lights came on.� "We have to recreate BE-1."

��� Pamela carefully followed the train of logic and found that it led to the station.� A hand went up in surrender.� "Go ahead.� Just don't ask me to handle it without a remote grip, steel gloves, and full body armor.� I've got the macromastia sequence too, and I'm not buying a new wardrobe."

��� "I've got no intention of being fitted for a bra, myself."� Jason smiled grimly.� "We'll both be very careful."

 

��� "Mixed news from Billings, sir.� One of our men verified Archer's presence at the train station, but has been unable to discover exactly where she headed for.� It seems he arrived just after a shift change:� the confirmation was gathered from other people waiting in the terminal."

��� "Is she larger?"

��� "According to witnesses."

��� Nigilo smiled thinly.� "Advantage:� us.� The more she grows, the more memorable she's going to become.� So we know how she left:� do we know approximately when she left?"

��� "Within ten minutes, but there were three trains departing in that period, and I haven't been able to acquire a passenger list.� Most of the people in the terminal with her left on those trains, reducing our witness pool.� However, three minutes ago, I received this."� He handed a slip of paper across the desk.

��� Nigilo looked at it, and the grin became more solid.� "Cheyenne train station.� A ticket to Denver.� And we already have people in Denver working on the Quainti project.� Shall we mobilize?"

��� "We shall, sir."

��� Carmody left the slip with Nigilo, but kept his thoughts private.

   

8

40:� Plainly speaking...

 

��� They were almost in Minneapolis.� Douglas and Sadira were still seated in the dining car.

��� Sadira had gotten work done:� a thought which had been trying to come forward for three weeks had finally reached the front of the line.� She'd spilled her (highly caffeinated) drink when she finally found the little piece of the puzzle, soaking several files.� Douglas had quietly helped her mop up and brought her a new one.

��� In part from and in spite of his Falstaffian manner, he'd been a good traveling companion:� quiet when he saw she needed to work, breaking in with a joke when she started putting little artistic rips in the manilla.� Sadira had caught him looking at her from the neck down a few times, but he'd also been consuming alcohol for most of the ride:� while he didn't seem drunk, she didn't think he was alert enough to spot an inch of growth.

��� Douglas had paid for lunch, snacks, and drinks, claiming an expense account.� Sadira reminded him that he was self-employed, to which he'd said, "But if all this helps convince you to pose, then I am well reimbursed."

��� "But why me?� I'm hardly Jasmine's size."� Yet.� Check back in a week or so.� She paused and told her mind It would be nice to stop thinking about this, which didn't seem to help.� Sadira reached down for another file and winced as her back twinged:� she'd probably stretched the wrong way.

��� "You are, however, somewhat larger than what people laughingly refer to as the norm, cute enough to cast in chocolate, and unlike your sister, you know how to bring about a smile without having to consider all muscle movements first.� I would wish to record you had you no bosom at all, simply for that smile."� He took a sip from his drink:� gin and tonic � according to him, mostly tonic.� "I would not wish to photograph the two of you together:� the contrast in emotional styles would be too much for the casual reader."

��� "Just getting us in the same room together would be an accomplishment."� Sadira finished her drink and jotted a quick note in a handy margin:� she'd been trying to get a phone link for two hours, but the businessmen on the train were hogging it.� "When you see her again, could you not mention having met me?� After all, she was just a few hours away, and she didn't bother to call."

��� "I would love to regale her with details of how she is the lesser of two Archers, in spirit if not size �" Douglas began � and then caught Sadira's look.� "Indeed.� I shall withhold every word and take only secret delight, which will make it all the sweeter.� I have met the fairer of the sisters today, in every sense of the word."

��� "Thanks."� She went back to her notes.

 

��� They parted company at the entrance gate, with Douglas insisting that she keep the card, in case she should ever change her mind.� To set his mind at ease � and because she did like him � Sadira promised that if she ever decided to pose, he would be the first and only person she'd call.� Since she wasn't going to make that decision, it was a safe promise.� She recovered her luggage and headed for the phones.

 

��� "Already done," Pamela told her, keeping most of the smile out of her voice and none of it from her face.

��� "You figured it out?"

��� "Probably at the same time you did.� I should have checked a clock:� we may prove psionics yet.� I'm rapidly learning more about pregnancy than I ever want to experience first-hand."

��� "I knew you two would make a great team."� The lab had a speaker phone:� the two in question just looked at each other.

���� "Where to now?" Jason broke in.

���� "Shuttle to Lindbergh International:� there's a train that runs from the station to the airport every two hours on Sunday.� Of course, I just missed the last one, and while there's taxis, there's a traffic jam around the airport."� A soft sigh.� "And from there, New York."

��� "Call from the plane," Pamela told her.� "Lab and home:� I'll come pick you up."� Jason blanched.

��� "Will do.� Any sign of pursuit at your end?"

��� Jason shrugged at the phone before his instincts kicked in:� the sound quality was very good.� "None for me, but I bought my plane ticket under my name:� I wasn't expecting you to play Cleavon Little."

��� "At least I didn't take myself hostage," Sadira defended.� "But I think they're concentrating on me, anyway, and there might be a small hitch:� I dumped the credit card."

��� Jason instantly figured it out.� "Being used?"

��� "I hope so.� I hope it's being taken on a nice trip to Japan.� It should get out more."� A pause.� "I should get out more.� This doesn't qualify."

��� "Since you've effectively fired yourself," Pamela put in, "I'd be happy to let you crash for some R&R."

��� "After, maybe.� I'm definitely going to need a job.� Both of us are."

��� Jason nodded ruefully.� "No great loss," he said.

��� "No, probably not.� I'm going to refuel:� check in later."� The dial tone sprang to life.

��� "Does she ever let people say goodbye?" Jason asked.

��� "No.� Have you heard her answering machine?"

��� "Not yet."� Nothing had picked up at the apartment:� the searchers had probably disconnected it.

��� Pamela tilted her head back and worked her lips.� The resulting voice was just close enough to be parody:� a high tenor's idea of what a contralto sounded like.� "'Absent.� Speak.� Beep!'� And she says beep."

��� Jason shrugged again and turned back to the Mutator.� This got him a hand on his shoulder.� "Wrong.� That's her trick. �You have to eat to be effective, and there's nothing in that fridge but disease and food that might be diseased.� Time for pizza."

��� "We have to work �"

��� "And if you pass out in the middle of that work, or get so tired you make a mistake, what good are you?"

��� Jason allowed himself to be led out of the lab.

 

��� It was good pizza.� It was incredible pizza.� It was the sort of pizza that could be placed on an pedestal and worshipped.� Jason paid homage at the altar.

��� In between bites, he looked at Pamela, who eventually decided to take notice.� "What?"

��� "I'm trying to picture you and Sadira living together.� It's not easy."

��� Pamela took a long sip of soda.� "It wasn't, not for the first month.� The first day, she got in about an hour before I did:� picked a bed, unpacked � threw things and let them stay where they landed.� I walked in just as she was destroying the kitchen to specifications."� She was looking across the miles and smiling at the years.

��� "What happened?"

��� "I said, 'Hi, I'm Pamela Shaw.� Looks like we're going to be rooming together,' which admittedly wasn't the most original thing I could have said.� And she looked at my face, and then she looked at my chest, and she repeated the pattern until we were both thoroughly sick of it.� We shared classes, professors, we got stuck as lab partners in one session � two weeks later, she asked me to turn down the radio.� First words I got out of her.� Jasmine's fault."

��� "Have you ever met Jasmine?"

��� "She was strutting two towns over in our junior year:� I hid the sports section for a week so Sadira wouldn't see the ads.� No real interest.� You?"

��� "Frankly, I'm scared to."� They both took another slice.� "How did you get her to warm up to you?"

��� "Mutual oppression, basically. �The other Genetics students thought we were the most fun bundle of walking recessives they'd ever seen, Ebony and Ivory.� She started getting back for both of us, and then I confronted her and demanded to be let in on it � short form, we roomed together for four years."� Pamela took a big bite, chewed thoughtfully, decided it was feeling-out time, and said, "How long have you two been sleeping together?"

��� Jason choked on his bite and dove for the soda, tossing away the straw in favor of huge swallows to clear the obstruction.� As soon as he stopped coughing, Pamela added, "I'm sorry.� Should I have said fucking?"

��� This time, there was only bile in his mouth.� "We don't.� We haven't.� Satisfied?"

��� "No.� I'm just curious as to why you're doing this. �Review?"� She put up one hand, spread the fingers, and began ticking off each white digit.� "One:� you've lost your job.� Two:� you're liable for a whopping lawsuit, because you broke bond.� Three:� you're aiding a felon:� assault with a potentially deadly weapon.� Four:� Your reputation is shot and last, you ain't, as the saying goes, gettin' any.� So what's the motivation?"

��� "She's a friend and she needs help."� If this was another challenge, he was ready for it.� "But I guess you're one of those women who think males and females can't have any sort of relationship which doesn't involve sex."

��� Pamela put the slice down and applauded with greasy hands.� "Hey, the Mouse watches talk shows!� Sorry, but that's not it.� You're putting yourself through a cesspool of shit for her.� Has it occurred to you that if they follow you, they're going to find me?� I could come out intact.� I could also lose home, lab, and life � depends on how nuts these people are.� I've got my reasons.� What are yours?"

��� "I could ask the same thing."

��� "I could be a real asshole and say I asked you first."

��� "Too late."

��� Pamela quickly wet a finger against the side of the soda can and drew a line in the air:� one point for him.� "I love her.� I lived with her for four years.� It's very hard not to love her, if you make the effort to say hello � or have her say it to you.� Your turn."

��� "Friendship," he said.� Half-truth.

��� "So you haven't slept together � pardon my French, fucked � dated, taken in a movie, nothing."

��� "Nothing," came the tense answer.

��� "Fine."� Then I might be clear.� If he's telling the truth.� If...� She met his eyes, brought the slice up, and took another bite.

 

��� Yes, she was definitely getting looks, and they were steadily being drowned out by an ever-increasing feeling of deja vu.� It didn't feel like something she'd experienced at one-remove, either.� Weird.

� ��The shuttle train finally arrived, and Sadira got on the third of the five cars.� The seats were arranged like a Long Island commuter train:� rows of semi-couches, barely padded on both sides, packed closely together.� Half of the seats faced towards the destination point, half looked backwards at the departure.� It was a fairly basic design, and the overhead racks were skimpy on all of them.� Sadira had to stretch and push to get her bags secured, and her back kept complaining:� intermittent sharp signal flares, a reminder of presence and fault.� She'd hurt something at some point, but she couldn't remember on what.� Sadira was normally fairly resilient:� a necessary defense mechanism when she spent half her life falling over.

��� The train filled up quickly:� Sunday schedules usually just meant that more people waited around longer.� Sadira got a seatmate:� an husky adolescent male who glanced over and immediately scooted in next to her, reaching up to shove his overnight bag into what little space she'd left.� He leaned over her, one hand on the bag, the other braced on the metal rail �

��� � he slipped, and the bag was wedged into place as his hands came down on her breasts.

��� Sadira had seen a million accidents, nearly all from the initiation end.� She knew deliberate when she saw it � and the boy's smile was a clue in itself.

��� She reached up, grabbed his wrists, and shoved backwards.� Either she was even more pissed off then she felt � hard to believe � or her body was only too happy to deliver energy on command:� he went sailing back into the aisle and across most of it, falling backwards into a senior's lap, landing on a knitting needle.

��� Sadira dispassionately listened to the howl, then climbed up on the seat, recovered his bag, and threw it at him.� She sat back down and didn't watch as he disengaged and scampered to another car.

��� Mark that down in the date book, she thought with more than a hint of irony.� March 17th:� my first feel was copped.

��� The train started moving.� The motion, while smooth, occasionally set off twinges in her back.� Sadira tried to ignore it for the first few miles, then, just after they left the outskirts of Minneapolis, tried to beg an aspirin from the grandmother across the aisle.� She got a "Hhmph!" and an intolerant look.

�� �Must be from carrying the suitcases.� And I didn't take my stretch this morning.� Better late than never:� Sadira raised her arms, arched her back, and took a deep breath, feeling the resistance of the jacket.� Halfway through, she also felt eyes on her, and turned to see the grandmother radiating even more disapproval.

��� Live with it � she almost said it, but decided it was more practical to resume the stretch.� She reached up and breathed deeply �

��� � at the apex of the stretch, she felt a little jerk forward, as if the train was slowing down, and had just enough time to falsely conclude arrival before the jerk turned into a slam, motion meeting obstacle and the impediment winning, her body flying forward, crashing into the next seat, and screams started to reach her ears �

�

 

9

41:� Derailed

 

� Impact.

��� Her breasts were squeezed between ribs and seat, momentum continuing to push her forward with nowhere left to go.� The pressure built, became pain � and then the kinetic energy ran out.� Sadira rebounded, and was thrown back into the seat.

��� She breathed, just to see if she still could, and it hurt.

��� All around her, there were the cries of the wounded and dying.�

��� Sadira tried to stand and again, found that she could.� The floor was on a slight angle.� Pain continued to pound inward from her breasts.� One way to get a fast reduction:� compression.� She looked across the aisle and saw the knitting senior clutching her head.� There was blood seeping out between the fingers.� She had been pitched forward, and her head had hit the back of the seat.

��� And if I hadn't been in that position � if I hadn't been "cushioned" � my ribs would have been crushed.� A whiff of smoke hit her nostrils.� "Fire," she whispered, and stepped across the aisle.� "Can you move?"� The senior whimpered.

��� Sadira reached down, got her arms around the heavy body, and hoisted her to a standing position, taking almost all of the weight.� She started dragging her towards the emergency exit at the back of the car.� Other people were starting to stagger down the aisle, several of them helping neighbors along.� Midwestern hospitality.

��� It was surprisingly easy to move the old woman, at least at first.� Sadira's analytical mode kicked in.� Lots of calories � increased efficiency and mobility of energy � and in this type of situation, stress overrides the new programming to some degree.� But as they moved on, the weight began to drag on her, and a helpful young woman joined her in the effort.� But at the same time, I'm using the energy faster...� I was working so hard at the station, almost missed the shuttle:� how much did I eat?� Still felt pretty full from the train...

��� They moved through the increasing smoke.� Someone ahead of her in the procession had reached the exit and gotten it open:� the acrid scent of burning plastic was slightly lessened.� Some of it could be toxic.� She tried to move faster and found that the young lady was now providing most of the motion for all three of them:� between adrenaline and virus, she was burning out.� "Keep moving..."

��� "We're almost out," the young lady assured her.

��� Sadira peered at her through tearing eyes.� "Did I just say that out loud?"

��� "Yes."

��� "Shit."� They shuffled forward.� It was remarkable, really:� no panicked rush for the exits, no stampede, just a relatively orderly departure, if you ignored those people scampering over the seats to reach the exit first.� She also had to ignore all the ones who tried to punch out the emergency escape windows and pulled their burned hands back: the fire was outside, heating the glass.� It seemed that grade school fire drills partially stuck.

��� "Almost out," the teenager said.� The senior was removed from both their grips and lowered to ground level:� the fire was several windows down, and the exit was still clear.� "We're going to pass you down..."� Strong hands gripped her under the arms and lowered her into the arms of a teenage boy � the same one who had copped the feel.� He didn't notice who he was holding:� he just passed her to the side and waited for the next relay.

��� She was received by a man and a woman who took her arms and helped her away from the train.� The fire was spreading faster along the sides, and smoke was starting to pour out of the cars, but the people were coming out even faster:� Sadira allowed herself the unrealistic hope that everyone had made it out.

��� The ground tilted and rolled under her feet.� She rocked within her helpers' grips, twisted, and went to her knees.� "Too low," she whispered, and didn't care if it had been aloud or not.

��� She looked up, and found the sky twirling faster than the ground.� A spinning face looked at her with distorted worry and said "She got too much smoke.� We're going to have to carry her."

��� No, not smoke.� Fire.� Internal fire...� She had chocolate.� She could eat something:� her body would break down the sugars almost immediately.� "Food..."

��� "We'll get you food," the woman said.� "They'll send people out to help us.� Vic, we're far enough from the train:� I'm going to stay with her."

��� "I'll go look for injured," Vic said, and half her support vanished.� The woman tried to compensate, but Sadira's palms smacked ground.� She could feel the weight of her breasts, of the pain, of exhaustion, all dragging her forward.� She could still smell the fire behind her.� The fire.� Something about the fire...

��� Her head jerked up, and she was on her feet again.� "My files!"� she said clearly, strength flowing through her.� "The data is still on the train!"� She took a step back towards the wreckage.

��� The woman was still holding her arms.� "Honey, you've got to rest!" she insisted.� "There's nothing on that train worth dying for!"

��� "You don't understand!� My life �" and the last few drops of gas sputtered through the tank.

��� Sadira gratefully noted that the ground had stopped spinning, in fact it was wonderfully stable and worthy of a closer look, and then she was descending towards it, or it was reaching up to receive her, so considerate...

��� The woman, still holding on, was dragged to the ground.� She scrambled into position at Sadira's side, right hand automatically going for her wrist and the pulse point.� She clamped down � and her eyes widened.� "Vic!� Get back here!"

��� Vic was there almost immediately:� he hadn't had to go far to find injured people.� "What happened?"

��� "She just collapsed. Her pulse is erratic, she's going pale �"� He took the other wrist, checked Sadira's pulse, and went a little pale himself:� he quickly glanced at her chest, checking her breathing, and drew the right conclusion.����

��� "Find some extra jackets, any clothing from rescued cases:� we have to keep her warm.� She's going into deep shock.� If I yell, get ready for CPR maintenance."

��� "From the smoke?� I've never seen that reaction in the ER!"

��� "Because it's not from the smoke."� Doctor Victor Shalm stared at his wife, who was already moving towards dropped suitcases.� "Pulse weak, breathing slow, temperature, pallor, sweat � this is starvation.� We have to get her conscious and put some energy in her system, fast.� Find some food!"� He checked her pulse again, then glanced back at Claire, who was emptying the contents of a duffel bag across the frozen turf.� "So much for our vacation."� There was no time for regrets, though.� There were lives to save.

 

��� They heard the ambulances before they saw them, streaming out from the airport.� Six minutes had passed since the crash.� The interior of the train was ablaze: no one else was getting out.� No one was sure if everyone had gotten out.� There had been a few fatalities:� they had been laid at the edge of the group, and someone had taken the time to close their eyes.� Of the three hundred people on the cold ground, there were three doctors, a nurse, and a veterinarian:� they were doing all they could to help the survivors.� The girl had been wrapped in jackets and shirts:� Claire was keeping watch.� She had managed to get her patient awake for brief periods, no more than a few seconds � but long enough to get a few morsels down her throat.

��� It wasn't enough � but a person didn't have to be awake to eat.

��� Claire rubbed the girl's jaw at the base of the neck, trying to stimulate a swallowing reaction.� "Come on, Honey," she said, praying the girl would hear her.� "You've got to eat something.� You're going to live, right?� You're too young to go this way.� Come on, swallow for me..."

��� Her patient swallowed:� Claire began pre-chewing another bite of granola.� She watched the girl's face � no, woman, the body should have told her that, the face was just so young.� How could she be starving?� Her features weren't drawn, and there was certainly some fat being stored in the breasts � but she was showing all the signs.

��� She pushed another morsel in, got another swallow, and then red flashes caught the edge of her sight.� The ambulances had arrived.� She watched Vic stand up, finished with his impromptu bandaging, and dash over to the lead car, waving his hands and hospital badge at the driver.

��� He was back two minutes later, with an attendant and an IV bottle.� "Got it."

��� The paramedic stared down, confused.� "Starvation?� But �"

��� "I know what it looks like," Vic said firmly.� "I also know what it is."� He dropped to his knees and began to dig through the layers, finally exposing an arm.� "Thank God the standard pack includes calorie kits.� Help me with the needle.� And turn up the drip:� she needs this now."

��� More ambulances arrived, with more paramedics and more doctors:�� Vic and Claire stayed with the young woman as they finally bundled her onto a stretcher.� They rode to the hospital in the back of her ambulance, one sitting on each side.

 

��� Pamela kept looking at the phone.� It was starting to look back.� "Call," she muttered.

��� "Maybe she got stuck again."

��� "It's after ten.� Stuck in what?� A tar pit?"

��� "Delayed planes.� She took the wrong shuttle train."� Jason reached for more answers.� "Bad phone lines."

��� "Or maybe she got caught."

��� Jason kept working on the Mutator.� "I'm trying to stick to the options I can do something about."

��� "Fine.� Maybe someone outside cut the line to sell the copper for drugs."� Pamela picked up the receiver, listened to the dial tone, then slowly stood up, put both hands on her lower back, and arched.� "We go back to my apartment and check the answering machine.� I've been active long enough for a Sunday."

��� "I'll shut down."� Jason started flipping switches.� "What do we do if she's been taken?"

��� "Find her."

��� "How?"

��� "Easy answers first, Mouse.� The impossible ones require planning."

 

��� No messages.� Pamela was staring at the phone as if it was personally responsible.� "Taxi crash.� Plane went down.� Sudden European Vacation.� What the hell is going on?"

��� "Check your Email," Jason suggested, and Pamela practically knocked him aside to get at the computer.� Jason sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out, and thumbed on the TV.� The eleven o' clock news was on.� He watched.

��� "No mail."� A finger stabbed the off switch.� "We're going to the airport.� Grab your jacket."

��� "And where did you plan on going once we reached the airport?"

��� "Montana.� I'm going to go to GenTree and ask them for my roommate back."

��� "And if they don't have her, then we're gone, and she has to work alone again.� There wouldn't even be any flights at this hour.� We have to find out if GenTree has her first."

��� Pamela's face contorted as she tried � and dismally failed � to think her way around the logic.� "Would you stop being right?� It's getting on my nerves...� Okay:� how are we supposed to do that?"

��� "Does Manhattan have twenty-four hour Internet cafes?"

��� A pale eyebrow went up.� "Don't know, Mouse.� Never looked.� Probably.� What's your tail twitching at?"

��� "The hackers in the city have to hang out somewhere.� If we can find and hire one, he can break into the GenTree system and see if they have any memos regarding Sadira.� I could log on from here, but the system would record the contact, and I don't have full access.� We need to be invisible, and, if they track it, we need to be elsewhere."� Jason thought it over.� "At the very least, we can call the airports and see if they have passenger lists on the arriving flights from Minneapolis � today and tomorrow."

��� "You think we can find someone at this hour?"

��� "Did you ever know a computer science major to sleep?"

��� "I never knew any."

��� "I roomed with one."� Jason momentarily closed his eyes.� "Sleep was not easy to come by."

��� Pamela thought it over.� "And how do we spot the hackers in the room?� Wave a sign?"

��� "Just look desperate," Jason suggested.� "That's how I got Leonard to teach me word processing."

��� "You can look desperate.� It's not an expression I'm good at."� Pamela grabbed her jacket.� "Let's go."� They headed for the door, leaving the TV on.

��� The story about the Minneapolis train crash was aired as they got in the elevator.

 

��� "Take a look at this."

��� Claire, now dressed in hospital whites, stepped in from the hallway, joined her husband at the sickbed and looked down.� She saw two rather large breasts, with expansive areola and extensive bruising.� She shrugged and spoke quietly to avoid awakening the patient.� "She's got big boobs.� From the look of them, she hit something tits-first when the train crashed.� What about it?"

��� "The bruising:� the pattern and the amount are right for that scenario, but not the time factor.� That discoloration would be for an injury a week old:� the train crashed at 6:15.� Eight hours."

��� "Maybe she was beaten, and she was running away?"

��� "With what?� A two by four feet?� This is massive pressure applied simultaneously.� And Richard down in Radiology said that when he X-rayed her for cracked ribs, she was black and blue all over.� She's healing.� Her metabolic rate is off the scale:� she's using the IV drip as fast as she gets it.� Temperature is high, heartbeat accelerated � and I'd swear she looks larger than when she came in."

��� Claire's brow furrowed.� "Swelling from the impact?� Menstruation?"� Vic shook his head and pointed at the yellowing bruises.� Claire saw his point:� any swelling would have vanished by that stage.� "Hypertrophy?"

��� "This fast?"� Vic closed the hospital gown.� "I checked her ID:� she's a geneticist.� Maybe something got loose."

��� "Just before she collapsed, she was saying something about files..."

��� "Right."� Vic reached a decision.� "I'm going to get a blood sample, and I want it sent to the lab for immediate analysis.� If she's carrying something, I want to know what."

��� "But we've been in contact with her �"

��� He nodded.� "And people have been on the train with her, and some of them have gone home, or headed back to the airport � if it's airborne, then it's too late to stop it from spreading if we've got Patient Zero here.� Or it could be spread by blood, or sexual contact.� That's why we need to start testing."

��� Claire looked at the young woman's resting face.� She was deep into Stage Four sleep:� at some point, they'd gone into normal volume, and she hadn't stirred.� Passive, beautiful, and innocent.� "Or she could have been infected by someone else.� Or Richard could have been wrong:� he's been on shift two days, unless he actually slept while we were out."

��� "Richard?"� Vic exhaled and half-smiled.� "Possible.� So we call her employers and find out what they know." He walked over to the closet and quickly went through Sadira's jacket, looking for the AFG card.� "There.� GenTree Research, Montana.� And we call tonight."

��� "All right.� Let's move out:� if it's airborne �"

��� "� then we're all dead already."� Vic put an arm around his wife's shoulders.� "Let's find out why we're going to die � or, more likely, what's happening to her."�� He reached for Sadira's arm, automatically making one last pulse check � and stared at the IV needle.

��� The skin had healed around it.

��� Quietly, he removed it, cleaned and covered the small wound, then changed the needle and switched to the other arm before getting the blood sample.� They headed for the door.

��� "You said she looked larger than before?"

��� "Yes."

��� "Exactly when were you looking the first time?� We were escaping a burning train:� I'd have thought your mind was on other things."� Victor winced.� "And for that matter, why were you looking now?� Checking her condition I can understand, but looking at her breasts?� Medical ethics..."

��� "I wanted to check the extent of the bruising."

��� "Of course you did, dear."� She put an arm around his shoulders.� "Assuming we all live through the next few hours, we're going to have a talk..."

 

��� "Vegas?"� Nigilo sat up in bed.

��� "According to the credit card records, she reached Denver, caught a flight to Las Vegas, then went to the Golden Nugget and took a huge cash advance.� That was about fifteen minutes ago."

��� Nigilo just looked at the phone.� Carmody was calling from the office, where he had decided � on his own � to stay for as much of the duration as he could.� It made it harder to question him, since much of Nigilo's style involved posture intimidation.� The time wasn't a help:� one in the morning.� "Gambling?� Why the hell would she be gambling?� Did the virus make her delirious?"� He tried to focus his thoughts.� Any thought.� "Are there any genetics labs in Vegas?"

��� "No."

��� "Is she meeting a financier?� Someone with money to back her?� Is she trying to win money for backing?"� He stared at the darkness:� if he turned on the lights, he'd never get back to sleep.

��� "Unknown.� We have a location, though:� I'll try to send someone to check it out."

��� "Don't try.� Do."� He slammed down the phone.

��� Nigilo lay awake for an hour, waiting for another call.

��� He spent the three after that pacing the floor, waiting to become tired enough to drop back into sleep.

 

��� "Mr. Carmody?� I have a call on line three."

��� "Mr. Nigilo?"

��� "No.� He just said he was calling from the V.A. Medical center in Minneapolis:� got the security desk hoping someone would be in.� He wants to speak to anybody that isn't me.� Shall I put him through?"

��� At this hour?� Intelligence sparked.� "Did he give any hints as to why he was calling?"

��� "No.� He was just insistent.� Do you want to take the call?"

��� "I'll take it."� He hit the button.� "Carmody."� He listened.� "Yes, she works here.� She's on vacation at the moment.� A train wreck?� Is she all right?"� He paid careful attention to the next few sentences.� "No, she's not carrying anything.� She does have a rare genetic disorder:� her body has a horrific metabolic rate.� She has to eat large amounts to stay alive."� He'd been paying close attention to the scientist's most recent extrapolations.� "She's trying to discover a way to produce it in others � on a temporary basis, to accelerate healing.� Otherwise, she should be in fine physical health.� I appreciate your calling:� it's good to know that she's all right.� Thank you for your concern.� Please let me know if anything happens." He hung up.

��� Carmody considered the new information.� He turned it over and examined it from every angle, carefully searching for every last advantage, and then he did something about it.

 

��� Vic put the phone back on the receiver and glanced at Claire.� "Wait for the blood tests," he said.� "Naturally hyper metabolism, my ass."

   

10

43:� The V.A. Infirmary Blues

 

���� Jason yawned and rolled away from the divider.� Despite the size of Pam's bed, he'd wound up on the floor.� It hadn't come as a surprise:� he cleared space, she didn't stop him.� He had a few blankets and two of the pillows.� It was surprisingly comfortable.

��� "About time you woke up."

��� He looked up and across:� Pamela was sitting on top of the re-made bed, fully dressed (all black again), legs folded in a lotus, wearing earphones with a small antenna on the side.� She was watching television � at least, she was facing that direction:� there wasn't much attention being paid.

��� "Did you sleep?"� She looked briefly confused, then turned a small knob.� He repeated the question.

��� "A couple of hours."� She leaned forward until her breasts hit her legs, still staring at the screen.� "Taken in five-minute increments.� No calls."

��� "I guessed.� You wouldn't have let me sleep if she had."

��� "Right.� You passed out nicely, though."

��� "I was traveling, working, and looking pitiful for hours.� If there were any hackers in that cafe, they weren't feeling sympathetic."� There had also been a few meant-to-be-overheard remarks:� nothing.� They had managed to confirm that no Sadira Archer had arrived at the local airports, which did them no good if � the thought had occurred to Pamela as they left � she'd traveled under a false name.� "Besides, you said it yesterday:� if I'm too tired to work well, what good am I?"

��� "Not much.� But that could be said �" she stopped, as if catching herself, then said, "Sorry.� Before you ask, it's six a.m.� So you got about four hours worth.� I called the airports:� there's planes leaving for Helena if we need them.� I checked some old classifieds to see if anyone was subtly suggesting computer hacking for hire, but they must have some sort of secret underground, code, or handshake, because they sure as hell don't advertise."

��� Jason threw off the blankets and stood up.� "You still want to go to Montana?"

��� "I can't think of another option.� She wouldn't drop out of contact for this long unless something was wrong.� She called me once a week.� Sometimes more."

��� "It's possible that her system was stressed to the point where she fell asleep for � no, the hunger would have woken her up."� Unless she was completely out of energy �� He stopped the thought, and spared Pamela the pain of sharing it.

��� Pam shook her head.� "She may be in New York and on her way right now.� She could be stranded in the Midwest, she could be locked in some kind of work cell, and I know that the instant I walk out to find her, she'll come to the door and get stuck alone, and I'll be in a plane crash.� We can't call the police.� We sure as hell can't talk to GenTree, and we can't goddamn stay and we can't fucking leave!"

��� The clock.� The damn clock is always running, and nothing we can do will slow it� "Then we wait."� He was surprised at how soft his voice was.

��� "Like hell we do!� We have to do something!"

��� "Waiting is doing something."� He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed facing the kitchen.� "The hardest thing.� We can call every hotel, hospital, and house in Minneapolis, and throw in St. Paul.� We can disconnect your Caller ID and answer every call on the first ring, or we can split up, one at the lab, one here, so we don't miss anything, but we can't go running off just because we want to."

��� "We?"� Light sarcasm mixed into heavy anguish.

��� The next words came out before he could edit them for content, still soft.� "Do you know what I want?� A lance and gleaming armor, and a horse to charge in on.� But I'm no one's shining knight, horses don't move fast enough, and I even can't ride."

��� Without looking at him, Pamela said, "I can teach you.� I'm pretty good."� Then she got up and went for her coat.� "I'll be back."

��� "From Montana?"

��� "From the bookstore.� I need a city directory for Minneapolis, and there's a twenty-four hour shop ten blocks away.� You stay here with the phone."

��� He nodded.� She wrapped and left.

 

��� New area to check:� breasts; not the least bit sore and why would they be?� Arms:� left one felt a little weird.� All other systems nominal, open eyes and...

��� Sadira was on her back, looking to the left:� the first thing she saw was the IV tube.� It was the only thing she looked at during the seconds it took for her memory to return.� Looking at it meant that she didn't have to look around, which would finalize the conclusion she'd already reached � Eventually, she looked.

��� Hospital.

��� She was in a hospital.

��� She was in a hospital.

��� Her right arm whipped across her body and jerked the needle out.� She barely noticed the pain.� Sadira sat up, jumped out of bed, and started darting glances back and forth. Hospital.� They had to have her clothes somewhere, hopefully close, or she was going to steal something.� Files were on the train.� That was a closet.� Lost the data.� She dashed over.� Her clothes were in it.� Bigger:� more movement with the run.

��� She didn't care.

��� She was in a hospital and she had to get out.

��� Sadira threw off the gown, started dressing.� Everything seemed to be in place.� They'd probably gotten overrun with people from the train and forgotten to put her pocket contents in a personals bag.� Lucky.� If they had been missing, she wouldn't have stopped for them.

��� Panties were still on, as were socks:� pants, shoes, blouse � not the blouse.� She got the pullover past her shoulders and no farther:� the waist wouldn't stretch enough to get over her breasts.� Sadira immediately grabbed the hospital gown from the floor � her back twinged:� she ignored it � and put it back on, tucking the lower portions into her pants.� The sleeves hung long on her:� they'd given her a larger size so it would close comfortably.

��� Fuck them anyway.� It was time to go.

 

��� Victor glanced up with bleary eyes as Neil finally walked into the doctor's lounge.� Claire had fallen asleep hours ago, worn out from their "little talk."

��� "Well?� What did you find?"

��� Neil held up the sample tube.� "It's blood.� AB positive.� No known or unknown viruses.� Lots of hormones.� If this was an adolescent �"

��� "No, early twenties."

��� "Then she's having a late puberty attack:� I recognized some of the chains.� That's a little unusual in itself � a few people finish up late � but I've never seen these concentrations before.� Other than that, she's normal.� If you're worried about her spreading something, she's got nothing to pass along � except that body.� She can give that to my wife."

��� "Neil, have you ever heard of someone naturally having a hyper metabolism anywhere near this degree?"� He'd tried hanging out in the lab, talking shop while waiting for the results, and found the lighting in the room gave him a headache.

��� "Not this fast.� Double normal, sometimes, maybe two-point-five, but from what you told me about that healing rate, we're looking at a hell of a lot faster than that.� If Richard was right.� Spoken to him?"

��� Vic snorted.� "He must have gone on one of his post-shift drinking binges:� I can't find him.� But I saw that needle:� the skin had healed around it."

��� "Are you sure?� You had a pretty bad shock yourself, and you've been up more than a few hours yourself."

��� "Claire saw �"� But Claire was asleep.� "I'm sure.� I think I'm sure."� He stopped.� "I'm tired," he admitted.� "But she's had the new needle for a while:� come up with me and we'll see for ourselves."

��� "Sounds interesting.� Always wanted to see a miracle, myself."

��� Vic double-checked:� Claire was still asleep.� "The healing or the tits?"

��� "Any one out of two."

��� "I heard that..." came the sleepy murmur from the couch.

��� Vic and Neil left in a hurry.

 

��� The garment closed, barely, a zip-your-own straightjacket.

��� It was Monday � she hoped it was Monday � the size increase was about right for Monday � there was no other way to tell how long she'd been out.� At least she didn't feel hungry:� in fact, she felt extremely satisfied � and her stomach was empty.� The IV drip had been a feed tube.� Who cares?� She kicked the blouse under the bed and ran outside.

��� A middle-aged, red-headed, vaguely familiar man was walking next to a short black man, same generation, holding a sample tube, whom she'd never seen before.� The amiable conversation stopped as they heard the door rebound off the wall.

�� �Sadira was only looking at them because she was looking everywhere, for signs, for lines painted on the walls that led to other areas, for proof that she wasn't in GenTree �

��� � no, it was a hospital.� Those were doctors.� And this was worse.

��� There was a blue line on the wall, stretching down the hallway in both directions.� There was no telling where it went:� one end was clear, the other end had hospital staff.� On the other hand, the doctors had to have emerged from somewhere, elevator, staircase, and therefore the exit was mostly likely in that direction.

��� Total analysis time:� three-tenths of a second.

��� Sadira broke into a dead run, heading for the men.

��� Her breasts tried to jiggle, bounce, and throw her off balance, but found no room to move:� the jacket was simply too tight, and restricted them more than the best-made bra.� And in the middle of the much-more-important process of getting out, the weight and balance changes were easy to ignore.� They simply hadn't happened.

��� Nothing was going to happen except a hasty exit.

��� On some level, she was aware of someone, maybe the black man � she could vaguely remember the white man's voice � saying "Miss!..." and she blew past them before they could further react, jogging the black man's elbow, still picking up speed.� The sound of shattering glass was registered and discarded.

��� Vic and Neil glanced at each other, then gave chase.

 

��� "Why didn't you tackle her?"

��� "Why didn't you!" Vic yelled back.� "You were closer!"� They were losing ground:� neither one was in especially great shape, and they had to steer around the carts, equipment, and personnel pushing said equipment and carts around the awakening hospital.� The geneticist simply dodged them without thought, seemingly switching her center of weight with no regard for inertia.

��� Neil, who was something of a specialist in the workings of the human body and a male chauvinist of long standing, would have sworn that it was impossible for a woman that buxom to move that fast.

��� He was, in both senses of the word, rapidly being proven wrong.

��� She reached the elevator bank a good forty feet ahead of them, glancing wildly at the four sliding and two conventional doors, barely slowing down.� Vic imagined he could hear her thoughts as her eyes shifted from door to door elevator/staircase/elevator � and then there was the most momentary hesitation as she focused on the staircase before throwing herself at the door.

��� It opened, and she plunged through.

��� Vic was the first to follow, but by the time he was in the stairwell, the still-accelerating sounds of running were growing faint.� It was only three stories down to the first floor:� she was probably there already.� He pulled up and leaned over the railing, breathing heavily.� Neil joined him in position and behavior a few seconds later.

��� "I think," Neil gasped, "she's okay to leave.� Nothing wrong with that girl's health.� Give my wife some of that."

��� "Mine, too," Vic started, then reconsidered.� "I'd die."

 

��� Sadira hit the ground floor, hit the door, hit the hallway running.� There was a rapid series of sensory impressions � signs, lines, arrows pointing this way and that which her brain added into a workable sum � and when that knowledge reached any sort of conscious level, she was already fifty feet down the hall.

��� People.� Patients.� Items.� Obstacles.� She went past them, around them, through one, knocking an IV stand out of the way with a forearm.� None of it mattered except the lobby, becoming larger in her sight, the doors getting closer.� All the faces in her visual field merged into one startled look, and then she was outside, the cold air hitting her lungs like a blast of nitrous oxide.� Sadira barely noticed.� Her attention was on the cars parked next to the receiving lobby, all colors and models, with one that was green and white and had a sign on the door that said "$1.50 for the first 1/8 mile," and it was empty but for a driver, and the engine was running, and that was all she needed to see.� She wrenched the door open and dived in.

��� The driver, a young black woman, spun around, lipstick running across her cheek as she moved:� her hand still held the stick.� "Airport," Sadira said, and there was something in the tone which suggested it was a good idea.� The cabbie spun back just as fast and hit the accelerator.

��� Thirty seconds later, the cabbie, voice high and hesitant, said "Which one?� Holman or Lindbergh?"

��� "Lindbergh."� Sadira collapsed into the soft seat.� "Unless Holman is closer."

��� "We're just a few miles from Lindbergh.� Are you okay?"

��� "I'm fine."� Kind of.� The first hunger pangs were starting to arrive, but they were weak:� she must have gone through a ton of IV bags.� "I just wound up taking an overnight stay that I couldn't afford.� I've got ta reschedule my flight."

��� Another quarter-mile passed before the cabbie said "Let me guess.� You were in that train wreck?"

��� "Yeah.� Do they know what happened?"

��� "Naw.� A lot of people are taking the credit, though."

��� "Are they from Montana?"

��� "Sorry?"

��� "Never mind."� Sadira heard a plane going overhead and got to the other window just in time to see it soaring into the sky.

 

��� Vic and Neil slowly walked back to the first floor.� "So what do we do?" Neil said thoughtfully.� "She checked out on your watch."

��� "We do and my watch, huh?" Vic replied.� "Well, she was out of state:� we're going to have a hell of a time collecting the bill."

��� "Charge it to her company.� Look, you wanted to know if she was spreading anything.� She's not.� You're safe, Claire's safe, we're all safe.� From the way she blew out, she's either really late for something or she didn't like our company.� Leave the girl her own problems."

��� Vic had heard every sentence, but was paying special attention to the first.� "Charge it to the company?"

 

��� "Carmody."

��� "Victor Shalm."

��� "Thank you for calling."

��� "You wanted to know if something happened."� There was a sharp bark of laughter.� "Well, it sure as hell did.� She woke up and left in something of a hurry.� You said hyper metabolism:� you didn't say Barry Allen."

��� "Did she say where she was going?"

��� "She didn't say anything.� She ran past me doing about eighty:� there wasn't exactly time for a conversation.� According to the guys in the lobby, she screeched out in a taxi.� She could have done it on foot.� You guys give really short vacations?� I have to reschedule mine now."

��� "What was her condition when she left?"

��� Another brief explosion of mirth.� "Feeling no pain."� Carmody was trying to think of a way to ask if her breast size had increased when Shalm said "I'll send the bill for her stay to you.� And if you're telling the truth about that metabolism, then get her back to work:� we could all use that here."

��� "Mr. Shalm, I assure you �"

��� "� I'm sure you do.� Well, I couldn't find anything, so I've got nothing to say to anyone about it, nothing I can prove anymore, so I've got no choice but to keep my mouth shut, except for this:� you're a liar, and we both know it."

��� "Mr. Shalm �"

��� A snort of disgust.� "Hyper metabolism."� The phone was slammed into the receiver.

��� Nigilo walked in.� He didn't look as if he'd gotten much sleep.� He was holding a piece of paper.� He looked angry.

��� Carmody met his superior's eyes.� "Sir," he began, "I have some new information..."

   

11

44:� Four of the three musketeers

 

��� There was a fast plane leaving fifteen minutes after she reached the airport:� Sadira got a cash advance on her Discover card and bought the ticket under a false name.� She ran through a newsstand and left with most of the candy rack, a few newspapers, and a blank notebook, followed by two minutes in the souvenir shop and five more in the bathroom.

��� She got a good seat with no one next to her, and spent the next half-hour waiting for the phone, eating, and reading articles about the crash, none of which listed her name.� Eight people had died.� A hundred and twenty had been injured.� No one knew why. Sadira didn't know any of the names.� Regardless, she mourned for them, and possibly for herself.

��� When the steward finally carried the phone to her seat, he found her sleeping, tears drying on her face.

 

��� It had taken Pamela hours to return with the directory:� the bookstore hadn't been as comprehensive as she'd hoped.� She'd called in twice to keep him from looking for her.� They were making up for lost time.

��� "Shriners Hospital, nothing."� Jason reset the connection.� "What's the next one?"

��� "Shriners, check.� University, check.� V.A."� Pamela gave him the number.

��� The connection came on the first ring.� Jason listened to the brief greeting, then said, "I'm trying to find out if you have a patient registered.� Sadira Archer.� S-A-D �"

��� "She left," replied the abruptly brusk voice.

��� Jason shot a quick look and thumbs-up to Pamela, then turned back, missing his chance to see three tons of strain depart her body.� He was too busy feeling it himself.� "At what time?"

��� "Recently."

��� "How recently?"

��� "Two hours.� Maybe three."� The voice was vaguely amused.

��� "What was she in for?"

��� "Train wreck."

��� Jason successfully resisted the urge to chime, "I don't know.� Third base!"� Slowly, he said, "What train wreck?" and felt some of the weight settle back in.� Pamela, who had been lying next to him on the bed, sat up and reached for the phone.� Jason didn't notice.

��� "The local one."

��� Jason drew in a deep breath between clenched teeth.� "Can I speak to someone a little more talkative?"

��� "No."� Dial tone.

��� He took the five seconds necessary to repeat the conversation for Pamela.� They exchanged another glance � the near-synch was starting to get spooky � and headed for the computer.

��� Using "train wreck" and "Minneapolis" as key words, they searched the news bases.� It took all of thirteen seconds to find an article.� They read silently.

��� "She's fine," Pamela said as they finished.� "She probably woke up, saw where she was, and ran like hell.� That phone is going to ring any minute."� She turned off the computer and headed for the kitchen.� "Breakfast?� Or did you remember to eat this time?"

��� "Nope."� He sat on one of the stools.

��� "I left the newspaper outside when I came in.� If I'd bothered to read the thing..."

��� "You would have panicked."

��� "No, we would have panicked.� Eggs?"

��� "Scrambled."

��� "Figures."

��� "Yours?"

��� Pamela started to answer, stopped, then reluctantly said, "Over easy."

��� Jason let the silence stand in lieu of comment, then said, "She's phobic about hospitals, isn't she?"

��� Pamela quickly controlled her surprise.� "Let me guess.� You suggested she have a reduction after the cure, and she freaked."� He nodded.� "Hospitals, doctors, surgery, the works."

��� "Why?� Was it the leukemia?"

��� Pamela clamped down on her reactions again.� "The phobia you can guess, but she told me the details in confidence, Mouse.� It's not my story to give."

 

��� "You failed."

��� "Yes, sir."� He didn't like it when Nigilo was this quiet, reasonable, controlled.� It was unnatural.

��� "You didn't call me."

��� "I felt I could handle it, sir.� I had woken you up once:� you needed your sleep."

��� "This is from Las Vegas."� He threw the paper down on the desk.� "It says that the person with the card tried to get more cash advances for a lot of cash, so American Express halted the automatic approvals and alerted casino security.� They apprehended the person with the card a few hours ago."� He paused, and his voice got softer.� "The person with the card was not Archer."

��� "Sir, I got the report from Minneapolis �"

��� "And you didn't call me.� You set things in motion, and they just didn't show up in time, is that it?� We know where she was a few hours ago, and we lost her again?"

��� "Sir, I couldn't ask the hospital to sedate her, or hold her without giving a reason, and any reason worth keeping her for would have alerted the control agencies or the police."

��� "Fatal disease," Nigilo checked off.� "Insanity.� Escaped criminal.� Yes, you're quite right.� All we could have done was try to get there in time."� Nigilo smiled, and his voice began to hiss.� "The good news, Carmody, is that American Express has decided not to hold us liable for most of the cash advances, or any of the tickets.� I was able to convince them that the card was stolen in Helena, and they've agreed to accept a payment of only a hundred dollars.� Can you find that in the budget?"

��� "Yes, sir."

��� "Good.� And wake me next time, will you?� I was up anyway."

��� "I will, sir."

��� "That's nice to hear."� Nigilo walked out at a normal pace.� Carmody began counting.

��� He got to fourteen before he heard the pounding start, fists and feet flailing away at the fake mahogany walls, occasionally breaking through.� The count was at seventy-nine when it stopped.

��� Carmody got up, and went to see if his superior needed any bandages for his hands.

 

��� The phone had rung.� Pamela had not wanted to switch long distance carriers.� She had said this quickly, imaginatively, and definitively before smashing the phone down and resuming her wait.

��� They had not gone to the lab.� Jason had suggested following up on Pam's idea of splitting their forces, but she'd refused, tapping into the lab computer and working furiously at the keyboard.� Jason had asked for the keys and security codes to the lab.

��� Pamela had narrowed her eyes and said, "There's nothing we need the lab for at this moment.� Sadira may have lost the lab number, but she'll remember mine.� We wait."� And she kept glancing at the phone, and snapping questions off at him, all the vanished stress from four hours ago returned in full with company.� He put up with it because he was trying to keep his own levels low, and because she was right.

��� He almost wished she wasn't right.� His nerves were already shot.

��� "Let's check the placenta next," he suggested.� "The loss during birth may send out the stop signal."

��� "Christ, I hope not.� I don't think there's much on placenta secretions, and with that organ, we might be looking for a chemical absence."

��� "Then we find a way to remove the chemical from her body," Jason replied � and almost barked.� It was definitely getting to him.

��� "Fine."� Pamela typed.

��� Two knocks rang through the apartment.

��� Jason froze.� Pamela's hand came down hard on the keyboard and left a trail of hash on the screen.

��� Another knock.

��� They both headed for the door.� Pamela, by right of residence, got there first, peered through the security port � and somehow got the seven assorted locks on the door open in one motion, flinging it open with the last bit of momentum � and of course she was standing there, looking a little sheepish, more than a little happy, and entirely present.

��� There was a wonderful bit of chaos where everyone was trying to move in all directions at once, trying to get closer together, which resolved with Sadira's arms wrapped around Pamela, Pamela reaching up to return the embrace, and Jason standing behind them with a grin big enough to pass for a clown's makeup.

��� At least, they tried to hug.� Sadira tried to nestle in close, and found the best she could do was a sort of A-frame, with their feet wide apart, and their breasts the only parts really touching.� She drew back, suddenly embarrassed.

��� Pamela took it in stride and stepped into the hallway.� "From the side, Ebs," she said, and they tried it again, meshing into a single being that wriggled with delight as the halves welcomed each other home.

��� They disengaged, and Pamela stepped back for her first good look.� "Wow," she breathed, and immediately regretted it.� Her face flushed � which, with her face, was particularly evident.

��� "It's okay, Iv," Sadira whispered.� "We're going to beat it."� She looked at the doorway and saw Jason leaning against the frame, the grin still taking up most of his face.

��� "Come here, you �" she said, and he obeyed immediately, one long step to the hallway.� She reached up, gripped his shoulders, and gently pulled him down.� Jason didn't resist, and found himself the recipient of an enthusiastic kiss, her lips pressing against his, breasts pushing into his chest, pressure on pressure �

��� � they separated, and he felt as if part of his body had been pulled away.

��� Sadira stepped back so that she could see both Pamela and Jason, forming a nearly equilateral triangle.� She smiled at both her friends.� "Ready to work?"

��� Pamela and Jason had a quick pass-de-jam as they went back through the somewhat-too-narrow doorway, heading for their coats.

 

��� Sadira followed them in to find Pamela scrambling into her usual layers, like a Tatooine Sandperson come to life.� Jason already had his jacket on.� He turned, ready to head back out � and for the first time, saw Sadira's hands.� They held a small shopping bag, and nothing more.

��� "Sadira," he said slowly, "what happened to the files?"

��� "Burnt," she replied heavily.� "I was so busy getting off the train, I left them behind.� All the print data, all my clothing, and a lot of chocolate.� There just wasn't time to think about it until I was out � and then I couldn't think of anything."

��� "It's all right, kid," Pamela broke in.� "What's important is that you got here.� I can get you some clothes."� Pamela's left hand came back down, still holding the sunglasses.� "I'm going to have to teach you how to buy off the rack:� it's a skill."� A very long pause.� "I'm going to have to teach you just about everything."

��� Sadira looked at her former roommate, a little confused.

��� Pamela smiled, the movement just barely visible under the cloth "You don't know how to move without risking injury, deal with people on the street, balance, typing, back exercises � you're smart:� you'll pick it up fast."

��� The second set of knocks in five minutes rang across the room.� There was a fast exchange of frowns, and Pamela got the door.

��� The delivery man stood frozen, staring at her.� Pam knew what he was seeing:� a strip of stark white skin, broken only by blue points, surrounded by a sea of black.� And that was just the head:� they were of equal height, and he hadn't gotten to her breasts yet.� "Speak," she said airily.� "It's not too hard for a reasonably evolved mammal."

��� "I � uh �"� He swallowed hard.� "I have a delivery from Susan Shaw for Pamela Shaw.� Are you she?"

��� "No one else fits the description."� She reached out and grabbed the clipboard and pen from his numb hands, signed.� "Thank you.� Is that all the boxes?"

��� "No.� There's some more downstairs..."

��� "Mouse?� Could you give this guy a hand?� I'm not sure he can walk unassisted."� The courier's gaze had finally, in an initial attempt to escape, wandered down.

��� Jason came out and, with long strides, strong arms, and a handcart, got the rest of the shipment up in one trip.� Sadira sat on the bed, watching until all ten boxes were in the apartment.� It made the place noticeably smaller.� "What's in there?� Research data?"

��� Pamela stepped back inside and slammed the door behind her, leaving a slightly stunned deliveryman with his nose against the wood.� "Close.� Support mechanisms."� She peeled back her mask and peered at the boxes, quickly locating a plastic envelope attached to the second box in the first stack.� Pamela tore it off, opened it, glanced at the contents, winced, and tossed it aside.

��� "What's that?" Jason asked.

��� "The bill.� I got a five percent family discount and� �" with false merriment "� she'll let me pay on installment!"� She extracted her car keys and began slicing through the packing tape.� "I took the liberty of ordering you a few bras, Ebs.� They're off the shelf, but they're pretty well made."

��� "Like those ones you kept getting for your birthday?"

��� "Bingo.� Aunt Susan.� Good with undergarments, lousy with imaginative gifts."� Pamela got the first box open and glanced at a black label against the white fabric.� "What the hell is Level II?" she muttered, then took the bra out of the box and shook it open.

��� They all stared.� The white fabric shrouded all of her torso and part of her hips, and either of Pamela's breasts could have fit in the cups with space for shelving and a trapdoor to the basement.� Sadira looked away first.

��� "What is that?" Jason quietly asked.

��� "Level II," Pamela absently replied.� "Somewhere towards the end of it, I'd guess.� Aunt Susan said she was working on a new sizing system."

��� Sadira partially recovered.� "That's off the shelf?"� She still hadn't looked back.

��� "She said she's been getting some unusual clientele in the last few years."� Pamela shook her head, a rapid series of vibrations, as if trying to dislodge something, put the bra back in the box, and looked at Sadira again.� "I'll open another box �"� A blink. "� and we'll find something to fit you."� A slightly closer look.� "In fact, you've got Mouse syndrome.� You're in sore need of cleaning up.� And we have to find you something to wear, and �"� Her eyes momentarily unfocused.� "Right.� Into the bathroom.� I'll join you in a minute."

��� "What?"� This from Jason and Sadira.

��� Pamela ignored them.� "I am now your official counselor in all things buxom and pains-in-the-butt.� And one of the things you need to learn is how to wash.� Go."

��� Sadira, still tired from the flight and the events of the last few days, went into the bathroom without another word.

��� Pamela grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled fast.� "Mouse, these are the codes for the locks � and these are the keys for the locks � and the password for the computer � and this is the train you take to get there.� When you get off the train, don't make eye contact with anyone.� If you do, and they see it, get ready for a fight.� If anyone follows you, kill them and hide the body.� If things go bad in the lab, there's a .357 Magnum under the computer."� She thrust the paper and a ring of keys at him.� "Start working. We'll catch up."� Jason took the paper and stood in place.� "Oh, don't you start.� She's had a hard weekend and nothing perks her up like a long bath.� New clothes couldn't hurt.� You could stay and wait for us if you're worried about splitting up, but it's been three days.� Have we seen anyone?�� No.� Go."

��� Jason, who to Pamela looked a bit dazed from the series of instructions and a little unhappy in the bargain, left.

��� She wasn't sure she liked the "unhappy" part.� If she was lucky, it was just a reaction to splitting up, or to being ordered around.

��� She'd seen the kiss, through.� Both sides of it.

��� Pamela headed for the bathroom.

   

12

45:� Tutorial programs (remedial division)

 

������ Sadira was still dressed, staring at the bathtub.� Pamela closed the door.� The two of them took up most of the floor space:� the bathtub had the rest.

��� "Come on, Ebs. �I don't want to leave the Country Mouse alone in the city too long.� He'll probably walk into the Winter Garden and get eaten by cats."

��� "You're right," Sadira said quietly.� "I'm going to have to learn to adjust, unless we can come up with something that reverses the process � but how do you get rid of matter?"

��� "You can't," Pamela said.� "Not for ordinary people.� You're the genius, remember?"

��� "I canna change the laws of physics, Jim," was the too-soft reply.� "I'm a geneticist:� I don't even know where the loopholes are."

��� Pamela sat on the closed toilet.� "I already had this conversation with Mouse.� Time is important � but so is keeping you sane through all this.� What's the point if you're cured and nuts?� And when you're extra-tense � when you need to free yourself up so you can really concentrate � you vanish into a bathtub for an hour and let the stress soak away, unless you've decided to stop hogging the bathroom since college.� Do you really think you're fit to work?"

��� "No."� Almost inaudible.

��� "Then you're taking a bath.� Strip."� No movement.� Pamela forced a smile and wished Sadira would look at it.� She was still staring at the bathtub.� "We've seen each other naked before, remember?"

��� "Not like this."

��� Pamela abandoned reassuring for a moment and turned to practical.� "The sooner we start this bath, the sooner it ends.� How late did you want to begin working?"

��� Sadira reached up and carefully grasped her jacket zipper, then slowly pulled down, guiding the handle over the curves.� Her breasts swelled a bit under the oversize sweater, as if relieved to have escaped.

��� Pamela looked at the very tall, handsome young black man on the sweater and read the logo.� "Kevin Garnett:� Minnesota Timberwolves?"

��� "I left the hospital without my shirt.� Souvenir shop.� Pamela � Ivory, I nearly died.� I starved myself into a near-coma less than six hours after eating a big meal, because my body kicked into a fight-or-flight reaction on the train.� And when I woke up � I burned off God knows how many IV bags in less than two minutes.� I don't � I don't know how �"� She stopped.� The next words were there, but it was bad enough to have to hear them inside.� I don't know how I'm going to survive.

��� Pamela simply said, "Tell me."

��� Sadira did.

��� "I can solve the energy needs," Pamela finally said.� "I've been thinking about that one for a while.� And I can do this."� She got up, stepped over, and slipped into the side-stretch hug, holding Sadira as close as she could.� Sadira reached back, turning a bit, and returned the gesture emotion for emotion.

��� "You're alive, Sadira," Pamela whispered, "and the Mouse and I are going to keep you that way.� Nothing is going to stop us from curing you.� Nothing in this world.� Don't ever forget that."

��� "I won't," Sadira whispered back, and nuzzled in.

��� After a mutually wonderful eternity, they separated.� Pamela looked at Sadira's face.� "No tears?"

��� "I think I'm out of stock."

��� Pamela smiled.� "Then you need a recharge.� And that means getting you in the water."� She sat down again.� "Strip."

��� "Okay."� Sadira reached down and removed the lower garments, saving the sweater for last.� Quietly, she faced Pam, briefly met her eyes, and then removed it quickly, as if trying to lessen the pain's duration.

��� Pamela looked, and kept looking.

��� Sadira's breasts had expanded downwards about five, maybe six ribs worth, but it was a natural consequence of the size increase:� there had been no sagging yet.� Their shape was almost classic:� a projecting teardrop, filling out rapidly just under the collarbone and pushing outwards in a tidal swell, their farthest point several inches from the chest wall.� They had also expanded towards the center and to the sides:� with Sadira standing upright, spine locked, she had a substantial amount of cleavage, with the beginning of spillover off the ribs and onto the arms.

��� Pamela breathed.� It felt as if she hadn't done it in some time.� "I'm going to have to apologize."

��� "Accepted."

��� "Thanks."� But I might also have to apologize to everyone who looks at me.� Pamela was starting to understand the feeling.� It was hard to take her eyes away.� The Sadira she remembered had a tight body:� built like the baseball player she was.� No overt muscles unless she flexed and grunted for a few minutes, but fit and toned.� The body she could see still had those characteristics, and now �

��� Pamela got up, started the water running � very hot:� they both liked it steamy to the point of choking � and threw in a liberal amount of bubble bath.� They watched it fill in silence until there was about a foot of water in the tub, and then Sadira got in, slipping smoothly through the bubbles.� Pamela pushed back her sleeves and knelt down next to the tub, far enough back so that only her arms would reach over the edge.

��� "Why no stretch marks?"� She tried to, and succeeded in, phrasing it as an academic question.

��� "The skin cells are dividing.� It might also be the metabolic effects again.� We'll run a sample at the lab."

��� Pamela grabbed the soap and handed it to Sadira.� "You want to start at the nipple, then work your way outwards in a circular motion until you've gotten the entire front, then rinse."� She stood up, took down the flexible showerhead, and let it hang.� "After that, lift and do the underside:� smooth down strokes, then get in there and make sure you've cleaned out the fold where they join the rest of the body.� Soap up a finger and stroke, or use a thin washcloth.� If you don't get everything there for a long time, it's a great site for a fungus infection.� Be careful in that area, though.� It's pretty sensitive � well, it is on me."

��� "I remember," Sadira said dryly, and began soaping her arms.� "Why the nipple first?"

��� She fought back the blush:� she hated looking like a stoplight.� "Because on developing girls, they tend to be very sensitive, and you want to get them out of the way immediately."� Because if you don't, you can be in the tub all day.

��� Pamela watched Sadira wash.� Her ex-roommate was stalling, hitting every upper-body part but the breasts.� She also dropped the soap twice.� Which was strange:� it normally would have been four or five times accidentally.

��� "Have your manual dexterity and agility changed at all?"

��� Sadira looked at Pam through narrowed eyes.� "I drop things.� I trip.� Same as usual.� Why?"

��� Pamela scrambled for a response.� "Just checking."� She hadn't found a good one.

��� Sadira rinsed and finally went to the right breast, looking at the soap, then slowly lowered it towards the surface.� "Pamela?"

��� Please, let it be something scientific, dry, and distracting.� "What?"

��� "How do I look?"� Plaintive, appealing, a little scared.

��� That wasn't it.� Pamela looked at Sadira's face and found sincere curiosity with a thick varnish of fear.� She braced her hands on the tub rim and leaned in slightly.� "You're cute, Ebs.� You're always cute.� Frankly, it's annoying."

��� "Right."� Sadira dropped the soap again and splashed about feeling for it.� "Like I can get an unbiased opinion from you."

��� "How do you think you look?"� Quite serious.

��� "I've been trying not to think about that."� Even more serious.� Before Pamela could break in, she added, "I mean, I can hardly play baseball now."

��� "You've still got room for full extension on a swing."

��� "I can't slide."

��� "You slide on your side.� Another lesson taught."� Pamela took a deep breath, trying to find oxygen in the steam-filled air.� "Look, Jason told me your theory about the leukemia." �The next sentence was a little envious.� "You got an extra ten years of sleeping on your stomach.� Right now, it's puberty all over again, with a thousand hormones racing through you.� I went through all this over seven years.� You've had three days.� All the insecurity, all the panic �" Pamela stopped.� Jason had also told her about Sadira's near-breakdown in the apartment when she'd followed the train of thought off the end of the track.� "What's important is how you feel."

��� Sadira found the soap and leaned back in the tub so that she was almost lying down, her breasts mostly hidden by mounds of bubbles.� She looked at them:� four days ago, there would have been nothing to see.� The tub was too small to sink any lower.� She scraped some of the bubbles away and began working down from the left nipple �

��� � jumped a little.� So did Pamela.� "That is sensitive.� It wasn't that bad yesterday."

��� Pamela, having an excuse, looked closer.� The nipple was swelling rapidly.� It had grown in pleasant proportion to the rest of the breast.� "Told you.� You're getting a lot more nerves in that area.� Just keep going."

��� "It feels weird."

��� "You're not used to it."

��� Sadira resumed soaping.� Pamela, with difficulty, resumed eye contact.� "I feel weird.� I can feel people looking at me almost all the time, or at least I think I can.� I've been so edgy..."

��� She looked up:� the steam was condensing back into water as it contacted the cooler tile of the tub ceiling, creating a small drizzle.� "I feel them looking, and I hear them whispering, laughing, pointing, and it all sounds familiar somehow."

��� "From when we went out," Pamela reasoned.� "It was like having my own personal Greek chorus."

��� "No.� It's something that was happening to me before this �"� Click.� She sat up, bubbles cascading down the slopes.� "The words aren't the same, but the tone, the looks � they're exactly the same as when I was flat!� Nothing's different at all!"

��� Pamela's eyes went wide, and then she slowly nodded, matching up her own memories of their times out.� "Exactly the same," she echoed.� "Sadira, with breasts � people's perceptions � the small-regular-large size range is as narrow as their minds.� It runs a grand total of three inches:� B to C to D.� Anything below or above is noticeably different."� Pamela unconsciously ran her left hand down the exposed right forearm.� "Anything people see as being outside their own definition of normal, they hate � and they express it as mocking, or derision, or even fear.

��� "Did you know that some people still don't know what albinos are?� They think I've been cursed by God.� Like being gay:� I'm a sin against Him, but He marked me for all to see."

��� She looked down, saw what her hands were doing, and stopped it.� Sadira was waiting, intensely listening for the next words.� Pamela continued.� "When you're large breasted, as big as I am � it's one more difference, and it's one that I can't just hide under layers of cloth.� People look, and laugh, and know I must be stupid, because everyone knows bust size is inversely proportional to IQ.� If I show them my doctorate � well, I must have fucked for it, because sex drive is directly proportional."

��� "So you fight," Sadira said, words blending into memory.� "Verbally, perceptually, all the time."

��� "That's my way.� There's others.� But �" the corners of her mouth faintly quirked "� there is the other side.� No, downward strokes.� Start just below the base and work down."

��� "Like this?"� Sadira was staring at the area in question, concentrating.� She missed seeing Pamela swallow.� Hard.

��� "No, longer strokes."

��� Sadira corrected the movements.� Pamela kept her left hand from reaching in to help.� "Did you say other side or underside?"

��� "The first one."� In the middle of a dissertation, and she got distracted by an expense of smooth skin � very � Pamela yanked the switch and changed tracks.� "It isn't all people.� There's ones that would look at you before and say 'She's flat-chested and clumsy and too smart for her own good.'� And there's a few who say, 'There's Sadira Archer," and they don't mean it as a summary of the things the first people said.� For every person small-minded enough to laugh and fear whatever they aren't, there's another who will accept you for that � and a few who will love you for it."

��� Sadira folded her arms on the available tub rim, leaned forward, and said, "So it's fifty-fifty, then?"

��� "I'd like to think so," Pamela replied.� "If you want personal statistics, the good guys are seriously outnumbered � but if you weigh off the emotions and keep yourself strong, it all balances out.� Sometimes it even tips over onto the good side."

��� Sadira nodded.� "Like Jasmine uses the scales?"

��� "Christ, no!� Do you feel like being a manipulative, uncaring, selfish bitch because your breasts are bigger?"

��� Sadira laughed.� "No.� Never occurred to me."

��� "And it won't.� That's not the kind of person you are."� Pamela grinned, sharp and feral.� "It's the kind of person I am, but I've vowed to use my powers only for good � or my own personal pleasure, whichever comes first."

��� Sadira lay back down in the water, still giggling.� "So what is the good side?"

��� "Albinism or big boobs?� You could always pick me out of a crowd either way."

��� "You never wear anything but black.� I lost you on moonless nights if you didn't remember to peel your mask off.� Is this washcloth thin enough?"

��� "This one."� Pamela reached up to the towel rack.� "I keep it around for just such an occasion.� Soap the whole thing and slip it over one finger.� And I'm still planning on sneaking up on you one snowy day."� She smiled.� "No, there's other benefits to this build.� Some of them are pretty stupid or petty � I lose an argument with another woman and I can always think, 'Yeah, but my tits are bigger!'"

��� "And did you?" came the immediate wry response.� "With me?"

��� "No, because you can think tesseracts around me:� what's the point?� And I only wind up doing it to people I hate.� Jasmine probably does it to everyone."

��� Pam's gaze searched inward, delving deep.� "But on my good days, I feel more feminine than other women, and I can believe people see me that way.� There are times when I'm depressed about something else and it's nice to get the attention, to believe people would want me for any reason.� There are also some very nice people among the breast fetishists, and I'm starting to hope that they are the majority.� I'll teach you how to deal with the minority:� it's called a right cross.� Sometimes I love my body, because I love myself, and how you look is always part of who you are.� On the best days, I'd never want to be anyone else."� She gave Sadira a half-wink before saying, "I'd think you'd have figured out a few others by proxy."

��� Silence.

��� "It wasn't exactly something we agreed to forget.� It happened, Data."

��� "I know,"� Sadira said.� "I was bringing it up before.� I just really haven't thought about it in a long time."

��� Pamela looked at her friend, her former lover, realized how easy it would be to say something that would result in a soapy embrace followed by a quick dry and long bask on the sheets.� Sadira was starting careful work on her right breast, movements becoming more sure, circling smoothly, almost seeming to tease the nipple with the edge of the soap.� She was so vulnerable, looking for reassurance, for �

��� Pamela wanted to touch her � kiss her � and then � it would be so easy �

��� � so of course, she did the hard thing.� She stood up and tossed a towel within Sadira's reach.� "I'm going to crack open some of those bra boxes and find something that might fit."

��� "There's a measuring tape in my jacket."

��� "In a week, I might actually manage to find it.� We'll use my shopping tape."

��� "You carry a measuring tape with you when you shop?"� Their after-class activities had rarely included mall walks, and never for clothing.

��� "So will you:� it's handy for checking sizes.� You soak:� I've got nine more boxes to go through."� And do a private underwear check.

��� She held off the blush until she got outside.

 

��� It was like the Spanish she'd taken in high school:� she'd memorized the words for the tests and forgotten them immediately afterwards.� The only thing she'd really retained were the assorted curses the Hispanic kids (taking the class for an easy A) had used in the hallway.� Pamela looked through the bras, trying to remember exactly what a J constituted.� It seemed very little of her summers in the shop had been retained.� She was stuck with her own personal experience, and she'd left J behind at fourteen.

��� The world needed a cure for fatal diseases, a working Unified Field Theory, and peace in all lands.� At the moment, she would have traded them all in for a universal bra sizing system, a refresher course in bra sizing and a quick explanation of just what the hell her aunt meant by Level II.� Pamela took a 35Z under what she thought of as the standard system: she'd never needed to worry about this stuff.

��� "I'm going to hold the first payment until she sends me a translation," Pamela muttered, and kept looking.

��� "Ready?"� Sadira came out, wrapped in a towel.� Kind of wrapped:�� it kept slipping off.

��� Pam spotted the problem.� "Fold and tuck under your armpit:� it'll hold better."� She immediately regretted saying it:� so much for another free look.� "No.� I'm a geneticist and this is nuclear science.� I know what I wear, and some of these really big ones..."� Sadira's face was starting to go vacant.� "Let's just try the old fashioned way.� Arms up, Ebony.� This I remember how to do."� Sadira assumed a captured position, arms folded on top of her head, and waited.� 32/45 � one inch per letter � if she's modified that, we'll be here all day �� "M," Pamela said in what she hoped was a conclusive tone.� "This box �"

��� It fit perfectly.� She showed Sadira how to work the hooks.

��� "Heavy," Sadira remarked.

��� "The back straps have a bit of metal in them:� counterbalance.� It feels better when it's on.� Make sure the shoulder straps aren't scrunched up, and try to even out the coverage area �"

��� "I remember some of this," Sadira said.� "Jasmine had a lot of fun putting them on in front of me."

��� "Yeah, but watching and doing are two different things � there!� How does that feel?"

��� Sadira turned around twice, testing.� "Pretty good," she said slowly.

��� "I'll just grab the next one if you need to change at the lab and lay out a few more for later."� Pamela stepped back and looked at Sadira.

��� "Sexy" was a good word.� Too good.

��� "All right," Pamela said.� "Now comes the hard part..."

 

��� Sadira sat in the car and waited.� Pamela had gone into the first store alone.� Fine by her:� she really didn't feel like going out in public.� It wasn't her expanding bustline at the moment:� it was her clothing.� The sleeves hung off her hands until she pushed them back, and stayed there until she did something complicated � like move.� The pants had been rolled and pinned, giving the impression that she was about to go fishing, and the front of the blouse sagged tremendously.� Add that to the oversize, unadjustable-by-any-means panties, and she was fine where she was.� Uncomfortable, but fine.

��� Besides, if she got out, the car was going to be towed.

��� Pamela got back in the car.� "And this," she said, thrusting a large bag at Sadira, "solves the calorie problem."

��� Sadira reached in and pulled out something roughly the size and shape of a chocolate bar � a little thicker, with a gold wrapper.� "What is this?"

��� "Read the label.� Powerbar.� Why did you think I wanted a camping store?� One of these things is a meal supplement for thirty mile a day hikers.� Two is a meal by itself.� Six, and you may never eat again.� Portable, powerful, and eight assorted flavors � including chocolate.� Try one."

��� Sadira got the wrapper and took a bite of the beige concoction.� She chewed carefully.

��� "Well?"

��� "Chocolate-coated."

��� Pamela frowned.� "Chocolate-coated what?"

��� "Guess."

��� A shrug.� "Best I could do.� Try the banana."

 

��� Seven revolting sample bites later, they reached the clothing store and encountered a Certified Manhattan Miracle, also known as a legal parking spot ten feet from the door.

��� Sadira looked at the name.� "The Brick S. House?"

��� "As in, 'built like a...'"� Sadira's quickly narrowing eyes cut her off.� "Standard sizes, but they snatch up the irregulars and get some quasi-custom items.� For real comfort, you either pay through the nose or make your own, but this is short notice."

��� "Pamela � the bras, food, clothing � this is costing you a lot of money �"

��� "� I have a store credit card.� All we need is a few outfits and blouses with some stretch to them.� You can't wear my stuff forever:� we're asking for a pratfall."� Sadira ruefully nodded.� "In and out �"� Pamela pulled out the measuring tape "� ammunition in hand."

 

��� Shopping with Pamela was an experience.� It wasn't a pleasant one, but it was educational.� Pamela measured each garment, looked them over carefully for flaws, asked her a few questions, ignored most of the answers, and headed for the counter five minutes later with an armful and an audience.� People gathered from all over the store to get a glimpse of the staff cowering in terror.

��� It seemed none of the prices in the store were fixed.

��� Pamela argued garment quality.� She demeaned the designer, insulted the manufacturer, and made some lewd suggestions about the sheep the wool had come from.� She pointed out flaws by placing them a millimeter from the manager's eyes.� She threw things.� She threatened to throw people.� She did throw a fit.� She was loud, creative, obnoxious, got everything down to half-price, and then demanded a frequent-buyer discount.

��� Somewhere in the middle of it, Sadira retreated to the middle of Footwear, afraid of gunshot-by-association, and watched from what she hoped was a safe distance.� The acoustics of the store made her spot just as loud as the counter.

��� She finally saw Pamela take a receipt with a sound of disgust that reached New Jersey, scribble a signature, and slam the door open, stalking out with three bags.� Sadira hurried out after her.

��� Before she could say anything, Pamela said, "Yes, I had fun.� That is why the one guy hid when we walked in.� And only half of it is black.� You look better in gray."� She unlocked the car.� "Now we're ready to work!"

   

13

46:� The court of last resort

 

�� ��Sounds of a genetics lab in full swing.

��� "Where the hell are the peptide charts?"

��� "Over on top of the electron microscope, last time I looked.� You can always tell where Sadira's been working."

��� "Hey!� I knew where it was!"

��� "Yeah, but I needed it.� Mouse, if you think this is fun, try living with her.� I never let homework out of my sight.� It would quickly and quietly vanish away."

��� "I never touched your papers �"

��� "� I know.� Your piles were Boojums.� They made things disappear on their own."

��� "Pamela:� your file.� Sadira:� the blood tests are done."

��� They crowded around to see the results.� Jason rediscovered one of the benefits of being tall:� he could clear a lot of space by opening his stance and arms.� "Not spreadable," he said.� "I couldn't even find any virus corpses."

��� "Nice to know part of the design worked."

��� Pamela looked further down.� "Those are the hormone readings?� Are those decimal points in the right places?"

��� Sadira looked.� "Ya, dey are.� Welcome ta Chemical Central."

��� The rest was read in silence.� "That's the total picture," Jason eventually said.� "Metabolism, tissue buildup �" Sadira unconsciously rubbed the side of her right breast:� she'd taken her own cell samples "� ATP carriers, site interactions, the works.� Sadira, are your nails and hair growing any faster?"

��� She glanced at her hands.� "Not really."� Sadira thought it over.� "So current cells aren't dying any faster."

��� "No, just general repairs, and replication in the breast tissue and surrounding skin.� You're not prematurely aging."

��� Sadira drew back slightly:� she had never considered the possibility.� 'You have to learn to think things through...'

��� "And now that we have a definite statement on what's happening," Pamela said, "we focus on stopping it.� The photocopier's in the far left corner, Mouse:� one for each of us."

��� "Agreed," Jason said, and handed the printout to Pamela.� She looked at it, then at him, then shook her head and headed for the photocopier.

��� Sadira watched her go.� "I see you're learning how to handle her," she said softly.� It wasn't really necessary:� the age of the building and odd layout of equipment killed the acoustics.� Combined with the humming of the machinery, they had to yell to each other from thirty feet.

��� "You could have given me a manual," Jason replied sotto voce.� "Figuring her out from scratch � it would easier to re-code the entire human genome."

��� "Don't worry.� She likes you."

��� Jason glanced around the maze, trying to see if Pamela was coming back.� "How can you tell?"

��� "You're not trying to get the paper out of your throat."

��� He cleared the aforementioned body part.� "Oh."� A long pause.� "What time is it, anyway?"

��� "Eleven-forty.� Must have been the Powerbar you two split:� you haven't slowed down."

��� "The Great Dictator hasn't told us to knock off for the night.� Besides, I like the taste.� Raisin-zinc, right?"

��� Sadira stuck her tongue out at him and walked over to the computers:� before leaving the apartment, they'd grabbed every piece of Pamela's personal system.� She sat down in front of the left-hand keyboard � she could still face the screen and type � and, glancing at the printout, began working with the pregnancy database they'd spent most of the day constructing.� "All right.� These hormones usually start appearing in the body in the last months, when breast growth is ending, and before lactation begins."

��� "And let's really try not to confuse those sets," Pamela broke in, coming up behind them.� "So when the pregnancy is over �" she went to the right-side keyboard and started her own one-handed patter "� those chemicals are out of the body.� But there's another set of hormones and carrier bionisms that enter the picture, as the body starts going back to normal � and some of those haven't been identified for function.� Isn't this fun?"

��� "Hormone therapy?" Jason postulated.� "Find out which of these causes shutdown and inject it."

� ���Sadira looked up at Jason.� "How do we go about gathering samples without a budget and paperwork?"

��� "The local pregnant women?" Jason proposed.

��� "Only if we did a drug screening first," Pamela answered, "And how are we going to find them within hours of giving birth?� If we wait outside the maternity wards and persuade them as they leave, they're probably going to want money.� Anyone got enough money and time for a thousand samples?"� Silence.� Pamela turned to Sadira.� "Actually, good news:� if we find the stall, we still need the samples to test with, and we need the samples to find the stall � but I think I can get a few pieces from those I've 'assisted' at other labs."� She shrugged.� "Blackmail.� There goes my reputation."

��� Sadira finished the thought.� "And if there's a neutralizer, my body can't produce it as long as the sequences are active.� If the injected stop hormones are as strong as the growth ones, then it's a stalling action until we find a cure � but my body has to be told to turn off.� Ideally, I have to generate the hormone."� The smile was fairly sincere.� "However, if either of you come up with a stall, I'll take it."

��� Pamela's voice dropped.� "And anything we get, we'd better be damn sure of, because the only test subject is you.� All this has to be worked out from the general and then applied onto the specific � your genetic code.� And if the first cure we try goes wrong �"� She couldn't finish.

��� "Small scale?" Sadira suggested, trying to keep their spirits � and her own � up.� "Test it out on cell samples, see what it does."

��� "Of course, but it still doesn't tell us what it'll do to the body as a unit," Jason pointed out.� "We can get a sample from every major and minor system, but it doesn't tell us what happens when they all get hit together."� He leaned against the support column, hips out, palms bracing his back.� "I wish we had some uninfected samples to work with:� we could hit them with BE-1 and BE-2 in combination, see how the factors interact with each other. �It would help a little."

��� "Not if we're going from general to specific on my genetic code," Sadira said sadly.� "There's only one of those, and all my cells are infected."

��� There was a span of quiet, at the end of which both Jason and Sadira realized they were waiting for Pamela to say something.� They both looked at her.

��� She was still sitting, staring somewhere beyond the screen.� "Oh, yes," she whispered.� "Oh, perfect."

��� "What?"� Simultaneous from the other two.

��� "Your genetic code is unique, Iv," Pamela said, the feral grin beginning to spread across her face, "but there's a pretty close copy available for testing."

��� Dead silence filled the lab.� Pamela's grin got wider.

��� "But she never had leukemia �" Sadira started.

��� "I think I can compensate for that," Jason said.� "I've been studying the effects of the disease on cells:� I can bring it down to the DNA level."

��� "She's close enough for a bone marrow transplant," Pamela added through her teeth, the grin remaining behind the words like a distorted Cheshire Cat.� "Genetically, she's the closest possible variant we could ask for.� And �" her teeth parted slightly, and her tongue was momentarily visible "� it'll really piss her off.� We'll have to disrupt her schedule.� She'll lose money.� Her reputation gets shot."

��� Sadira didn't move.

��� Jason said, "But how do we find her?� She's a dancer:� she travels all over the country.� Probably outside it, too � and then we have to contact her, convince her to come �"

��� "She's getting a choice?" Pamela rhetorically asked.� "I think I can find her, though.� Internet time."

��� Jason stepped over to Pamela's station.� "You have a plan."

��� "Some dancers have web sites � read an article in Web World.� Their fans send them Email, they sell merchandise, put up pictures for download � and put up schedules so their fans know where to find them.� And from what Sadira's told me, she would never pass up an opportunity to make money.� Right, Ebs?"� It was either a nod, or her head just lolled forward a bit.

��� The Search page came up.� Pamela looked like a snow leopard about to pounce.� "What's her stage name?� Princess something..."

��� "Pirou," Jason said.� "Try it."

��� Pamela typed, waited, then began scrolling down.� "Danni's Hard Drive, Crazy Horse Saloon, Pinups � her ass is mine!"� She double-clicked.� Any resemblance to gunshots was purely inspirational.

��� The text came up first.� "Welcome to the Princess Pirou Web Page, my Subjects � lays it on a bit thick, doesn't she?"

��� Pamela nodded.� "Yes, I am over eighteen and wish to see the next link � pay per view?� Fine:� five dollars to log on, one time only, or enter ID number." Pamela reached back for her purse, which was hung over the back of the chair.� "Here's my Visa number, dear:� it's worth it."

��� The next screen came up, a background of flowing Arabic script against which frames were rapidly appearing.� Pam went for the scroll bar as soon as it showed up and pulled down.� "Schedule!"� More clicks.� The page was practically all text:� they ignored the arriving picture and looked down.

��� "Week of March 18th-25th," Jason read, "Al's Barn �" and his grin mirrored Pamela's "� Philadelphia."

��� "Showtimes 1, 6, 9, 11, and 2 in the morning," Pamela finished.� "It's almost midnight now:� think we can make it in time?"

��� "I've seen the way you drive.� I think we can make it yesterday."

��� "Forget aiding and abetting."� Pamela rubbed her hands in delight.� "We might just add kidnapping to our rap sheets."

��� They both looked at Sadira, still smiling.

��� Sadira was sitting quietly, expressionless, eyes vacant.

��� Jason put his hands on her shoulders.� "Sadira?"

��� "I want," she said very slowly, face unchanging, "to make one stop first."

 

��� "Three in the morning!"� Pamela slammed a fist against the steering wheel, awakening Jason, who had been sleeping in the back.� Sadira had snoozed on and off on the way down.

��� There had been plenty of time for naps:� the New Jersey Turnpike Authority had for once wisely decided that the best time to repair the roads was a time when virtually no one was using them:� early in the a.m.� Unfortunately, virtually no one still comprised a few hundred cars and trucks trying to creep through a single lane at the twenty miles per hour requested by the signs.� While few New York or New Jersey drivers had respect for speed limits, the numerous police cars parked between the road crews and the smaller signs that said Traffic fines tripled in work areas had added to their lawfulness.� The usual breakneck ninety-minute drive to Philadelphia had taken nearly double that, with additional time to find the strip club.

��� "I know these damn shows never start on time," Pamela swore, "but we're pushing the limits."

��� Sadira looked at her ex-roommate.� "'I read an article on dancer web sites,'" she paraphrased.� "'I know these shows don't start on time.'� Exactly where were you going to on your occasional 'Wednesday night recharges?'"

��� "Research," Pamela said, trying � and failing � to keep the embarrassment out of her voice.� "Shaddap."

��� Jason stretched within what space he had and reached for the door.

��� "No," Sadira said.� "This is just me.� You two wait here."

��� Pamela's voice immediately went to disappointment.� "You're not asking me to miss this, are you?� I want to see her face..."

��� "Me," Sadira said, opening the door.

 

��� The man in the booth at the bottom of the staircase was still collecting admission fees an hour before closing, but was apparently too tired to check ID or look to see who was handing him money:� Sadira slid a five through the slot and went in.

��� The strip club was practically empty:� the dancers were on the verge of outnumbering the people.� Three were engaged in very close dancing � they were practically in the men's laps � while two more slowly swayed on a large, partially elevated stage which sat in the center of the huge room, with chairs and the occasional occupant arrayed around it.� A well-stocked bar occupied most of the wall closest to the entrance, and there were tables, chairs, waitresses, and drunks everywhere else.� Two couples were quietly talking, and one woman was studying a textbook.� Both feats bordered on the miraculous, because the sound system was too loud and the lighting wasn't pleasant to the eyes.� The overall effect was of a disco that had exploded.

��� Three seconds after she walked in, a waitress tried to sell her two mandatory drinks.� Sadira gave her twelve dollars � the two plus the tip � and left before she could ask for an order.� Working on instinct, Sadira picked out the largest, best-dressed, most bored looking man in the room and went up to him.

��� "Pardon me," she carefully began.

��� The man looked down.� He was huge � he was Jason's height, but considerably wider in all directions.� His body was blocking most of a pink curtain above which the words Champagne Room had been embossed in glitter.� Sadira caught him squinting at her:� either nearsighted or he'd been in the club more than twenty minutes.� "Can I help you, miss?"� The voice was amazingly gentle.

��� "I hope so.� I'm looking for Jasmine Archer.� Is she here?"

��� "I'm sorry.� I don't know anyone by that name."� The big head scanned the room like a rotating lighthouse.� "You seem to be our only female customer.� Are you sure you have the right club?"

��� "How about Princess Pirou?"

��� The big man nodded.� "That's her real name?� Yes, she's still here:� finished up her last set twenty minutes ago, posed for a few photos with customers, and went to the feature's dressing room."

��� "Where is that?"

��� A smile.� "I'm sorry, miss, but I can't let fans backstage.� You can wait for her out here if you like, but when she was here last year, she stayed until closing every night."

��� The waitress came up.� "Miss, your drinks..."� She was also squinting.� It had to be the lighting.

��� "Later," Sadira said, then, "I'm not a fan.� I'm a sister.� Can I go backstage?"� The big man bent down slightly and squinted at her face:� Sadira stood on tiptoe to help him and found her balance dubious � then went flat-footed again and said, "You can probably see the facial resemblance.� And �" suddenly inspired, she unzipped the extra-roomy jacket Pam had bought her at the House and got it open in a single move "� the physical ones."

��� He looked at her, up and down.� She held her gaze (and the edges of the jacket) and waited.� "I can see it."� He grinned:� it was like watching a glacier break off an ice cliff.� "You've got a better sense of humor, though."� He brought a ham hand up and rubbed his chin, considering.� "I'll take you back."

 

��� They went through a shadowed door and suddenly stood in normal human lighting:� the big man spent several seconds blinking.� "Third door on the left," he whispered.� "I take it you want to surprise her."

��� "Yeah.� What's your name?"

��� "Emmitt."

��� "Thanks, Emmitt.� I appreciate this."

��� "No problem."� He began to turn, heading back for the door � stopped, gave her the lightest of touches on her right arm with a huge fist, whispered, "Give her hell," and left.

��� Sadira stared after him.� Another direct Jasmine victim or just a proximity case?� She looked down the hall at the partially-open door with the gold star at head height.� It suddenly seemed very far away.

��� She steeled herself, took a few bites of an supposedly-apple-flavored Powerbar so everything else would seem better by comparison, and started walking, her right hand reaching into a pocket for the first of her prior purchases.� Within actual seconds and perceptual hours, she was next to the door.� Sadira peered around the corner, the item held ready.

 

��� It was a decent-sized room.� There was a large makeup station close to the door on the right wall, with full lighting and a tremendous array of cosmetics racked around a three-mirror setup.� An expensive notebook computer lay next to a tray of eyeshadow.� The rest of the paint had been covered by graffiti, dozens of small comments from the dancers who had passed through, as if they'd wanted to leave proof of their existence.� Sadira quickly and automatically read a few that she had the angle for:� they ranged from funny observances to quiet sadness.

��� The far wall held costumes on long poles, about fifteen of them, including fashion nightmares of sparkles and feathers, silken veils � naturally � service and sports uniforms, a Western set with a short lasso, and something that reminded her of the leather armor her favorite role-playing character had always worn � but only because they were both leather.� There were several large, open carrying cases near the racks.

��� The left wall held a cot, and the cot held Jasmine.

��� Sadira was looking at her from the back:� Jasmine was sitting up with a clipboard braced against the rear support of the bed, facing the costume wall.� She was writing, the pen slowly scritching from one line to the next.

��� From Sadira's angle, she could make out no features, but the posture, familiar from long hours of homework, combined with the side view, was enough.� She could also see Jasmine's hair, which had grown out until it nearly matched her own length, all of it dyed bottle-blond, falling gently over street clothes.

��� Sadira quietly moved until she was fully inside, object at the ready and angled at the mirror, where both of their images were visible.� Jasmine kept writing.

��� "Jasmine," Sadira said, the first word in over four years, and waited.

��� Jasmine's back stiffened, and her neck snapped up, gaze removed from the clipboard � but she didn't turn.� She just sat there, facing the veiled costume.� "What the hell are you doing here?"� Her voice was a little higher than Sadira's, a little sharper.

��� "I came to see you.� I �" and the next words were so hard "� I need your help."

��� Jasmine nodded.� "Fuck off," she said, and went back to the clipboard.� "Oh, I forgot:� you don't know how to fuck off.� Paid anyone to take your virginity yet?� If that's the help you came for, I'll be happy to lend you the three million it'll take to persuade someone to jump your skinny ass."

��� Sadira went through over a hundred responses before she found one that was safe to say.� "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't serious."

��� "Seriously forgetful.� In case it slipped your mind, let me refresh your memory:� we hate each other.� We had a little contest, I won, and you resented it."

��� "Adolescence isn't a contest."

��� "You're saying that because you lost."� She shook her head.� "I wouldn't help you into the street to get hit by a bus."� She paused.� "No, that's the exception."

��� "Jasmine, turn around."

��� There must have been something in the tone, something that couldn't be denied, or perhaps Jasmine just thought she could deal out more pain face-to-face.� Whatever it was, she turned, pivoting her body on the mattress, and looked.

��� The instant Sadira spotted her eyes � the moment she saw awareness and the first effects crossing her face � she hit the button.

��� The camera flashed.

��� Jasmine, startled, recoiled, nearly losing her balance, trying to blink away the light.

��� Sadira took the camera away from the door frame and pocketed it.� "You know," she said pleasantly, leaning against it herself, "everything I've been through in the past few days � the running, the wreck, panic, desperation, all of it � that just balanced the books."

��� Jasmine, her eyes clear again, sat up straight, stared, then said "Come here," in almost the same tone Sadira had mustered.

��� Sadira took one casual step forward.

��� Jasmine stood up.

��� Nearly identical faces, concealing very different minds, considered each other carefully.

��� "You're real," Jasmine said slowly.

��� "You can tell?"

��� "I've been dancing four years.� Real flesh, even in a bra, moves in a way that implants don't.� Most of the features can spot a boob job across the room through two layers."� Sadira could hear the shock in her voice � the insulating, isolating kind.

��� "And of course, you're even better at it."

��� Jasmine, still too stunned to catch the tone, just nodded.� "You're still smaller than me," she said, rallying a little.

��� "Wait about sixty hours."� Sadira was, despite everything, enjoying herself.

��� Jasmine either missed or ignored most of the implications:� Sadira would have bet on the later.� "What do you need my help for?� I sell old bras to the suckers for a hundred and fifty each.� Go talk to Crystal Storm:� she's an easy touch."

��� It was about to become less fun.� "Jasmine, I have a disease.� That's what's causing the growth."

��� "A disease!"� Jasmine snorted.� "Fuck, I know people who would pay you to give it to them.� I'll give you five thousand for one good infection:� I won't have to go for the boob job in July."

��� It was Sadira's turn to recoil:� Jasmine saw it, and was visibly pleased.� "You're going to have an enlargement?"

��� "Right, genius:� I can at least think about a surgical procedure without needing a sedative. �I've been dancing at this size for four years.� If I get a boost, my income gets one."� She patted her breasts, one hand each.� "The surgeons tell me that with my natural size, there's room to pump me up quite a bit and still look natural.� Not that the rubes care if I'm shaped like those stupid dice you used to roll.� Can I ask you a favor?"� Her eyes glinted.� "Will you come into the operating room and hold my hand while they put me under?"

��� The anger came first, Sadira's arm going back, hand curling into a fist � and then, a split second later, the memories followed.� Her hand fell open as her senses reeled, and she stumbled back against the door frame.

��� "Haven't thought about that for a while, have you?� If you've got some bug that finally did you the favor of giving you something to look at besides your grades � you're stuck wherever it leaves you, aren't you?"� It was meant to hurt, it started out as a torture implement � but somewhere in the middle, it had taken on a thoughtful tone.� "Sixty hours?� How fast are you growing?"

��� "Four inches a day, for the rest of my life," Sadira spat.� "Mark it on your calendar, Jasmine:� sometime around four p.m.� Thursday, the 'big' sister and the 'little' sister switch positions."� The next words were a growl, a voice that went five rungs down the evolutionary ladder.� "You're right:� I am forgetful.� I had to forget seven years of hell to have any hope that you would help me.� Isn't it nice to see me being an idiot?� Consider it as four years worth of belated birthday presents.� In fact, let me give you the rest of the lifetime's now:� without your help, I'm probably going to die, and you literally won't have to lift a finger to make it happen."� She turned and left the room.

��� Sadira got three steps down the hall before she heard "You're serious."

��� I don't believe that worked.� She had taken her fear, so close to the surface at that moment, and molded it, directed it at Jasmine's weak spot:� her ego.� It was hard to reign over a corpse � and the crack about passing her might have hit home, too:� Jasmine had stopped mentioning Kay as another "true" Archer when their cousin first showed signs of potentially getting bigger than her.� In Jasmine's world, everyone else had to be second.

��� She stopped, and waited.

��� "This is like the leukemia, right?� You need something from me to stop this."� Sadira didn't turn.� "Money or me?"

��� "You."

��� She could hear the deep breath.� "And without me, you're dead."

��� Sadira kept quiet.

��� "So," and the mockery was back, "my genius sister needs me to save her life again."

��� "Right."

��� Sadira could also hear the smile.� "Then I win again."

��� Silence.

��� Finally, Jasmine said, "How long is this going to take?"

 

��� "How long are they going to take?"� Pamela was alternating stares at the door and her watch, ten seconds between shifts.� "I should have gone in there.� I should have kicked Jasmine's ass all the way back to New York."

��� "Give them time," Jason suggested.� "They haven't seen each other in four years.� They have to talk it out."

��� A small truck pulled up behind them, and a medium-sized man got out, rubbing his stomach as he headed for the door.� Pamela watched him:� the club closed in fifty minutes, and he was the first customer she'd seen.� He had to be desperate to be up this late.

��� "Three minutes," Pamela said, "and then I'm personally taking Normandy from the Germans."

 

��� Ron walked slowly down the stairs, contentedly burping.� He'd been attempting to live off the strip club buffet for most of the day, and had found it was impossible to survive on bad lasanga and grey stew.� It had been getting late, and he'd decided to risk a run on the twenty-four hour Burger King half a mile away.� He wasn't allowed to bring food into the club, and he'd meant to eat it outside the door, but it had smelled so good that he'd had to try a french fry, and then he'd just stood there and enjoyed himself.

��� Overall, it was one of the weirder assignments Nigilo had thrown his way:� follow this exotic dancer, change your appearance every so often so she doesn't get suspicious, and see if her sister contacts her.� Here's a head-and-shoulders ID photo.� Memorize it.� If � when she comes by, catch her, stop her, do what you have to, that's another reason you should use makeup.� Grab her on the way out, or tail her � you're the expert.� Just get her back to me.� At least he got to watch the girls � the Princess wasn't the best performer:� her act consisted of strutting and shaking.

��� It was three in the morning, for Christ's sake.�� What could he have missed?

 

��� Jasmine finished typing, pulled the modem line out of the wall, and snapped the notebook computer shut.� "Fred will send someone to get my things and pull a vacationer in to finish the week."

��� "You don't feel sorry for her, do you?"

��� "Why should I?� It's your fault for catching this."

��� Sadira hadn't told her about the occurrence of infection.� "I bet all the AIDS rights group send you donation requests."

��� "No, you're thinking of the rapists who write from prison.� I keep donating your address, but no one's done anything with it.� I guess there's some things even a psycho won't touch."� She grabbed a large duffel bag:� Sadira could make out the outline of video tape cases.� "We'll go back to my hotel and pick up my clothes.� How long is this going to take, anyway?� I have a vacation next week."

��� "I don't know.� One day with incredible luck and smarts �"

��� "� two strikes on you �"

��� "� probably longer.� You'll probably have to stay the whole time."� It wasn't a fate worse than death, but it had its foot over the dividing line, ready to step across.

��� "Trust you to fuck my life up."

��� "Then I guess I am doing some fucking after all."

��� "Yeah.� And that's the only kind you get to do."� Sadira controlled her reaction:� she just hadn't seen the rebound coming off the boards.� "I'm ready.� Let's go."� Jasmine went past her and headed down the hall.� Sadira followed.

 

��� Ron took his seat and gazed at the stage.� It would soon be time for the night shift.� Jack had to watch the Princess' hotel while she slept.� He'd lost the coin toss.� The first quiet day of what promised to be a very profitable job � if he didn't blow it all back on tips to the dancers.� His expense account was limited to travel, residence, food, admissions, and bribes.

��� Then again, a tip was a sort of bribe.� He'd heard that if you gave the girls enough money, Something Could Happen.� At some point, he was going to try it.

��� The door to the ladies' area opened, and he automatically glanced at it.� The Princess was going home:� time to wrap it up for the night.

��� There was another girl behind her.� He looked closer.

 

��� Jasmine and Sadira walked across the room.� To be precise, Sadira walked.� Jasmine marched.

��� "Have a good night," Emmitt said.

��� Jasmine snorted.� Emmitt shrugged at Sadira as she went by.� She returned the gesture and followed Jasmine up the stairs.

��� They reached the open air quickly:� Sadira squinted at the Neon, barely able to make out Jason and Pamela through the tinted windows with the dark street.� "That's the car."

��� A man's voice, right behind them, said, "No, it's not."

 

��� Ron poked his index fingers forward, one for each sister's lower back.� They froze.

��� "That's the car:� the red Toyota truck.� Both of you get in."� He hadn't figured on both sisters leaving together, but what the hell:� bonus money.� "Mr. Nigilo wants to see you."

��� "Jasmine," the sister said to the Princess, still looking at the Neon.� "Is this thing in my back what I think it is?"

��� The Princess grudgingly nodded.� "Fifty-fifty.� I know which half I'm rooting for on your spine."

 

��� Pamela and Jason stared, afraid to get out of the car.� One wrong move, anything that panicked the gunman...

��� Jason looked closely at the scene, squinting through the window, looking for an edge, a chance...

��� "Pam," he said slowly, "Sadira's winking at us."

��� Pamela looked at him, then hit a button.� Jason heard all the doors unlock.

 

��� "Oh," Sadira said faintly.� "Then I guess I have no choice."

��� She brought her left foot up and back.� There was a very satisfying crunch, but not as good as it could have been:� she'd caught him on the thigh.� It was still enough to stagger him back.

��� Sadira spun around, somehow managing to keep her balance, prevent her feet from tripping on each other, and get her second purchase out of her pocket in one motion.� The man, starting to recover, tried to focus on her hand.

��� "Asshole," she said, "I'm from Brooklyn." �Sadira thrust the taser forward.� A blue spark leapt, and she smelled the faintest trace of ozone, barely distinguishable over the sensory assault from the man's scream.

��� Jasmine ran for the Neon.

��� "Back passenger seat!" Sadira yelled, grabbing the shotgun position.� The sisters Archer jumped in the car:� Pamela started the engine, and it leapt into gear, screeching down the road.

   

14

47:� The curbs of Philadelphia

 

����� Sadira automatically went for her seat belt, laughing all the way.� "My father taught me the difference between a finger and a gun!"� Pamela immediately figured it out and started giggling herself.

���� Jasmine had dived into and across the passenger seat, covering her head with her arms as if waiting for the gunshot to fly over her.� This position left her sprawled across Jason's lap � something she was just beginning to become aware of.� She rolled onto her back and looked up.

���� Jason, who had been aware of the problem for some time, but uncertain as to how he was going to express it, just looked forward.� Jasmine took a moment and appreciated what she could see of his profile.� "Hi," she said casually.

���� "Hello," Jason replied.

���� Jasmine carefully said, "Who wants to see you?"

���� The laughter from the front seats, already subsiding, abruptly stopped.

���� "Nigilo," came Sadira's slow reply.

���� "But why would he put a tail on her?" Pamela asked.� "Did he guess we were going to grab her for samples?"

���� "If he thought I was going to contact her under normal circumstances, then he's working from the wrong data base," Sadira said.

���� Jason leaned forward.� "Then he must think we're working on a cure � but why not snatch Jasmine and use her as a bargaining chip?"

���� Pamela shook her head.� "Because he figured we'd beat that bluff with a deuce-high �"

���� "What the hell is going on here!"

���� Through mirrors and direct vision, they all looked at Jasmine, still in Jason's lap.

���� Jasmine slowly sat up, leaving Jason unencumbered, then said to Sadira, "I thought we were actually going into a hospital.� They'd do some testing on me, on you, inject something, done.� Or, knowing you, do it all on the pavilion outside the hospital.� Instead, I walk outside, have someone pull a finger on me �" she paused briefly as the word structure came across "� says someone wants to see you � and he was talking to you, Sadira.� And these two don't look like doctors and that one �" pointing at Pamela "� looks like an corpse."� She ignored the sharp intake of breath from the driver's seat.� "So I repeat:� what the hell is going on here?� If this is one of your stupid pranks, I'm not laughing!"

���� Pamela hit the brakes and pulled over.

���� When the others finished realigning their necks, they found the car parked parallel to the street in the middle of a huge driveway, ten feet from a sign that said No Parking.� Loading Zone Only.� Pamela cut the engine, unfastened her seat belt, and turned around, torquing at the waist and moving closer to her door, until her breasts touched the seat and she faced Jasmine at an angle.� A streetlight illuminated the interior of the car from the front windshield.� Pamela had a pretty good idea what it looked like to Jasmine:� the blue eyes in the white face, with the light glaring in the background:� something three inches to the wrong side of the natural world.� "So," she said, voice patient and neutral, "you want to know what's going on."

���� "Fucking straight I do!"� There was the slightest of quavers.

���� Every word was at exactly the same pitch.� "Oh, it's very easy to explain.� You're right.� We're not doctors.� Not recognized doctors, anyway.� We're trying to recreate the work of Victor Frankenstein, but we decided to go with an intact body that was already missing a brain.� Sadira suggested you.� And here you are."� The feral smile appeared.� "Now don't you feel better for knowing that?"

���� Sadira stared at Pamela.� No one noticed.

���� Jasmine stared at Pamela, who held ground until Jasmine said "Fuck you."

���� "You should be so lucky."� Pamela glanced at Sadira, who hadn't blinked yet.� "I paid for the taser.� I told you to use it on her if she gave you any trouble.� Can I have it back now?"� Sadira's right hand tightened around the plastic box.

���� Jasmine looked at Jason, who was looking at the other women, then went to Sadira.� "Okay, Casper is insane.� So again, what the �"

���� "� sorry, what was that?"� Pamela's voice had gotten very low.

���� "Enough!"� Jason threw his arms into the space between the front seats.� "We're never going to get anywhere if you just fight with each other!"

���� Sadira looked at Pamela for a moment longer, trying to project her thought.� Why are you trying to start a fight?� It didn't work.� They were never going to prove psionics at this rate.

���� Jason slowly brought his arms back to a ready position.� "Jasmine, my name is Jason Pterros.� I work � worked with Sadira at GenTree.� There was an accident with a non-contagious virus.� I overheard one of the top executives ordering a search to get Sadira back.� That's the first sign we've seen of it."

���� The sisters automatically focused on each other.� Jasmine spoke, slow and steady.� "I was at risk and you didn't see fit to tell me?"

���� "We never thought they would target you �"

���� Jason broke in again.� "Sadira has the virus and the knowledge to create it.� She's the primary target.� They must have been hoping she'd come to you at some point."

���� "For the cure?" Jasmine said.� "The genius is right for once:� there's no other way we'd see each other."

���� "You're not the cure.� You're our means of testing any potential cure we might devise.� Pamela and I are geneticists:� we're working together on �"

���� "� on using me as a guinea pig?"� Jasmine's voice was getting higher, faster.� "You're all nuts!� I'm getting out �"

���� Sadira felt a wrench, and then her hand was empty as Pamela held the sparking taser in front of Jasmine's face, arm stretched out in a way that came close to dislocating her shoulder.

���� "Shut up," Pamela suggested, "and let the man explain."

 

���� The man explained.� Jasmine listened until she had it all, interrupting once to suggest that they start heading for her hotel to grab her clothing.� Pamela had quietly put the car back on the road and followed the occasional, somewhat more polite directions.

���� When Jason finished, Jasmine said, "She did it to herself, didn't she?"

���� Jason said nothing.� Jasmine turned to Sadira and continued.� "What was it?� Dropped it, fumbled it into your eyes, tripped?� That's what 'accident' always means around you."

���� Sadira instinctively averted her eyes, an answer in itself.� Jasmine shook her head, blond strands shifting.� "You develop a virus to make breasts grow and then you catch it.� Maybe it wasn't an accident at all."

���� "I don't think you understand."� The first words out of Pamela in five minutes.� "This is potentially fatal."

���� "How?� No one ever died from having big tits."

���� Sadira's mind whirled.� I might have died if I didn't have them � but I wouldn't have been in that position if not for them...

���� "It's possible," Jason said tightly.� "And before that..."� He didn't want to set Sadira off by detailing the chain.

���� Jasmine sat back and thought.� "Kidnapped by mad scientists with my looney sister in charge."� She took a deep breath.� "Are we at the hotel yet?"

 

���� They reached the Adam's Mark five minutes later.� Pamela pulled into the circular driveway and parked.� "According to the instructions, a taser hit lasts about twenty minutes, and he's not going to be driving well for a while after that.� It took us fifteen minutes to get here from the club.� We're probably fine, but I'm not giving the lab rat �" a glance in the rear view mirror at Jasmine "� a chance to reconsider.� Mouse, help her with the bags."

���� Jason nodded.� Pamela unlocked the doors, and the back seat emptied out.� They went into the hotel.

���� Sadira folded her arms over her chest � it felt weird.� She put her hands in her lap.� "What were you doing?"

���� "Giving tactical instructions.� Did you want to?� I always called group tactics in the games."

���� "You know exactly what I mean."

���� "Apparently not, or I wouldn't be using the following words:� what exactly do you mean?"

���� "You're trying to start a fight with Jasmine."

���� "You mean you'd object to seeing me hit her?"

���� Sadira gave up on the lap stance and went for the folded arms again.� It worked better if she held them lower.� "I've never known you to go after someone without some provocation.� Even a phone call before noon.� The corpse crack was a little below your usual standards for pit bull mode.� She got in the car and you were off the leash and going for her throat."

�� ��"She's been attacking you for how many years?� This friendship started because I wouldn't let you get back at someone on your own."� She was no longer looking directly at Sadira:� Pamela's gaze went past her, checking the hotel doors.

���� Sadira brought her right hand to the matching temple.� "Look, it was my idea to get the camera, and I'll treasure the picture, because it might be the only good thing I get out of this."� She briefly smiled.� "I guess I'm that petty.� But it was still stupid.� I probably nearly blew my chance of getting her to help with that.� If you're feeling some displaced revenge � look, if she goes after you, that's one thing, but don't drive her off because you're trying to make up for my lost time."

���� "That's what you want, then?"� Very quiet, almost ethereal.

���� Pamela, what's going on?� "Well, don't give yourself a stroke trying to keep it all in.� I know how aggravating Jasmine can be.� Just don't feel you have to play knight in shining armor."

���� "No, that's the Mouse.� Only he can't ride."

���� Sadira, thinking she'd pinned it down with about half of her mind, doubting with roughly another fifty percent, and using whatever was left over to consider the last remark, waited for Jason and Jasmine to come out.

 

���� Ron had, after the initial blast wore off, crawled into a nearby shadow and waited for the remaining effects to recede.� It was like watching clouds move across the sun, waiting for the light to break through:� there were times when the cover thinned, and he thought that coordinated movement was seconds away � and then the wind would shift.

���� But he was in the dark, where no one was going to see him and call an ambulance, or the police.� If he was arrested or in a hospital, getting to a phone would be difficult.� And he had to get to a phone.

���� So he lay there, and groaned, and waited until the sun finally shone.

���� Ron limped down the street to the pay phone and managed to dial the right number on the first try.

���� "Jack," he said hoarsely, "get to the hotel.� They're making a break for it, the Princess and the target.� They might go there.� There might be more of them:� the car pulled out like there was someone behind the wheel.� Black Neon.� The sister has a taser.� Just move."

���� Jack hadn't said a word.� He'd listened, drawn his own conclusions, and went to work.� That was what Ron liked about Jack.

 

���� Jasmine didn't talk to Jason all the way to the twelfth floor, all the way down the hall, or when he took the electronic key, triggered the door, and went in first to check for intruders.� He didn't think he was missing anything.

���� In the middle of gathering clothing � Jasmine kept the hotel room like Sadira kept her lab � she said, "So, how long have you known my sister?"

���� "Sadira."

���� "Right.� That's her name."� The tone was playful.� "So how long?"

���� "About nine months."

���� "Partners?"� She grabbed a towel from the back of the desk chair.� The words "Adam's Mark Hotel" were clearly visible.

���� "We're assigned to the same project."

���� "So you were working on the breast enlargement thing."� She scooped the notepad into a purse, pocketed the pens.� "You like big breasts?"

���� Jason, who had been leaning inside the doorway, watching the hall and Jasmine on alternate shifts, focused completely on the hallway.� "We were working on the leukemia editor.� The BE viruses were Sadira's personal project."

���� "Oh, they would be.� Leukemia, huh?� You didn't answer my question."

���� "What question was that?"� Still no one coming down the hallway.� He was starting to wish someone would.� He was considering making someone up.

���� "Do you like big breasts?"� Her voice had an almost eerie innocence to it.

���� He didn't look at her.� "I'm not going to answer that."

���� "That's okay," she said breezily.� "That is an answer.� I'm done."� She walked out past him, carrying two large bags, one in each hand � and despite the fact that the bags should have kept her away from his body, she still managed to brush her chest against him as she went by.� A calm, utterly detached portion of his brain noted that Jasmine looked somewhat smaller than she had in the Gent layout, after allowing for the different arm position.

��� She pushed a bag at him, eyes suggesting.� He took it and the point position, using his longer legs to gain ground.

 

��� The silence in the car was becoming deafening.� Sadira reached for the radio and flipped it on, searching the dial until she found a instrumental piece, then left it there.� It was a soft theme, a bridge to something � she could almost identify it �

��� � Jasmine and Jason came out of the hotel, each carrying a bag.� Pamela noticed them, hit another button, and popped the trunk.� They loaded the cases, closed the trunk, came around to the sides �

��� � a silver Thunderbird was staring to pull up behind them.� Jason glanced back at it:� he'd always appreciated classic lines on a car, and this one was in perfect condition.

��� They got in the car, Pamela shifted out of neutral �

��� � and the slowing Thunderbird leapt back to life, accelerating into the curve.� Pamela, checking the rear-view mirror, noticed immediately.� Changed his mind? �She pulled back onto the street, heading for Route 1 North and eventual access to the Turnpike.

��� Three blocks later, she swerved to the left without benefit of turn signal or sufficient time, wheels hopping around the curb as they barreled down the side street, still picking up speed.� Jasmine, who disdained seatbelts, was thrown into Jason.

��� "Ivory �!" Sadira yelled.� Her brain took a moment and pinned down the music:� Ride of the Valkyries.

��� Pamela glanced back.� The Thunderbird made the turn, its body riding up onto the sidewalk before thudding back onto the street, accelerating all the way.

��� "We're being followed," Pamela said calmly.� "His mistake."� The accelerator pedal hit the floor with a deadly thud.� "He's overmatched."�� The briefest of side glances to Sadira.� "Tri-Delta sorority house.� The beer bash."

��� Sadira automatically let out a heartfelt groan.� "Jason, grab ahold of something."

��� Jason, who already had something whose hands seemed to be grabbing ahold of him, pushed Jasmine upright and pulled the seat belt across her waist, trying to ignore the areas he was crossing and brushing against.� "Tri-Delta?"

��� "Science sorority.� Supposedly.� Some of the girls could barely spell the symbol for oxygen �" Pamela pulled the wheel to the right and held on, avoiding a cluster of trash cans awaiting pickup.� "We tried to join before we found out what a bunch of assholes they were � asked us to dress up in each other's clothing for the initiation rite, took pictures, and pasted them all over the Residence Hall �"

��� The Thunderbird took the corner and the trash cans head on, knocking them aside like bowling pins and leaving a seven-ten split.� Jason winced as he saw the dents in the hood; sympathy for the vehicle.� "Pamela, we're not faster than that thing!"

��� Pamela was either lost in reminiscence or didn't consider it an issue:� she kept talking, rocking against the steering wheel as if she was trying to push the car forward.� "� there's an chemical that neutralizes alcohol in a normal liquid base, non-poisonous, doesn't work in the bloodstream, unfortunately.� Sadira made some and we sneaked into the basement of the sorority house, unspiked all the kegs �"

��� There was a red light up ahead, marking the entrance to a wide intersection, there was a huge delivery truck starting to make that crossing, and Pamela wasn't slowing down.

��� Sadira closed her eyes.� Jasmine screamed.� Pamela said "� couldn't be tasted and doesn't really affect the taste of the beer �" and swerved hard to the left, leaping onto the sidewalk, the car shaking from the jump, and drove a good forty feet across the concrete before the car went back into the street � now driving on the wrong side.� "�and they didn't know what we did even after they caught us coming out �"� A Fiat went by, horn blaring as it changed lanes to avoid the collision.

��� Jason, hands clenched against the back of Sadira's seat, looked back to see the Thunderbird making the turn, taking the leap over the sidewalk without grace � the car was built for speed, not strength of suspension � and was visibly rocked as it returned to the street.� They all heard the long, angry honk of the truck as it sped away � Jason realized it had been going on for some time � and that small, detached part of his mind took over his mouth and said, "Then what happened?"

��� "Sadira distracted most of them so I could get out � I'm not exactly built for speed �" but the Neon was built for more speed than the model would have indicated, and it didn't matter, because the Thunderbird had been made for speed and nothing but, and it was gaining ground.� "� and we managed to get to my car.� They decided to chase us."� They were approaching another intersection, and Pamela was easing the wheel to the left, as if getting ready for another turn onto another wrong-way street, wildly checking all mirrors and windows, still not slowing down.

��� "And then?" Jason asked, watching as the Thunderbird got closer � the driver's window was rolling down, and he thought he could see the slightest glint of light off metal...

��� "Oh," Pamela said, "something like this �"

��� She spun the wheel to the right, hard.

��� The car dived across the intersection, driver's side scraping against the lane divider as they sped through, but there wasn't enough time to reach the street again, the wheels couldn't react that fast, they were heading for a space between a streetlight and a fence and there wasn't three inches clearance on either side �����

��� � they went through without touching, house light flashing through the wooden fence like a mad strobe before Pamela brought the car back onto the road two inches past a hydrant, pedal still flush against the floor �

��� � Jason, Sadira, and Jasmine all looked back in time to see the Thunderbird try to make the turn, controlling the vehicle smoothly through the still-empty intersection, but winding up with the same choice Pamela had wound up with:� go between fence and streetlight or crash into one of them.

��� The Thunderbird was significantly wider than the Neon.

��� They all heard the desperate screech of brakes as the driver realized he'd been had, too little, too late, it was fence or streetlight, pick one �����

��� Streetlight.� Bad choice.� The front of the Thunderbird caved in as the momentum bent the post forward, sparks flying from the grinding metal, dividing the car in half as if someone had taken a chainsaw to a block of cheese, the razor teeth stopping a bare millimeter from the windshield.

��� Pamela eased her foot onto the brakes.� " � only worse," she added as they finally slowed down.� "Anyway, they went back to the party and drank all the beer.� Unfortunately, that chemical is a very powerful emetic..."

 

��� Jasmine had somehow managed to dump enough adrenaline from her system to fall asleep leaning against the passenger door.� Sadira had started to feel the first after-effects of the chase and promptly scarfed two Powerbars.� Seventy miles later, Jason's heart was still beating too loudly for him to sleep.

��� "Mouse," Pamela said, "exactly why did you want to pull Sadira out of GenTree?� After that little performance, I'd like a bit more data to work with."

��� Jason looked at Sadira, who had also fallen asleep.� The difference between the sisters was marked.� Jasmine wriggled and shifted almost constantly, straining towards any new sound.� Sadira simply sat in place, head slightly tilted, her breathing slow, oblivious.� "Nothing specific, really."

��� "So give me general."

��� Jason shrugged.� "Rumors.� I kept hearing that certain members of the staff had been caught on ethical or legal violations, and some of them were kicked up to bigger projects, or put onto private ones.� One guy � Temperi � supposedly got caught having sex in his lab �"

��� "� big deal �"

��� "� with a twelve-year old.� He claimed he didn't know and couldn't tell, and he got a raise and a bigger lab two weeks later.� No charges."� Jason shrugged.� "I heard whispers like that about a third of the employees in R&D, and no one ever seemed to be fired.� That some of the projects were of dubious medical benefit, and the results were for sale to the highest bidder.� Rumors fly around every lab, but not like those.� I was scared of what might happen to Sadira if she went to them for help."

��� "Like what?"

��� "Isolation.� Testing.� Replication."� Silence summarized every other possibility.� "They might have helped her find a cure � if I was wrong, I don't want to think about how much time we lost � but if I was right..."

��� "Oh, you were right," Pamela assured him.� "No one pulls stunts like we just saw for laughs.� Protecting their reputation or whatever, they want her back."� She laughed softly:� Jasmine stirred and then settled down again.� "I was hoping that two minutes after you left the building, Nigilo turned around and said, 'No, it's too impractical.� Let her go. �We'll never get her back anyway.'� When we didn't see anyone..."� She sighed.� "But why watch the Princess and not come to me?� Do they know I'm out there?� How much time do we have before they find us?"

��� Jason had been thinking about it for over an hour.� "I don't know.� They've got Sadira's college files:� that's a given.� They must know what you do for a living."

��� "Maybe.� Maybe not.� I don't exactly advertise these days and I'm not on the best of terms with the school.� No one wants their employers to know they went for outside help."� Pamela smiled.� "And I'm going to hang onto that delusion as long as I can � but we have to be ready for anything."

��� Jason interlocked his fingers and leaned forward.� "I thought about going to the control agencies a few times," he said, "but I never had any proof, and with all the security around GenTree, I had no way to discover any.� I was bonded and they had me locked down.� There was nothing I could do.� And we were doing good work, looking for a way to cure leukemia, ahead of everyone else in the country and when Sadira came on the project, we picked up speed.� I thought it would all even out.� That the cure covered whatever corruption there was."

��� "'Do the ends justify the means?'" Pamela semi-quoted.� She looked at Sadira.� "This time, they do."

 

��� There was the usual hassle in waking Sadira up:� Pamela finally had to tickle her.� They all staggered up the stairs.

��� Pamela entered the apartment as if she was establishing a beachhead and found no enemy to fight.� She gestured the others in.� Jasmine stepped through carefully, looking at the boxes.

��� "I think we're safe here," Pamela said.� "I'm renting this place from the real owner for three hundred a month more than she's paying:� it has rent control.� The price is still pretty good, but it isn't under my name, and I have to get my mail at a P.O. Box.� They'd have to go through a tangle of paperwork to get here without following us."

��� Jason looked around the apartment and realized just how small it really was:� with four people, it was going to be almost impossible to manage space.

��� Jasmine staggered in last, rubbing her eyes.� Jason stepped out of the way, heading for the kitchen.� She looked around and realized the same thing.� "Give me the address of this lab.� I'll go to a hotel."

��� "No, you won't," Pamela told her.� "None of us go anywhere alone after that chase.� We travel together, two or four."

�� �Jasmine turned towards her, about to protest � and got her first full-length look at Pamela.� She kept looking.

��� Pamela stepped closer to Jasmine as Sadira headed to the refrigerator, looking for a drink.� "Right," she said softly.� "I'm bigger than you �" a mischievous pause "� and taller than you, and a hell of a lot meaner, and you're going to listen to me because I'm right.� Fair enough?"

��� Jasmine glared up at her and said nothing.� Pamela nodded and made her own survey of the apartment, yawning widely.� "Okay, how are we going to work this � got it.� Mouse, on the floor.� Princess, you too.� Sadira, you've got the bed with me."

��� Everyone looked at Pamela.

��� "On top," Pamela amended, then, very quickly, "of the sheets.� I've seen the way you hog covers.� I'll get a second set of blankets."� She knelt down and started pulling out blankets from the hidden shelves beneath the bed.

��� Sadira nodded sleepily and grabbed the next bra in line from the top of a box before going into the bathroom to change.� Jason caught a thrown bundle of sheets and pillows and bedded down in his previous spot.� Jasmine, after some thought, shifted a few boxes (after a quick, curious peek at the contents which ended with a jerk backwards and a blanching face) and laid down next to him in her own group of sheets.� They were both asleep by the time Sadira got out of the bathroom, wearing one of Pamela's nightgowns � the House hadn't had everything they'd needed.� Pamela finished laying down the sheets, closed the heavy curtains across the picture window, and headed for the bathroom.

��� By the time she came out, Sadira was asleep again.� Pamela picked her way through the prone forms and took the right side of the bed, wryly noticing that Sadira had already pulled the sheets into a cylinder.� She was on her back, leaning towards the center of the bed.

��� Pamela got in, leaned over, and, knowing Sadira wouldn't feel it, gave her a quick kiss on her cheek before nestling among her pillows and finally letting her body shut down.

   

15

49:� The bloodhounds of war

 

� The first thing she was aware of was weight.

��� She was on her back, breathing more quickly as she came to full awareness.� There was almost a resistance to the movements of her rib cage, the weight pushing back at her � not interfering or hurting, the body could shift more mass than that � but there, well past ignoring.� Sadira propped herself up on her elbows, finding it just a little trickier than previous days, and looked over to the floor near the counter.� Jason and Jasmine were still asleep.� A glance at the curtained window found a background shine of light against the fabric.� She finally spotted the clock:� two in the afternoon.

��� Pamela was still asleep, the pillows arranged to let her sleep comfortably on a sort of side angle.� Her breathing was quiet and slow.� One arm was partially outstretched, as if reaching for Sadira's left shoulder.

��� Sadira managed to reach the bathroom without falling over anyone and locked the door behind her, nibbling on another Powerbar.� (She was starting to get used to them, which worried her)� College rules:� first one up dominates the bathroom until the roommate starts complaining.� She brushed her teeth, got out of the tight bra, looked down �

��� � looked up.

��� "Sixty hours," she whispered.� A noticeable percentage of that time had passed.� A prior thought came to her, and she reached down to the left breast, got one hand under it � thought it over and used both � and lifted, tilting her head down.� The nipple was easily reachable by her lips.

��� Sadira looked at it for a moment, noting the growth that had taken place:� it was significantly larger even when not erect, a dark protrusion against the slightly lighter expanse of the areola. �Am I serious about this? went through her head as she regarded her body � and it was her body, wasn't it?� These things were part of her.� My breasts.� Again.� It was hard to keep believing it when they were changing so fast.

��� She was perfectly serious about it.� She was a scientist.� Scientists experimented.

��� Sadira lowered her head slightly, put her lips against the nipple, and gently applied suction.

��� The sensations rushed from breast and mouth to spine to brain:� she could feel them moving, colliding and mixing:� the odd texture of the nipple against lips and tongue, the unfamiliar warmth spreading outwards from the center, infusing the breast and moving deeper, the near-electric half-burning from the nipple itself, a shock that heated, dissolved, and washed away all worries in a flood of liquid fire...

��� Sadira's hands pulled away from the underside, and the breast dropped, thudding against her ribs with discernable impact.� It vibrated for a fraction of a second, then stopped.� Sadira looked down.� The nipple was quite erect, protruding about an inch from her breast.� She had no idea how much time had passed between contact and dissolution.

��� Oh, yeah.� She leaned back against the sink, breathing hard.� I could get used to that way too easily.� I wonder if it's like that for Jasmine?� Or does it feel that way because of the virus?� Pamela had enjoyed it, but it had seemed to be more of an enhancement to other sensations.� Sadira dimly remembered that it was something a little different for every woman � and this was hers.� Lots of nerves, lots of trigger points, and lots of whatever she was supposed to call that.

��� Pamela said that how you look is always part of who you are. �Who am I becoming?

��� There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.� "Sadira?� Are you in there?"� Pamela's voice was somewhat dull:� she woke up immediately, but not always well.� "Come on:� I took out my contacts last night.� You know I can't see anything without them.� I think I stepped on someone."� Sadira pulled the nightgown back on and cracked the door open:� half-lidded pink eyes regarded her wearily.� "Just let me get my sight back and then you can have it to yourself, okay?"

��� Sadira nodded and left the bathroom:� Pamela slid past her, closed the door, and locked it.� Loudly.� "Sucker!" she said clearly.� Sadira heard the shower start up.� She sighed, rubbed her stomach, and stepped into the kitchen just as Jason opened his eyes.

 

��� Nigilo watched Carmody read the transcript of Ron's phone call, fingers drumming on the desk.� He was something less than happy, but there was too much confusion in his mind to allow pure rage.

��� Carmody read quickly:� he put the papers down and waited.� Nigilo shook his head.� "It was too early," he said, keeping most of the internal turmoil out of his voice � and whatever was left, Carmody wasn't going to say anything about.� "I thought that once Archer had surpassed her sister in size, she'd show up to boast, get some revenge.� I put Ron on her immediately in case her growth accelerated.� That's how sibling rivalries work, Carmody.� No one lets accomplishments sit quietly.� According to Ron, she was considerably larger than she was in the train station � but still smaller than her sister.� Why go early?"

��� "She could have had another motive," Carmody suggested.� "Perhaps she needs Jasmine for other purposes?"

��� Nigilo met his eyes.� "Jasmine?"

��� "I can't use 'Archer' for both sisters without inciting confusion," Carmody calmly explained.� "One of them has to have another name."

��� Nigilo grudgingly nodded.� "What 'other purpose' could she have had?� I somehow can't picture her saying 'Let me show myself now while I'm inferior and taunt her with the knowledge that I'll soon be superior.'� It doesn't fit the personality profile. "

��� Your personality profile.� How much attention did you pay to hers?� "If you believe she's reached that level of dementia, then perhaps she's kidnapped her sister for medical experiments."� His jaw clamped shut.� The words hadn't been meant for vocalization.� He never joked in front of Nigilo, and rarely otherwise:� it was generally unhealthy.

��� Nigilo, however, didn't seem to be taking it as a joke.� Carmody could see him turning the thought around in his mind, examining it from every angle, ignoring any traces of humor.� "You're learning," he said slowly � and there was even a hint of admiration.� "You know, that's entirely possible, Carmody.� It's such a brilliant idea that I'd ordinarily take credit for it � but being as how it's your first, I'm going to leave the origin point with you."� Nigilo stood up.� "It's perfect behavior for a � that woman.� Perhaps my influence is finally starting to impress itself on you."

��� "Perhaps, sir."

��� "Then we assume that � 'Jasmine' � is out of the picture for now, and we go back to worrying about locating Archer.� If she was able to reach her sister so quickly, then she may be on the East Coast to stay � have you made any progress in locating her roommate?"

��� "Unfortunately, no," Carmody replied.� "When she graduated college, she dropped out of contact with the alumni association.� One professor recalled her saying she was moving to New York City.� The same teacher said that she had a trust fund and was going to open her own business:� that's why I originally believed she had her own operation.� I was able to get information on the trust fund:� it's been cleaned out.� The school has no current address on file for her.

��� "In addition, our search of Ms Archer's apartment has found no phone bills, so we cannot attempt to locate her with a reverse directory.� We did find a few notes that might concern the breast research or the leukemia project:� our scientists are looking at them now."

��� "No phone bills?"� Nigilo tilted his head to the left and regarded Carmody warily.� "In that mess?"

��� "Or credit card bills, or anything that could be potentially dangerous if someone picked it out of the trash.� She is a poor housekeeper, but a careful one."

��� "Of all the areas to show a practical streak," Nigilo grumbled.� "I take it the phone company won't give us the records?"

��� "Only to a law enforcement agency.� And if we report her missing, that creates another series of problems."

��� "True.� Then we concentrate on finding the fourth."

��� Carmody's left eyebrow momentarily twitched.� "Sir?"

��� "Ron said that the Archers both went into the car on the passenger side, and the vehicle pulled away immediately.� Jack reports that Pterros and the dancer got into the car via the back doors at the hotel, and again, the car was moving immediately.� While Pterros could have driving the first time and Archer the second, it's likely that we're looking for a fourth person.� Archer's silent partner.� Possibly this former roommate:� Jack said the person behind the wheel drove like a New York maniac."

��� "Did he see the license plate?"

��� "He may have.� He can't remember.� His airbag triggered in the collision, but he suffered a mild concussion.� His memories of the later part of the chase are somewhat scrambled.� And Ron wasn't in position to see the plate at the strip bar.� The windows on the car were tinted, so he didn't get the best view of the interior."

��� "Mr. Nigilo," Carmody began, hesitant to pursue the question � then realized he couldn't get tackled for something that was someone else's fault.� "Why exactly did Ron stick his fingers in their backs?"

��� Nigilo did something that surprised Carmody.� He sighed, and smiled tolerantly.� "Because he only had one gun, two sisters to deal with, and he felt that I would be better served if he brought them both to me, since they had seen each other and the dancer might report a disappearance.� I had also asked him to bring me Archer alive and ready to work.� So he put out his fingers and gave it his best lack of shot.� Not the most intelligent man, but he tries, as does his partner.

��� "Jack did try to use his gun towards the end:� he thought he might be able to shoot out a tire.� The thought that Archer might be killed in the crash � or just if he missed � didn't occur to him.� This is why I'm paying one of them for this assignment.� Adjust the books."� The smile became something else.� Pamela would have recognized it, sometimes in the mirror.� "For some reason, I'm in a merciful mood today.� It must be spring on the way."

��� "The snow is melting nicely, sir," Carmody said, because there didn't seem to be much else he could say.

��� "Yes.� It puts a bounce in one's step."� He headed for the door.� "This roommate � Shaw � runs her own business, but has no interest in being found.� Nothing in the phone book, no contacts, no deliveries to a particular address?"

��� "Nothing I can find at this point, sir.� According to her professors, she has something of a persecution streak.� An isolationist.� She's an albino:� she may disavow public contact."

��� "No one can run a business without leaving a trail," Nigilo said, his voice tight again.� "If she's still alive, she's leaving papers behind her.� Find them.� And concentrate the search on New York.� Even in a city of eight million, an albino is fairly distinctive.� Acquire the college yearbook and get a picture."� The smile returned.� "Six-six, albino � she has to learn to hang around less visible people.� Wouldn't you say, Carmody?"

��� "Quite, sir."

��� "And we're going to have to tell our people to be more careful."� The smile vanished, replaced by an expression that quietly echoed the next words.� "After all, she's dangerously insane."

��� "Yes, sir," Carmody said simply.� They went to check on the research wing.

 

��� It was a very quiet breakfast � lunch, really.� Most of the words exchanged concerned the passing of various implements and seasonings.� There were, however, numerous glances, dirty looks, cautioning stares, and a cutlery store's assortment of airborne daggers.

��� There were a lot of things almost said, between Pamela and Jasmine, or Jasmine and Sadira.� This led to the daggers.� At first, Jason had sat prepared to serve as mediator, but had found nothing which he could stop:� invisible knives were impossible to intercept.� There were also other distractions to deal with:� he was sitting next to Jasmine, and he kept getting bumped by her feet, or brushed against as she turned to grab the salt � or pepper � or any one of a hundred things she needed to reach for.� Her bust size seemed somewhat increased, back to the layout level.

��� He saw Sadira's face during one of the passes, watching his.� There was a quiet acceptance there which somehow worried him.

��� Pamela made two stops on the way to the lab.� The first was at a car rental agency, where she picked up a blue Civic with tinted windows (Sadira followed her in the Neon to a park-by-the-month garage, and they left the car there).� They also waited in the car while Pamela ran into the post office with a box containing the J through L bras with a note which read unused, and beneath that, another Post-It which read What the hell is Level II?

 

��� "Cell samples," Pamela said as they got past the final lock and entered Terragen.� "Into the bathroom, Princess.� You've got a date with a needle."

��� Jasmine stopped.� "If you think I'm letting you anywhere near me with a sharp object�"

��� "I'll do it," Sadira broke in.� "I took them on myself.� You two just get the work going.� Jasmine:� the bathroom's that way:� I'll meet you in a second."� Jasmine glared at Sadira, but moved away.� Sadira glanced at Pamela with a look that said Careful!, then followed her.��

��� "I don't like her," Pamela said when they were far enough away.� "I mean, I'm not overly fond of death and taxes, but I really don't like her."

��� "She was �" Jason stopped. �He wasn't sure how to say it � but surely Pamela had seen some of the contact.

��� "I'm sure she was.� On guard, Mouse.� That's the one of the meanest cats I've ever seen, and she'll eat you alive."

 

��� Sadira walked into the bathroom holding a small tray.� Jasmine looked apprehensively at the array of objects.� "What are those for?"

��� "Sterile sampling needles, contact anesthetic, blood pack, Band-Aids.� Nothing dangerous.� Just strip down:� that's your area of expertise."

��� Jasmine smirked and reached for the edge of her sweater.� "And I even know how to do it in front of men."� She looked at the tray again.�� "Aren't you afraid of that shit?"

��� Sadira shrugged.� "I'm not a doctor," she said.� "Aren't you afraid of letting me near you with a sharp object?"

��� "No."� The word emerged without flavorings.� Sadira didn't know exactly how Jasmine meant it.

��� Jasmine took off her blouse, then reached back and undid the bra.� Sadira reached for it as it came off and folded it on top of the sink, automatically counting hooks (seven) and reading the size label (33 X P) �

��� X P? �She looked closely at the bra, then back at Jasmine.� "Padding?"

��� For the second time in twenty-four hours, she took her sister completely by surprise:� her features contorted for a second as she tried to regain control.� "I've got to prepare the rubes for the boob job.� I've been wearing it to the photo shoots."

��� "Right.� After all, they won't believe spontaneous growth."

��� "There's a sucker born every minute, and they come with money attached to the hip.� For some of them, it's a dick substitute.� Or tits.� Casper is gay, isn't she?"

��� Sadira checked the needle:� the sterile wrapping was intact.� "I don't know.� She does what she likes.� And her name is Pamela."

��� "I care?"

��� "No."� The same tone as her sister's earlier use of the word.� She looked at her sister's breasts, trying to find the right place to insert the needle.

��� In absolute terms, Pamela was larger than Jasmine, but visually, they seemed to be roughly the same size:� Jasmine's sat on a smaller frame.� (Sadira was starting to realize that while the two-inch difference between zero and B was very visible, going from X to Z was more difficult to spot.)� The similarities ended there.

��� Jasmine's breasts reached down to her navel, swelling quickly towards the bottoms: her nipples seemed to be pointing at Sadira's feet.� Her areola were small in contrast to Sadira's own proportionate development, as were the nipples.� She was lighter than Sadira in hue:� it looked as if there had been a tanning contest between the sisters with Jasmine quitting after the third day and Sadira sticking it out for two more sessions.� Sadira could see a faint tracing of veins and arteries under the skin, along with a small bruise on the side of the left breast.� Combined with the blond hair (and the bit of dyed pubic hair that rose above her waistline), she gave Sadira the impression of having been caught in a genetic blender set on puree.� It was almost the same impression she got when she looked in a mirror � only hers had been on frappe.

��� "Blond?" she questioned, mostly rhetorically.

��� "The rubes like blondes.� They think it makes me exotic."

��� Sadira stepped to Jasmine's side, holding the jar of anesthetic paste.� "You're a Yorkshire/Mecca cross.� How much more exotic are you supposed to get?� Rub this in here."� She poked the spot with the plunger of the needle, near the edge of the bruise.

��� "You can't do it?"� Teasing, taunting.

��� Sadira looked her in the eyes.� "Not on a bet."� She thrust the cold jar against Jasmine's breast:� her sister recoiled slightly before taking it.� Sadira gave her an application cloth.� "If you do it by hand, your fingers will get numb."

��� "Then I'll handle things like you usually do."� Jasmine started rubbing.

��� "How did you get that bruise?"

��� "Why do you care?"

��� Sadira perched on the edge of the sink.� "Maybe because we're going to be together for a while and I don't feel like fighting every second.� Maybe because we haven't seen each other in over four years.� Or maybe I'm setting you up for something later.� Take your pick."

��� "Option three," Jasmine said, rubbing harder, spreading some of the cream towards the injury � but then she answered.� "Friday night.� I was in Billings �"

��� "� I know."

��� "You keep an eye on me?"� Vaguely bemused and a little triumphant.

��� "I met an acquaintance of yours on the train out of Billings.� Douglas Pollota."

��� "Oh, him."� Jasmine snorted.� Sadira didn't know when she'd picked up the habit, but she was doing it with fair frequency.� "Weirdo."

��� "I liked him."

��� Another snort, this one with less disgust and more disdain.� "Of course, he'd never ask you to pose, not unless he wanted to put someone out of business."

��� "Actually �" and the words truly reached her for the first time, with stunning force.� Completing the sentence immediately might have had more of an impact � but the pause got Jasmine's attention.

��� "Actually what?"

��� "He said �" she paraphrased "� I have appeal which you don't."

��� "Rotting meat appeals to rats."

��� "I can smile."

��� Jasmine stopped rubbing and looked at Sadira, who was withholding the discussed expression.� "A pole."

��� "What?"

��� "I hit my tit on a pole.� I spun too fast and got a bruise.� I didn't put makeup on it this morning since I don't have to perform.� Satisfied?� All nice and sisterly?"

��� Sadira gave up.� "Is the area numb?"

��� "Yeah."

��� "All right."� Sadira unsheathed the needle and took the sample.� Jasmine never flinched.� "The next one's a blood sample.� Left arm."� Sadira dipped another cloth and started rubbing Jasmine's inner elbow.

��� "So you can touch my arm, but not my tit?"

��� Sadira stopped.� "Right."� She resumed.

��� Jasmine's voice dropped, became sincere, concerned, and sisterly.� Sadira was instantly suspicious.� "Have you told Mom and Dad?"

��� "I can't."

��� "Coward."� There was still a hint of blood relation.

��� "No.� I mean I can't.� They're still on vacation."

��� "They're on vacation?"

��� Sadira knew she couldn't do a decent parrot squawk:� the sound was purely mental.� "They left last Wednesday.� Mom finally got some time off from the clinic and Dad was convinced � forcefully � that his assistants could handle things for three weeks.� They won't be back until April.� They're touring Europe."� More slowly.� "They've been saving for two years.� When was the last time you called them?"

��� "Last July on my birthday �"

��� "� our birthday �"

��� Jasmine ignored it.� "� and they didn't mention it."

�� �"Maybe they'd tell you what they were planning if you told them where you were once in a while."

��� "They've got a computer.� They can find out where I am.� My agent forwards mail."

��� "At ten dollars for each page of reply."

��� Jasmine stared.� Sadira plunged the needle home and watched the blood pack rapidly fill.� "Douglas was very informative."

��� Jasmine quickly rallied.� "And they pay it.� And I write them myself.� People get what they pay for with me."

��� "Yeah."� Sadira got another needle ready, one with a wider bore.� "Cheap goods."� Without ceremony or anesthetic, she plunged it home.

 

��� Pamela and Jason looked up from the computer.� Jason spoke first.� "What was that?"

��� "Muscle tissue sample," Pamela replied, and went back to typing.

 

��� The sisters emerged ten minutes later, Sadira passing the tray to Jason, who took it to another area of the lab to begin his compensation techniques.

��� "Remember, Princess," Pamela smiled, "if anything goes wrong with those, we'll have to do that again."� Jasmine reached into her purse, pulled out a group of letters and stalked off.

��� "Well," Pamela dryly commented, "at least someone's making money.� I'm going to get her to pay for something before this is over."� Sadira had told them about the words-for-money scheme on the drive to Philadelphia.

��� Sadira sat down at the computer and stared at her.

��� "What?� I'm being good.� I just told her we might need more samples.� And she calls herself Princess."

��� Sadira shook her head and turned to the keyboard �

��� � she sat there, staring down, then pushed her seat back and stretched her arms.

��� Pamela stood up.� "Which bra are you wearing, Ebs?"

��� "The Q."

��� She thought back.� "That's about when I started having trouble."� Pamela walked behind Sadira's seat and spun it.� "Time to teach you the Shaw Keyboarding Method.� Put your left hand on the board:� the home keys are �"

��� "Pamela?"

��� "What is it?"

��� "I'm right-handed."

��� Pamela quickly spun the chair in the opposite direction.� "No problem.� Your home keys are �"

 

 

16

52:� Mixed doubles

�

��� They'd quit at three in the morning.� Jason had successfully mimicked most of the leukemia effects on the first try:� only three extra samples had been required, which disappointed Pamela.� The cultures had been placed in the storage area to quietly replicate.

��� Jasmine had run out of letters by midnight, her handwriting getting smaller every hour.� (She was trying to make the work last, but she was damned if she was going to give her customers more than they'd paid for.)� When she finished, hand cramping, she tried to go for a walk and was stopped by Pamela, who reminded her about the injunction on solo travel and gave her a brief education on the neighborhood she was planning to walk in.� This left her with nothing to do but wander the lab, flipping switches on unused equipment, with results from negligible to nearly disastrous � after which Pamela took her to task again.� Jasmine spent the last hour pretending to read printouts and bothering Jason for translations of terms.

��� Despite Jasmine's help, they'd made some progress:� six hormones and two gene sequences had been eliminated through basic deduction.� Jason also sorrowfully dismissed an estrogen control drug that had been considered as a stall:� only a small portion of the growth was estrogen controlled.� The computer simulations said that only an overdose would have any effect:� convulsions and death.

��� Dinner was a four-way split of a thirty-piece bucket of fried chicken, and sleep (after the entirely-predictable and unavoidable bathroom queue) was nearly instantaneous.

 

��� "Get your hands off that!"� Jasmine pulled her arms back as if the machine had shocked her.� "That's a Mark XII Mutator.� Hit the wrong switch and you'll drip slime." �Not that you weren't there already...

��� "I'm bored," Jasmine snarled at Pamela.� "I've been sitting around this lab for two days, I'm out of letters to write, and I'm not allowed to touch anything.� The least you could do is get me something to read besides these fucking files!"

��� "Is it my fault if you don't have the brains to understand them?� Why don't you consider this as a chance for a crash course in advanced genetics and do something with your brain besides keeping your skull from caving in!"

��� Most of this was in fairly low tones, but the last few words caught Sadira and Jason as they were coming back from the photocopier.� "Not again," Jason said, voice tired:� he was getting sick of keeping the two separated.� "What is it this time?� Spontaneous file dump?"

��� "Like I'm letting her anywhere near the computer �"

��� Jasmine, having been rejected by the alpha female, turned to the only possible alpha male available.� "Jason, I need something to read.� I'm going nuts from boredom.� I've got to do something."

��� "Suffer," Pamela suggested, and turned back to the computer.� "I've got work to do, and if the Princess is feeling a pea under her mattress, it's not my concern."� Sadira stepped forward, about to pull Pamela off for another private conference, and got interrupted by a very sincere "Shit!"

��� "What's wrong?" Sadira asked, stepping in on Pamela's right.

��� "Bad sectors.� I lost the data on the XACT-Q28 site.� Damn it!"� Pamela typed quickly.� "Well, the computer will never write data to that area again."� She sighed.� "I never knew this thing had bad sectors.� It's never been this full before.� Sadira, I'm going to need another copy off the zip disk."

��� "What about the disk you put it in with?"

��� "I copied pregnancy data onto it.� Do you have the zip disk on you?"

��� Sadira shook her head.� "It's at the apartment.� I can't fit all my stuff in these pockets."

��� "It would help if you used a purse."

��� "Fine," Jasmine said.� "Since we can't go anywhere alone, Jason and I will go get something to read, and you two go back to the apartment and retrieve the disk.� Is that fair?"

��� Everyone took a moment and looked at everyone else.

��� "Pamela," Jason finally asked, "can you keep going without the data?"

��� "Not on this line of research, and it looks too promising to switch.� And if we all leave the lab, then no one's working."

��� "If she's not reading something," Jason pointed out, "then we lose time fixing whatever she touches.� And if the three of you go out, I'm at the lab alone."

��� Pamela thought it over.� She had plenty of books at the apartment �� okay, hundreds � but she didn't think any of them were within Jasmine's comprehension level.� "It's about time to eat anyway.� Jason, you've got the codes and the keys:� use the trains.� We'll meet you back here in �" she glanced at her watch:� rush hour "� two hours if traffic is really bad.� Take her to a bookstore and let her buy out a few supermarket rags."� Pamela turned off the computer and stood up fast. "Just get her out of my sight for a while."

��� Jasmine opened her mouth � and Jason, finally seeing something he could do, took her hand and pulled her towards the door.� Surprised, she allowed herself to be led away.

��� Pamela and Sadira watched them go, waited a minute for them to clear the hallway, and headed for the street.

 

��� Jasmine knew exactly what trains had to be taken to get from Alphabet City to the bookstore, and insisted on going there before eating.� Jason saw why when they got there.

��� Bookstore wasn't quite the right word:� it was a multimedia wonderland.� There were three huge floors, containing books, movies, music, and software, all subjects, all ages, all around him.� He could have spent a merry two weeks wandering through non-fiction, cheerfully starving to death, and when they found his body, it would have been smiling.� Someone had spent some time considering the problem, because a portion of the first floor had been set aside for a restaurant.

��� Jasmine strode happily through the store, picking books from every section.� Fantasy, romance, mysteries, sports, introductory-level genetics � no genre or category was overlooked.� Jason watched in amazement, occasionally working out of the stun long enough to pick some volumes for himself � and when Jasmine saw him carrying them, she took them from his hands and added them to her basket without a word.� The final total was over three hundred dollars, and Jasmine paid cash.�

��� She handed Jason his bag and headed for the restaurant.� Jason looked at the name on the bag:� Borders.� He had fallen in love with the store within twelve seconds of walking in:� it was nice to have a name to pin the feelings on.� He followed Jasmine in and took a seat across from her in a comfortable booth.� Comfortable for him, anyway:� there was actually leg room � but Jasmine's breasts poked into and rested partially on the table in her current posture.� It could be resolved by leaning back � but she wasn't.

��� "Isn't this place great?" she asked rhetorically as the waiter dropped off their menus and left walking backwards, staring at Jasmine.� "I come here every time I'm in Manhattan.� There's nothing like it."

��� "You're going to read all that?"

��� "I'm probably going to read it all by the end of the week."� She shrugged, reached into the bag next to her, and pulled out the Basic Genetics volume.� "I might as well learn some of this shit if I've got to hang around you three.� Anyway � I'm on the road performing forty-six weeks a year, and there's a lot of time between shows.� I get sick of trying to remember what TV stations cover which areas, a lot of the clubs don't have TV's, and the house girls don't always want to talk, because half of them think you're stealing their money.� For the feature dancers, it's either find something to do or go bugfuck.� I read.� I didn't use to � but I had to do something, and now I'm addicted.� I probably know every used bookstore in the country:� I'll trade these in when I'm done."

��� She smiled gently at him.� The change was startling:� since he'd first seen Jasmine, her face had always held some anger.� This was a calm, settled woman, completely in her element.� "I left my magazines under the cot in Phily � I usually just stick to the local stuff on my first day in.� I was going to go shopping on Tuesday, but this is better."� The smile faded a bit, and she angled a hand under her chin and glanced at his eyes.� "You think I'm pretty stupid, don't you?"

��� "I never said that."� It was a workable defense.

��� "You were working with Sadira for months.� You picked up the impression.� 'No, Jasmine couldn't get through Time Detectives unless someone drew cute kittens in the margins and named the characters Dick and Jane.'"

��� "The first time Sadira mentioned you was the day of the accident, about an hour before it happened � right after her presentation got rejected."

��� "Well, that makes sense.� After all, I didn't get a full doctorate in four years."� Bitterness had entered her voice:� Jason could almost taste it in his mouth.� "How old are you, Jason?"

��� "Twenty-six."

��� "And how long did you have to go to college before you went to � GenTree, right?"

��� "Six years."

��� Jasmine finally leaned back.� "Well, that's fast, but it's a little more normal.� Oh � and I apologize."� She reached out and quickly patted his right hand, which was holding the menu.� "I didn't really think you thought I was dumb.� I'm just used to it from people who hang around my sister."

��� "Look �"� He put the menu down and folded his hands on the table.� "As long as I've know Sadira, she's never said anything bad about anyone's intellect except to call herself stupid if she missed something."

��� "I've known her longer," Jasmine reminded him.� "I grew up with her.� What did she say when she finally did mention me?"

��� 'I got boyfriends and she stole them.'� "Just that you were a dancer, her twin, and the two of you never talked."

��� "Yeah, well, we don't have a lot in common to talk about.� Two parents � and even with the resemblance, I'm not sure one of us wasn't adopted.� She was reading at two.� Not sounding out words and seeing Spot run, working through The Hobbit.� Straight A's all through school, National Honor Everything, and then she got that scholarship offer with a guaranteed job for as long as it took her to get through college."� She held her hands palms-down above the table and jerked them to the sides.� "You try growing up with that for a sister."

��� Jason said nothing.� He had been reading at three.

��� "All the time, it was 'Look at Sadira.� She's the smart one!'� 'Look what Sadira's learned to do now!� Jasmine?� Oh, we just got her potty trained.'� Really fun, don't you think?"

��� "I was smarter than my brothers," Jason said, "but it didn't really matter.� Heracles was bigger than me, and a better athlete:� he got a basketball scholarship last year.� Castor and Pollux had each other, and they went on the track team �"

��� "� Argonauts?"� Jasmine started laughing.� "Your folks named you after the Argonauts?!"

��� Jason stared at her.� "You know about �"

��� "� I read it last month!"� The mirth was escalating.� "I thought I had it bad being stuck in The Arabian Nights!� Someone's parents were more nuts!"

��� Jason started chuckling.� "My mom is a professor of Greek Mythology.� We were basically doomed from conception."

��� "My dad agreed to use Mom's last name if he got to name the kids,"� Jasmine laughed.� "Is everyone's family this screwed up, or are we just lucky?"

��� "I got off easy," Jason pointed out.� "I'm the oldest:� I got the first name in line.� You could have been � oh, Scheherazade �"

��� "� that's Sadira's middle name!"

��� Jason stopped cold.� "You're kidding."

��� "No!� Mom and Dad fought for hours:� it was going to be her first name until she threatened to withhold sex for a year �" and that did it:� they both went down laughing, dabbing at their eyes with the tiny napkins.

��� The waiter walked by, decided they weren't ready to order, and walked away again after taking another long look at Jasmine.

��� The mirth finally bubbled to a halt.� Jasmine put the damp napkin down and said, "I like you, Jason.� You're not exactly a normal egghead."

��� "You're �"� so changeable.� Angry and hissing one moment, laughing and � approachable the next. �He could understand the sister's relationship a little better now.� He and his brothers had always had an attribute to themselves � or shared, with the twins.� There was always something to excel at where the others had to watch and learn.� He couldn't believe that Sadira had deliberately done anything to provoke the rivalry � Jasmine had said as much � but she was taking it all personally, not realizing that her words were in partial contradiction to her feelings.� And Jasmine wasn't exactly average:� he'd seen some of the material she'd shoveled into her basket.� Jason couldn't get through Our dreaming mind without a flamethrower.

��� There were still more levels to go through before he got to the full truth.

��� "You're not what I expected," he finished.

��� She reached out and touched his hand again, and this time she maintained the contact.� "You're not either," she said �

��� � and the waiter came back.

��� Jason resolved to give him a huge tip.� "I'm ready to order," he said.� He glanced at Jasmine.� "You?"

��� "Sure."� She looked back at Jason, who had lifted the menu again, looking for a side dish.� He didn't see her lick her lips.� "I'm in the mood for a big meal."

 

��� "Want to eat in?"

��� Sadira sat down on the bed, zip disk in hand.� "Sure.� I'll probably get sick of fast food."

��� "Bad news, then:� I was going to serve cold duck and Won Ton soup.� Local fast food."

��� "Noodletown?"

��� "How did you know?"

��� "I recommended it to you.� Years ago."

��� "Damn."� Pamela chuckled and reached into the refrigerator.� "We never got to follow through on most of those plans, did we?� You went to work the day after graduation and I came here.� No riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, no heading out to Shea for a ballgame and maybe a foul hit in our direction � and now we're too busy for any of it."

��� "This won't last forever, you know.� We'll have some time."

��� "Have you really thought about what you're going to do once we get you cured?� You're out of work, you've broken bond �"

��� "� no."� Sadira put her hands in her lap and stared at the ceiling.� "I mean, I have, but it's not a priority item right now.� I keep thinking that if we find a cure, everything else will sort out."

��� "Deal with the impossible and the improbable falls into place?"� Pamela emerged from the refrigerator to see Sadira's right hand, still holding the disk, moving up to cover her face.� "I'm sorry.� I didn't mean to say �"

��� "It was done.� It can be undone."� Sadira brought her hand back down �

��� � the disk slipped out of her fingers and hit the carpet halfway between bed and counter.� Sadira inhaled sharply, looked at her traitorous fingers, then got up, walked over to the disk, bent over �

��� � stayed there.

��� "Ow," came the too-soft voice.

��� Pamela turned away from the microwave and saw Sadira, bent at the waist, fingers grasping the disk, and not moving.� "Your back."

��� "Yeah."� Almost whispering, "Help."

��� Pamela came around the counter and got on Sadira's right side.� "I'm going to put my arms around your waist and carry you to the bed."

��� "Why not just help me stand back up?"

��� "Because you really wouldn't enjoy it.� Trust me."

��� "I don't have a lot of choice right now."� Sadira was starting to feel a little silly.� Even in the bra, her breasts had swung forward, and quite a bit of her limited view was impeded.� Combined with the sharp pain, it made for a very annoying set of sensations.

��� "Brace yourself.� I'm going to lift you.� Ready?"

��� Sadira was breathing fast; short, sharp pants.� "Honestly?"

��� Pamela lifted.� Sadira came off the floor as a unit, and Pamela staggered her over to the bed, gently lying her down on the pillows, then went to the other side of the bed.� Sadira heard her pick up the phone and dial.� "The answering machine triggers when someone walks in the lab � Hi, Mouse.� We're at the apartment.� Sadira threw her back out:� we'll catch up when she can move again.� Work harder."� She hung up and walked back into Sadira's sight.

��� "From the knees," Pamela sighed.� "I should have told you to reach down bending from the knees, damn it.� You're carrying about eighteen, twenty pounds right now.� I let you down �"

��� "� Pamela?� Painkillers."

��� "Sorry."� Pamela headed for the bathroom.� "Some teacher I am.� You don't disarm land mines by stepping on them..."� She was back seconds later with three capsules and a small cup of yellow liquid.� "Acetaminophen, 1500 milligrams, with 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen in a liquid solution.� It's over-the-counter stuff, but I upped the limits a bit.� You'll have to eat something with the Ibuprofen."

��� "As long as it isn't a Powerbar."� Pamela smiled and vanished again.� Sadira, who had been in the exact same position since her back had disintegrated, tried to move her arms.� This worked.� Her toes wriggled, and the knees functioned without hassle.� She tried to straighten out.� This was a mistake.� She stiffened again, bit back the scream, then reached for the capsules and dry-swallowed them.

��� "I was saving this for when we got BE-2 in your system and working, but this seems like a good time.� A little pleasure to go with the pain."

��� She held the rectangle out to Sadira, who flinched upon seeing the gold wrapper � and looked up again as she read it.� "Nehaus?� You bought me Nehaus chocolate?"� There was something akin to lust in her voice.

��� "The shop next to the post office.� You're not the only one who can remember small details."� Pamela sat down next to Sadira's legs and peeled the wrapper.� "Take a bite."� She held the bar in front of Sadira's mouth and pushed it gently against her lips until they opened.

��� Nehaus chocolate was a rare treat for Sadira:� it had been nearly impossible to find at college, and was completely unavailable around Helena:� God knew she'd looked.� She asked her parents to send it for birthdays, exams, and similar special occasions.

��� She'd meant to take small bites.

��� "Leave the fingers, Ebs," Pamela suggested, and Sadira guiltily swallowed the Ibuprofen.� "Now we wait.� The medication should normally start taking effect in about twelve minutes � for your metabolism, maybe six."

��� "More positive side effects," Sadira said.� "If we could get rid of the breast growth, we could sell this."

��� "Probably. �But here's the bad news:� you have to eat a Powerbar now.� Maybe two.� You have to keep going."

��� "Lollipop before the dentist's drill?"

��� "You got it."� Pamela got up again.� "Sewage or wall insulation?"

��� "Once of each."

��� Sadira ate in silence until Pamela said, "Just remember, you're going to burn out the medication almost as fast.� I'm putting some extras on the nightstand:� when you feel the slightest twinge, take one."

��� "I thought we were going to leave when the pain went away."

��� "But the injury is still there.� I'm just waiting for the medicine to work so I can move you into a position where I can work on your back.� I know a few quick tricks that'll get you back on your feet until we can �" get you to a doctor.� Wrong answer.

�"� find enough time for you to heal."

��� "I thought I was healing.� I've had some twinges before this, but they always felt better in the morning."

��� "Better, but not gone?"

��� "Yeah."� Sadira sighed.� "I remember what Coach Lynn said.� The part that heals slowest is the knees, and the back is right behind them."

��� "Well, if you have to pick something up, it's one or the other, unless you were planning on developing telekinesis."

��� "It would be handy � oh."

��� "What's wrong?"

��� "The pain just � blinked out.� No fading; it's just gone."

��� "That was fast."� Pamela started shuffling pillows.� "Don't try moving yet.� I'm going to get you on your stomach."

��� "You're kidding."

��� "New trick.� Hang on."

��� "I'm not going anywhere."

��� A few seconds later, Pamela slowly straightened Sadira out, stopping when her ex-roommate gasped:� the drugs stopped what pain was there, but they didn't prevent new agony from appearing.� Once the ninety-degree angle had vanished, she carefully rolled Sadira over and up onto the piled pillows, leaving her head and shoulders elevated, with her breasts comfortably resting on the mattress between columns.� The pillow groups gradually lowered in height until Sadira's feet were against the mattress.� Pamela sat down next to her, legs automatically going into the lotus.� "I'm going to have to probe.� This might hurt �"

��� It did, but then it hurt less as Pamela worked her hands across Sadira's back, kneading and pushing here and there.� "I had to learn this in case I ever had trouble and needed a temporary reset.� I do a lot of back exercises � and I start teaching them to you tomorrow morning � but this will give you a little time so your metabolism can give you another partial fix.� After that, you'll just have to be careful."

� ��"So I'm going to be a cripple."

��� "No, you're going to adjust, and I'm going to help you.� I told you that."� Sadira relaxed as Pamela's hands pushed and prodded.� "You're going to be okay.� Always remember that."� The kneading moved gradually up from the lower back.� Sadira, who had almost fallen asleep under the gentle assault, didn't notice until the soft pressure reached her shoulders.� She turned her head and unsuccessfully tried to look up at Pamela.

��� "Sorry.� You're all knots and tangles.� I thought as long as I was in the area..."

��� "No, go ahead."� Sadira was feeling very relaxed, better than she had since Jasmine had been pulled into the group.� Pamela slid her fingers under the shirt and pushed down the bra straps, exposing the shoulders for massage.� She worked in silence for several seconds.

��� Sadira's soft voice seemed to waft up to her.� "Do you remember the last time we did this?"

��� "You never threw your back out before this."

��� "No, a shoulder and neck message."� Pamela remembered.� Sadira was in no position to see the blush.� "It was our last week of finals ever.� It was about two in the morning, we were still up studying and getting ready to present our theses, and I just started cramping up."

��� "And I pulled my chair next to yours and started giving you a massage," Pamela said softly, remembering.

��� "You said 'I wish there was a way I could relax you more.� Well, there is, but I'm scared to try it.'� I couldn't believe you'd be afraid to try anything."

��� "So you said, 'Go ahead.� It couldn't hurt.'� Were you expecting it?"� Pamela unfolded her legs and leaned closer, almost whispering in Sadira's ear.

��� "No," Sadira said.� "But I kissed you back..."� And she turned over and kissed Pamela first.

��� Pamela fell into the kiss, her body responding as she reached out, arms encircling, all sensation coming from the lips � and then she withdrew, and couldn't believe that she had.

��� "Sadira," she said carefully, speaking from her conscience.� "You've been under a lot of stress lately.� This isn't exactly normal circumstances..."

��� Pamela's libido looked at her conscience and screamed SHUT UP!

��� Sadira looked up at Pamela.� "Ivory?"� Pamela nodded.� "Shaddap."� She reached up and pulled her closer, and the kiss began again.� This time, it was allowed to finish.

��� Pamela gently got Sadira off the pillows � but if the shorter woman was still in any pain, she was ignoring it.� They wound up sitting across from each other on the edge of the bed.

��� "Me first," Sadira said, and reached for Pamela's sweater, pulling the fabric up and over.� Pamela wriggled and shifted, trying to help.� Eventually, they got it off.

��� Pamela sat there, still blushing a little, her face a bright shade of rose.� Sadira ignored it and reached around for the bra hooks � and once again found she couldn't get close enough.� Pamela saw the problem and turned, kicking her shoes off on the way and getting all the lower garments removed as Sadira worked on the black bra.

��� Finally, she turned back, and Sadira smiled at her.� Pamela always felt a little odd naked in company � naked in private, for that matter.� Her body was snow-white all over, face to breasts, head hair and pubic curls.� Her breasts thrust proudly, only slightly touched by gravity (the natural consequence of growing up with an expert bra-maker in the family) and further buoyed by the development of muscle across her back, shoulders, and pectorals:� any sag was a natural consequence of her size.� There was the faintest suggestion of areola, and a touch of what imagination could make into pink in the nipples.

��� She was built a bit broader in the beam than Sadira, naturally thicker through the waist and hips, and her legs were well contoured and perfectly shaved.� She gave Sadira a small, slightly shy smile and reached for her sweater.

��� Sadira pulled back slightly.� Pamela's smile became a little stronger.� "You're still beautiful, Ebony," she whispered, and reached again.� This time, Sadira let her take the garment off, and the other ones, until again, the bra was last.� Sadira's hands stayed at her sides until the last hook was undone and the bra was removed, then reached up to briefly feel her contours.�����������

��� Pamela looked.� It was the same as it had been in the bathtub, just expanded significantly in all directions.� Her cleavage was longer, but still tight.� The nipples, already erect, were significant.� To Pamela, Sadira's breasts were beautiful.

��� To Pamela, Sadira had always been beautiful, flat or buxom, passive or leading, because no matter what, the loving smile was always the same.

��� She reached and gently lowered Sadira back on the bed, trying to keep her spine from being jolted.� Sadira's breasts sloped off to the sides a bit:� Pamela gathered them back together.

��� "Now," she whispered, "I'm going to show you what those good things are like directly �" and she lowered her head towards the left nipple, teased it with her tongue, a shock of red between white teeth, then gently, lovingly sucked.� Sadira gasped, and Pamela accelerated a little, then switched breasts.

��� Sadira's hands reached out, and she began massaging Pamela's breasts, working slowly, trying to think about returning the sensation to her friend when her mind was drowning in fire, and the fire was spreading to every part of her body �

��� � Sadira's back arched, but the pain was lost in the flood of pleasure, a jolt of power that reverberated through every cell and rebounded at the edges, from breasts to body and back again �

��� � she opened her eyes to see Pamela pulled back, staring at Sadira with shock and worry.� "Are you okay?� You just bucked and gasped �"

��� Sadira breathed deeply, riding the last of the aftershocks to level ground.� "That was an orgasm, silly!"

��� "That was a climax?"� Sadira nodded and sat up.� "Just from my sucking on your nipples?� Lucky!� I thought that only existed in women's magazines!"

��� "I seem to recall what does it to you," Sadira softly replied, and leaned closer.� "You told me about this, remember �" and kissed her friend while her right hand moved down and in.� Pamela jerked at the sudden contact, then relaxed and began working with Sadira, the kiss continuing as she moved her hips against Sadira's own movements, setting up a rhythm.

��� Sadira broke the kiss first � Pamela looked momentarily betrayed � but she'd thought of a new experiment:� she wanted to see if she could stimulate nipples and pussy at the same time.

��� She partially succeeded:� the best she could do was one nipple at a time.

��� It was Pamela's turn to gasp, eyes closing as the rhythm built and accelerated, pushing against Sadira's hand as she tried to reach between her lover's legs, fumbling blindly until her questing fingers found the spot and slipped inside.� She was rewarded by a soft, pleased cry and an increase in momentum:� they pulled closer together and slipped deeper inside each other.

��� Pamela got her right hand onto Sadira's breasts, massaging the nipples in turn as Sadira switched breasts on her body, never losing the rhythm as the barriers between bodies began to break down, knowing each other, loving each other �

��� She bit back a moan, then another, then finally tightened her lips, clenched her teeth, and fell back, her left hand slipping out, the additional stimulation pushing Sadira past the threshold again:� she cried out as they went down.� They wound up with Sadira lying partially on top of Pamela, and Pamela sprawled backwards on the bed.

��� "And what was that?" Sadira asked, removing her fingers and speaking against the breast, using it as a pillow.

��� "An orgasm.� What did you think it was?"� Pamela started giggling.

��� Sadira looked up.� "That quiet little thing?"

��� "I was masturbating across the room from you for four years!� By the time I figured out that nothing was going to wake you up, I couldn't break the habit!"

��� "Oh, so it's all my fault, is it?"� Sadira's right hand snaked off out of sight.

��� "Well, if you'd told me that in the first place �"

��� "Dem's fightin' words," Sadira told her, and the hand came back with a pillow.

��� The smack was solid and possibly even deserved.

��� Pamela stared at her for a moment, then gave a war whoop and grabbed for a pillow of her own.� There was plenty of ammunition available.�����

��� The pillows were well made, so it didn't end with feathers strewn across the room.� When they were finally finished, having landed a blow on every available part of the anatomy, they were lying side by side on the bed, giggling helplessly until it seemed like the most natural thing to reach for each other again and try something different, and in the end, it was impossible to tell which had felt better, the loving or the laughter.� There was every chance they were the same thing.

   

17

53:� Status reports

 

��� Jasmine stared at Sadira as she walked in, chatting merrily with Pamela, laughing, moving as if suspended on a cushion of air.� Jasmine considered herself to be a very good judge of body language � in her profession, it was the first line of defense.� Is the man staring at me because he wants my attention or because he wants me dead in an alleyway?� Does the manager like to "keep tips safe until the end of the day" because she's concerned I might lose something or does she like to take a little off the top?� Is this director completely out of his mind, or will he be fine once the cocaine wears off?

��� Sadira had spent a lot of time trying to conceal her feelings from Jasmine � but Jasmine had put in just as much time learning to read them.� This time, one wasn't even trying, and the other didn't have to try very hard.

��� "You're kidding me," Jasmine whispered, and watched Jason go up to them, seemingly oblivious, inquiring about Sadira's back.� With the ghost?� With anyone? �She'd seen the look many times before, but never from Sadira.

��� And if it's all with those two, and Sadira really isn't aware of Jason...

��� "Not really," Sadira said.� She reached into her pockets and pulled out a pill case.� "Now I have to take these any time I feel a twinge and I have to be really careful how I move.� I won't get a chance to fully heal until we stop the growth � and then my metabolism will slow to normal, and it'll take weeks."

��� "We stopped at the pharmacy and got one of everything," Pamela explained.� "She might become resistant to the medication just as fast, so we'll keep cycling through and make sure we don't hit any bad combinations."� She reached into her purse and pulled out the disk.� "Now if you'll pardon me, it's work time."

��� Jasmine watched Pamela cross the room from the little desk she'd set up next to the door.� Bingo:� all the signs were there.

��� She hadn't considered this � she couldn't have seen this angle coming.� It was going to take some thought.

��� Jasmine turned back to the book.� Mendel had been staring at his plants for three pages, and something interesting was due to happen.

 

��� The electron microscope worked perfectly well once it was running:� it just took three to ten minutes to power up.� There were some faulty relays which eventually clicked over � and cost a few thousand dollars to repair.� Pamela had learned to live with it.� Sadira would have normally stood around tapping her feet and arching eyebrows, waiting for the damn thing to warm up � but now she was just staring at the screen, looking at the reflection of the smile on her face.� It was a little wide, and more than a little silly, and it wouldn't go away.

��� It had been the third time they'd made love � the second had been the last night before moving out of the residence halls, a sort of farewell � and then they'd just never brought it up again.� Sadira really didn't know why she hadn't mentioned it in their phone calls:� she didn't know why Pamela didn't bring it up.� The subject just never arose.

��� So why now?� Sadira looked deeper into the screen.� No matter how far in she went, it was still black. �Because I've got arteries and veins filled with hormones instead of blood, and I was relaxed, and willing, and �

��� She watched the smile fade from the screen. �� because I needed to feel loved.� I needed to feel like someone was attracted to me.

��� Sadira was familiar with a term that Jasmine had used repeatedly in describing both her sister's sex life and the only way she could see her sister having a sex life:� mercy fuck.

��� No.� Pamela's my friend.� My best friend.� We should have been sisters.� The times we made love before, it was just expressing that friendship, as deeply as possible.� She smiled again.� About four fingers' worth. �Still...

��� Sadira wondered if her perspectives were a little weird.� She'd had few male friends in high school or college � she had listened to the phrase "We should just be friends" often enough to get sick of it.� The ones she chased, Jasmine took � and Sadira was more than bright enough to realize that the men who really found intelligence attractive were hard to find � at least, the ones who still possessed single status:� they usually got taken early.

��� In college, there had been work, and lots of it � while she had been grateful to GenTree for the free ride, she didn't want to lock herself into one company for a moment longer than necessary.� She and Pamela had spent many late nights mentally building a genetics lab, talking about the projects they would research together, the diseases they could cure.� Even after nine months in her own lab, she'd still thought that on the last day of the fourth year, she would be packing for New York.

��� So she'd gone to winter sessions, summer sessions, day and night classes, with the occasional practical joke to blow off steam, letters to family to get a view of life outside the classroom, Pamela to keep her sane.� There had been no time to pursue relationships.

��� Bullshit.� She'd walked into the dorm, taken one look at Pamela, and decided that any man she pursued would glance at her roommate and be lost:� by the time she found out the truth...

��� Double bullshit.� She'd given up.

��� So she didn't have relationships, she had friendships, and she'd forgotten how to look for more � so when Pamela had kissed her � and beyond � it had been friendship.

��� It seemed to make sense � but Sadira knew it was easy to build a perfectly logical conclusion starting from false premises.

��� Do you "make love" with a friend?� Is there a barrier between friendship and �

��� She was still staring at the screen, trying to force the next word, when she saw Jason's reflection in the glass.

��� "You've got to watch your position.� Leaning forward like that could hurt your back."

��� "Don't worry."� I can't lean too far forward.� "I'm doped to the gills right now."

��� "And you'll feel it when it wears off."� She turned around:� he stepped back slightly to give her room.� "If you become resistant to all the conventional drugs �"

��� "� then we can get something stronger on the sidewalk."� She almost laughed at his reaction.� "I'm starting to think Pamela gave you exactly the right nickname.� You really are a country mouse."

��� "I grew up on a farm," Jason defended.� "You know how to score drugs and I know how to get my hand up a horse's..."� The next moment was reserved for staring in disbelief, Sadira at Jason, he at himself in the screen.� "Not that it comes in handy all that often..."

��� "Any knowledge can be useful," Sadira told him.� "And I don't know how to score drugs.� I had one cigarette when I was fifteen, someone else had to buy the pack for me, and I spent an hour throwing up behind the gym.� It put me off going to the next level.� Besides," and her voice dropped, "if the pain gets that severe, then just about anything I could take would keep me from thinking straight."

��� "So watch your posture."� He stepped behind her, gently placed his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back.� "Find a comfortable zone and stay there."� The contact abruptly terminated.� "I've got to sort out the rest of these sample hormones.� See you later."� He stepped back into sight.

��� Sadira had part of the first shipment under the scanner.� "Someone else delivered?"� She hadn't heard the intercom go off.

��� "Three minutes ago.� He didn't look very happy." Jason shrugged.� "Pamela was right:� her reputation is going to be shot when this is over.� Blackmail isn't the best way to influence people."� He smiled, a passable imitation of Pamela's more vicious variants.� "Effective, though."

��� Sadira watched him walk away and then turned back to the screen, which still wasn't on. �He gave up his own career for me, he's working so hard � a good friend.� Like Ivory.� A really good �

��� Her heart stood up, climbed through the neck until it was standing behind her brain, and kicked her hard.

��� No, she immediately thought.� No way.� Impossible.� I can't get one person interested over a lifetime of effort, let alone two at the same time without trying.� Mercy fuck.� Sympathy.� Pamela trying to keep my spirits up no matter what.� Not happening.� Not in that sense. Not �

��� It was too late to stop it.� � not to me.� Not for me.� Because I'm a nerd and Jasmine's pretty and I can't get anyone and she takes everyone and I'm ugly no matter what anyone says stop stop STOP!

��� Sadira brought a hand up and shaded her eyes as she closed them, breathing hard.� They're my friends.� They love me as a friend.� Don't they?� She opened her eyes and the screen was still blank.� And even if it was true � even if it was possible � she stepped back and looked at as much of her body as the screen could reflect � look at me.

�� �Pamela kissed me what I was still flat, and she'll say anything, do anything to keep me going.� Jason never saw me any other way until last week, and even if he was somehow attracted to me, Jasmine is starting after him:� what could I do?� Nothing ever worked...

��� Sadira looked down.� And I'm almost as big as Jasmine now, and then I'll be as big as Pam, and then � where am I when it stops?� If � and a safety cut in, blocking the car, but it didn't stop the rest of the train from proceeding.� People find Jasmine attractive, lots of them, but that's as much manner and cunning as anything else.� I don't have that.

��� A smaller voice said I have a smile and was lost in the howling storm.

��� The range for zero to normal is nothing to C.� D is big, E and up are extra-large, X and Z are huge.

��� Where does huge end and freak begin?

��� She was shaking.� She put her hands against the screen, bracing herself physically if not mentally, trying to get back under control, but the last thought kept echoing, and she couldn't make it stop.� Freak...

��� "Ebs?� Are you okay?"

��� "I'm fine, Pamela," she lied.� "I'm just sick of waiting for this machine to start working �" and she felt the screen grow warm under her hands.� "Never mind.� I stopped watching the pot and it boiled."� She resumed a more normal posture.� "I'm going to start checking the structure of these hormones."

��� "Okay," Pamela said slowly.� "Just take it easy.� That stance isn't good for your back."

��� "Nothing is," Sadira replied, and began working the controls.

��� "Are you sure you're �"

��� "� I won't be if I don't get this work done."

��� Pamela looked at her friend, saw the intensity in her face, and didn't know how to respond to it, how to help.

��� She walked away.

 

��� Damn!� Pamela hit the photocopier's Start button harder than absolutely necessary.� She's slipping again.� I thought that our little scene at the apartment had picked her spirits up, but �� One of her earlier thoughts came back to her, slightly altered.� All adolescence in a week.� I saw those hormone charts:� I remember puberty.� Keeping a straight skull isn't easy.� Her direct view was blocked, but she still threw a venomous glance in Jasmine's direction.� And she isn't helping.� If Sadira feels something for the Mouse, watching her sister go to work on him won't do anything but hurt.� And he's got to feel something towards her:� how couldn't he?� He's gone through all this for her...

��� The thought came, and she let it through.� If the Princess took the Mouse, then it leaves Sadira for me.� Unfortunately, another thought insisted on following.� Except I like the Mouse too much to see him hurt that way. �Sadira had told her about some of Jasmine's "relationships":� wham, bam, move on 'mam.� Goddamn it!� Why do I have to like him so much!� It would be easier to compete if I had an opponent I could hate, and I can't work it up for him!� It's like kicking a puppy!� If it wasn't for Sadira, and...� The concept wouldn't materialize.

��� And towards the end of the afterglow, basking in the warmth of Sadira's body, she'd allowed herself to think, just for the briefest of moments, I've won.� I've got her with me and she'll move in and we'll work together and everything's going to be okay... �Happily ever after.� Pamela wasn't as smart as Sadira, not on the raw intelligence tests, but she felt she was wiser.� She believed that the instant she assumed all was going well was the same moment the universe was planning to shoot her from the front � it hurt more when she could see it coming and couldn't stop it.� However, knowing it and remembering it were different things.

��� She'd thought it, and now she was going to pay for it.

��� Genetics was the science of fighting back at the universe, taking all the bad hands people had been dealt and forcing a fresh deal.� Pamela believed it was possible to win � she just always had to consider the power of her opponent.

��� Opponents.� One, maybe two � probably three.� Because if she kept going down that line, she was going to wind up fighting herself, and that wouldn't help Sadira.

��� The cure was important.

��� Collating the copies was important because it might lead to the cure.

��� Her feelings could wait.

��� Somehow.

 

��� Jason held the small tube up to the light.� Human hormones did not come naturally in quantity:� they had to be collected, filtered, and protected.� This one, roughly an ounce's worth, was an odd gray-green.� He wondered if the color was visible in the bloodstream, little specks flowing through the red rivers.

��� He separated a few cells from the cultures he'd modified off Jasmine's base, then applied the BE-1 virus to them and, looking through the enhancement port, watched the infection begin.� It was almost instantaneous: contact, invasion, chromosomal reprogramming, death � and the cells began to send out new messages.� The hormone was, in all probability, going to take a lot longer to work.� "All right," he murmured, staining the culture, "stall like a cheap carburetor..."

��� He felt eyes on him and looked up:� Jasmine was gazing at him, one hand under her chin, the other marking her place in the book:� she'd gotten about forty pages in.� He nodded to her and turned back to the machine.

��� She's really a nice � and his own brain interrupted him.� Nice girls can't conjure expressions like the ones you saw in the photos.� Where did that one in the layout come from?� No sibling there to triumph over.

��� But she seems to be �

��� She's a dancer.� She's used to manipulating men's emotions just by swiveling hips and shaking � other parts.� Not to mention the effect on male 'other parts.'� Do you actually think you're immune?

��� Jason shared a feeling with every sentient being since the dawn of time:� a desire to find that small, detached, rational portion of his brain and put a fist through it.� She's coming on to me.

��� Why?� The cells were starting to react to the hormone.

��� Search me.� I thought I had some appeal.

�� �But she asked about you and Sadira � and that one question, about liking big breasts � it didn't come across as something normal.� More like she was fishing for something.� And you still haven't told Sadira how you feel, have you?� Or has Jasmine displaced that?

� ��No.� But you saw � great, talking in second person to himself � how Pamela and Sadira looked when they came in.� Especially Pamela.� She looked so happy � too happy for someone's back going out.

��� So what do you think happened?� A fine meal and a good joke?

��� I don't know.� He had a good idea.� He didn't want to pursue it.� But when I lied just 'friendship', Pamela said 'love.'� Jason focused on the cells:� the signals that promoted growth were slowing as the hormone was absorbed, the cell walls taking on a gray hue �

��� � the walls ruptured, and the cells died, flattening against the slide as their contents flowed out.� Jason jerked his head back, unable to watch.

��� So what do you think of that? the detached part inquired.

��� I don't know what to think about anything anymore.

   

18

57:� A place of healing

 

��� The budget was being stretched in all sorts of creative directions.� Nigilo began to offer various chemicals and drugs to his agents in lieu of cash.� A genetics lab had access to all sorts of interesting, ordinarily controlled substances that could be converted into cash on the street.� Most of the people he talked to took the offer.� He began to suspect the existence of a network when, three calls later, he was asked about the neothorazine before he had a chance to bring it up.�

��� Shaw had not posed for a formal yearbook picture, but there was still a photograph of her in the tome.� It was a mood shot � according to the caption, it had been taken the day after the Mark XI simulators had been installed, and it showed Shaw staring at the new controls in annoyance.� She looked as if she was about to bite through the console.

��� Overall, Nigilo considered the photograph as a lucky break:� yearbook graduation photos were head-and-shoulder:� this gave him a full-body portrait.� He spent a lot of time looking at the body before deciding it added to his "jealousy" theory:� Archer had amazing luck when it came to living with extremely buxom women.� He also remembered Carmody's mention of "roommate experimentation."� It said something, although he wasn't quite sure what.� Matching a friend?� Some sort of triangle?� Non-monetary or family relationships were outside Nigilo's field:� he dismissed the ideas for lack of evidence.

��� The photograph was duplicated and faxed to all agents, along with better pictures of Pterros � and, just in case, (clothed) images of the Princess.� All pictures of Archer remained head-and-shoulders:� Nigilo was concerned that anyone who knew about the viruses would figure out the profit angle and sell her to someone else.� The original agents had been told to look for a very busty woman.� As the days had worn on, a few more "very's" had been added to the description.

��� Carmody slept in his office, took all the calls, summarized and relayed information, and made himself heroically available.� Nigilo actually appreciated it:� it was an amazing effort.� Little food, little sleep, just a lot of work.

��� The research team found that the five percent of the data which had dropped out was more crucial than they had originally wanted to believe.� There was no blueprint for the enlargement virus, and several interaction sites seemed to be missing.� They were trying to recreate the work, but they were also testing every piece of it to make sure Archer hadn't left them false data.� It slowed things down � and even as a team, they just weren't as bright.

��� Nigilo knew the rule about finding the average IQ of a group:� add all indexes together and divide by the number of people in the team � squared.� He'd been hoping that whatever points remained would be enough to solve the problem.� So far, it wasn't working.� Eventually, he'd had to admit that his frequent drop-ins on the lab weren't having any positive effects, and remained in his office.

��� And as he waited, two dozen agents moved about the five boroughs of New York City, checking the streets and occasionally risking a direct inquiry � after all, they didn't want the target to know how intensive the search was.� There were some areas they didn't check, of course.�

�� No point in checking Wall Street:� Shaw's company had no public trading.

��� Rockefeller Center?� Why would they bother skating?

��� Alphabet City?� No one was crazy enough to put a genetics lab in the middle of that nightmare.

��� They concentrated on talking to other labs, asking if they'd had any dealings with Shaw.� All of them said no.� Some of them said it a little vehemently, but that was to be expected when discussing competition.� None of them knew where she was.� The supply houses didn't have any customers by the name of Shaw.� They did have one named Delacroix, who owned the building which Pamela rented in, and got things delivered to under his name for tax purposes, but no Shaw.� Since Pamela had done her shopping by phone and computer, the face wasn't familiar.� Some interest was expressed in the body.

��� They searched, and continued to search.� If they were in New York, there were only eight million people to hide among. �It was an distinct improvement over five billion.

��� Eventually, they would be found.� It was just a matter of time.

 

��� Sadira's original estimate had been a little off.� At five o'clock on Thursday, she walked out the bathroom with the new bra on and caught Jasmine on her way in.� Her sister froze, staring at her.� The difference between X and Z might be difficult to spot at a glance � but Sadira had been wearing an N when they saw each other, and the difference between N and X was a lot easier to see.

��� Jasmine was wearing the padded bra to look a little larger, but Sadira knew it � and Jasmine knew that she knew.

��� Sadira quickly drew an equal sign in the air and moved off, feeling very petty and somewhat triumphant.� Mostly petty.� Great.� Next thing, I'll be wearing blouses cut down to my navel with arrows pointing in from the sides and custom lettering that says 'Look here.'� The shirt had cost Jasmine forty dollars to have made when they were sixteen:� she'd gotten to use it once, and then Sadira had shown the garment to their parents.� One week grounded each:� Jasmine for designing and Sadira for squealing.� "The two of you have to learn to work together," Mom had said as she threw down the punishment.

��� Jasmine had snuck out every night.� She hadn't shown Sadira how to do it, so she'd missed a movie premiere and seen the film the day after the house arrest ended.� The lesson hadn't stuck.

��� Pamela intercepted her on the way to the refrigerator.� "Did you just change again?"

��� "Yeah.� Every six hours, set your watch."� Not quite true:� she slept through the night growth without difficulty.� It was just more uncomfortable when she finally had to change.� It meant that one bra out of every four was going unused.

��� "Where did you put the old bra?"

��� "I left it in the bathroom.� Why?"

��� "I was thinking about sending the old ones back to Aunt Susan � maybe she'd cut me a break, sell them used, or at least suggest someplace to donate them for a tax break.� I can't find any of them."

��� "Laundry?"

��� "No.� I figured you were just throwing them around, same as usual � but they're nowhere in the house or the lab.� I don't think the Mouse is keeping them for � personal reasons, and I'm sure not wearing any by mistake.� Where are they going?"

� ��"Time-release disintegration?� Good for six hours of wear and gone?"

��� "Get serious."� Sadira considered the source � and then Pamela looked past her, at something moving through the maze.� "Does the Princess always take a bag to the bathroom?"

��� "If it had a book in it �"

��� They both moved.� Pamela got there first.� "Okay, open it."

��� "What?"� Too-sincere confusion.� Pamela grabbed the bag and dumped the contents on the floor.� Both stepped back a bit to look down.� One book, one bra.

��� "Making yourself useful?" Pamela inquired.� "I really don't need a janitor."

��� "Making money," Jasmine snarled.� "I'm losing the week because of this shit.� You owe me something."

��� "Making � you're going to sell them, aren't you?� Your bags are stuffed with old bras!"� Sadira caught up just in time to see Pamela's hands push out, straight into Jasmine's shoulders, knocking her back.� "What are you getting?� Eighty each?� A hundred?� More?� Look, guys, bras from when the little Princess was growing up!� Never mind that they've never even seen a full day of use!"� She pushed again:� Jasmine reeled.� "Going to make money from someone else's misery, you little piece of �"

��� A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed her left wrist.� The strength of the grip made her think Mouse until she saw the hand:� Sadira.� "That's it!� Both of you, neutral corners, now!"

��� Jasmine slowly got her balance back:� Pamela pulled in a thin breath and pushed out "Sadira?� My arm..."

��� "Oh."� Sadira let go.� Pamela rubbed her aching wrist and decided that the enhanced ATP carriers were something else they should try to separate out for sale.� Jason came running up.

��� "What's going on �"

��� "Nothing."� Sadira said.� "Jasmine had a plan.� She'll sell the old bras through her fan club, give the original cost back to Ivory, and split the profits fifty-fifty, since it was her idea.� No problem at all.� Right?"

��� "Right," Pamela said, rubbing her wrist.

��� Jasmine said nothing, but slowly nodded.

��� "Fine.� We have more important things ta worry 'bout than what we're gonna do wif de fuckin' bras!"� And Sadira stalked off.

��� "Did she just say 'fucking?'" Jason asked.� No one answered.

��� "Okay," Pamela slowly mustered, "The center is holding nicely..."� She'd forgotten Jasmine was five feet away.

��� "Have you tried a bubble bath?"

��� They both looked at Jasmine before Pamela said "Yes," and walked away, gesturing for Jason to follow.� They headed for one of the lab's quiet corners � literally:� the otherworldly acoustics meant that whatever was said there stayed there.

��� "We're going to wind up saving the body and losing the soul.� I'm not going to allow that," Pamela said firmly � and then her voice and body partially collapsed:� she leaned against a support column, arms falling slack at her side.� "And I'm running out of ideas on how to do it."� She looked up at Jason, eyes wide and slightly pleading.� "Mouse, what have you got left?"

��� "I've eliminated three more hormones, two gene sites, and one bottle of aspirin.� Everything else is 'left.'"

��� Pamela slammed a fist backwards, hitting the column solidly.� (Now her wrist and hand were aching.)� Every one of the next words was a sentence in itself.� "That's not what I meant.� We have to keep her spirits up, reassure her that we will find a cure � help her get used to how she looks now."� She'd caught Sadira going through elaborate measures to literally avoid herself � arms moving wide to avoid contact with her breasts � more difficult now, as there was some small overlap even in the bra.� "We've got to make her understand that we love her no matter what she looks like."

��� Jason looked at her until Pamela said, "Right.� I said we, and I said love.� Now go ahead and lie to me again.� Even if the Princess is leading you by the balls, you felt it, even if you don't now.� I want this said, from both sides."

��� Jason found a nearby support column and leaned against it, arms folded.� The staring match went on for about two eons.� He blinked first.� "Okay.� I have �" it felt so strange to say it aloud "� something of a crush under the friendship.� I feel for her.� I wish I'd found a way to say it to her before this, but �"� He shrugged.� "But I'm the kind of guy women like to be friends with.� They come to me when their dates go bad and cry on my shoulder.� I'm no threat to anyone:� I'm a very tall teddy bear.� The thought that I might be the cure for those problems never occurs to them, and on the few times I proposed it, they just looked at me and said 'But you're my friend.� I could never think of you that way.'"

��� "Then you've been talking to the wrong women.� Anyone who needs a bit of menace to be happy in a relationship is less than sane."

��� He shrugged again.� "Call it a knack.� So what do we do?"

��� Pamela closed her eyes and said, "First, we call a truce.� We haven't been actively competitive that I'm aware of, but she could be picking up vibes.� We work together, we get this cured, worry about the rest later."� She opened her eyes and smiled.� "Frankly, Mouse, if it wasn't me, I'd want it to be you."� She extended her left hand.

��� Jason grasped it, and they solemnly shook.� "Ditto."� He smiled as he felt his heart crack.� "Two mature adults, aren't we?"

��� "No, but we fake it pretty well."� She felt a dull pain throbbing behind her ribs.

��� "I don't think I could beat you at anything, anyway."

��� "Reaching high shelves," Pamela quipped, and leaned back again.� "Second � what is up between you and the Princess?"� Jason told her everything.� Pamela listened closely and said, "No personal experience:� I'm an only child.� Maybe a bitch turns into a beauty when she's out of range � but I think with that werewolf, the full moon's always shining somewhere."� Even if her taking you leaves me free...

��� "Third," Jason continued, "we think of a way to keep Sadira emotionally stable � which means that we both can't tell her how we feel.� That's not something I want to add to her burden."

��� What burden?� She loves me...� "Right.� And it can't be just one of us, either.� So we've just eliminated that little option.� What do we do to cheer her up?� Bubble baths won't help, we really can't go to the movies, sex isn't a proven cure �"� Pamela stopped.� The last words had been meant for mental play only.

��� "I guessed," Jason starkly replied.

��� "Oh."� Just for that one word, her voice was very small and soft.� "I was a little obvious."

��� "The whistling was a giveaway."� He forced down the emotions, stepped on them, ground them to dust, watched them reassemble.� "Which still leaves us with the original problem."

��� Pamela sighed and stared at nothing.

��� Her eyes narrowed, and she looked up.

��� "I have an idea," she said, "and the best part is, it puts both of us at risk."

 

��� "This isn't the way back to your apartment.� Did we pick up a tail?"

��� Pamela, who had just stopped the car at a red light, glanced over to Sadira.� "No.� We're just not going home.� It's nearly midnight and we practically worked straight through.� The Mouse and I think it's time for a little relaxation."

��� "At midnight?� What do we do at this hour?"� Sadira had been cold and withdrawn for most of the day, hiding among the machines, speaking only in response to direct questions, and keeping her test results in carefully modulated order.� Pamela was getting scared.

��� "You've been out of the city too long.� In Montana, you get to watch snow fall or grass grow.� Here, we've got options."� The light changed, and Pamela turned right.� "We're going out for a few hours.� Powerbar?"

��� Sadira took it automatically.� "Where?"

��� "Oh, I don't know.� Somewhere."� Jasmine had fallen asleep and slumped onto Jason's lap.� It looked perfectly natural.� "Let you know when we get there.� If I figure it out."

��� "You're up to something."

��� "Sure.� Two inches shy of six feet and one inch over five.� Relax.� We're almost there."

��� "Almost where?"

��� "Wherever we're going."

��� Sadira got nothing out of her for the rest of the drive.

 

��� Unfortunately, they had to wake Jasmine up and bring her with them.� Pamela would have preferred to leave her in the car, but she didn't want to risk splitting the group up.� They were already taking enough of a chance going anywhere besides the lab and the apartment � but Sadira's sanity was at stake.

��� The worst part was that she wasn't sure if this was going to help.� With the wrong factors and plain bad luck, it could do some major damage � and in a minor way, it might not be helpful for either the Mouse's or her own ultimate goals.� When they'd discussed it at the lab, he'd seen the risk:� she'd seen that in his face.� He'd also agreed to it anyway.� Pamela felt the risk was small � but the need was greater.

��� This is what love means, she thought.� Taking a chance for someone else, no matter how much it might hurt.

��� Following Pamela, they walked for two blocks, coming to a stop in front of an ordinary looking white door with brass numbers embedded at the top, and a golden doorknob.� Sadira had lost track of the myriad turns, but she could see the World Trade Center if she tilted her head back:� they were near the southern end of Manhattan Island, in the maze of little streets that bordered the Wall Street district.� "What is this?"

��� "Someplace different," Pamela replied as she fumbled in her purse, withdrawing a thin wallet.� "A place I'm still suspicious of because it's too damn good to be true."� She rifled through the wallet, finally withdrawing a small gold card with silver lettering.� "It's invitation only.� A man just came up to me on the street one day and handed it to me.� It was a little bit nerve-wracking � who knows what some of these people might have in mind � but two months later, I couldn't sleep and decided to take a look.� I brought � help in case I needed it, but it wasn't necessary.� Still..."� She shook her head and handed Sadira the card.

� ��It was very simple:� two words in a fancy font and an address, with a magnetic strip on the back.� Sadira read the words aloud.� "'Fancy that?'"

��� "Exactly."

��� Jasmine stiffened.� Her book nearly fell from nerveless fingers.� "I've heard the name."� Sadira glanced back at her.� "I never knew anyone who was invited."

��� "Well, you're all with me," Pamela said, "and we all qualify by their rules.� They might let us all in.� Let's try."� She turned the knob and pushed the door in, and they stepped inside.

��� The foyer was fairly large, with a coat room off to one side, and a large, deep burgundy curtain hung across a wide entrance at the other end.� There were several chairs, rich mahogany wood, and one woman in her mid-forties sitting on a stool, gazing at a large book sitting on the dais in front of her through wide-lensed glasses.

��� She was naturally blond and wondrously proportioned, with features that Michaelangelo would have barely dared to dream.� She was also less than three feet tall.

��� "No, don't tell me," she said, glancing up from the book at Pamela, who was standing at the front of the group.� "Shane � shall �- shawl?� Shawl, right?"

��� Pamela handed her the card.� The woman ran it against a small magnetic reader, colored to match the wood.� "Shaw, Grace.� Pamela Shaw.� Can I bring some friends?" She pointed at her following.� "They need this place for a few hours."� Pamela stood aside and gestured back.� "Although I won't mind if you decide to keep the fake blonde out in the foyer.� Or the cloak room.� Just put her on a hanger until we're done."

��� "Three?"� Grace looked carefully at the trio.� "Pamela, all or none.� They all need some time here.� Perhaps even especially the young lady.� And it's been too long for you if you're speaking that way."

��� "It's my habit.� I happen to like it."

��� Grace sighed.� "I suppose you do.� But it's still three or zero."

��� "Three, then."

��� Grace handed the card back to Pamela, then motioned the others forward and passed out cards, with the colors reversed.� "These will give you two more visits before the question of dues will arise.� Enjoy yourselves."� She went back to the book.

��� "Grace?" Pamela said carefully.

��� "Oh, right!� Forgetful of me.� Mark!"� A man walked up to the front of the cloak room and put out his arms.� Pamela began to strip her coat off.� "Don't get them mixed up, now."

��� Mark nodded.� He was of average height, but well muscled, and held himself as if he was guarding a treasury.� His features were Afrimerican, and his skin was as white as Pamela's.

��� "What is this place?" Jasmine hissed.

��� Pamela looked back at her.� "Something special," she said, and passed through the curtain.

 

��� The first thing Sadira saw was the people.� And the second, the third, and all the way up into the hundreds before she managed to look anywhere else.

��� Taken as a whole, it was a beautiful place.� Everything was done in rich, dark shades, with natural wood and carpeting plush enough to float on, but shallow enough to drop keys and not lose them.� An old-fashioned bar, with hanging glasses, brass rails and a liquor selection that was a wine tasters' wet dream occupied most of a wall.� Several people were sitting or standing next to it, chatting, laughing, and taking drinks from a large man with jolly red cheeks, a thick red mustache, a laugh that boomed across the room, and a blindfold.� He spun from shelf to shelf along the beautifully arranged bar, scooping ingredients, mixing everything from margaritas to milkshakes without pause or mistake.� It was only when Sadira tore her gaze away from his performance that she saw the blindfold was stretched tightly across his face � tight enough to push into the space where there had once been eyes.

��� There was a dance floor, lit perfectly, slightly elevated with ramps on every side, accessible from every angle to the wheelchair-bound performers who were attempting � and laughing at their failure to accomplish � a very intricate square dance.� There was no music, but there was one soft-spoken caller who could barely direct for laughter.

��� Most of the lighting came from suspended Tiffany lamps, the rainbows muting and blending into the room.� One man in a dapper tuxedo was waving his arms towards the extra-high ceiling, as if he was conducting an orchestra � and automatically avoiding the lights, which his outstretched limbs were more than long enough to reach.

��� Tables and chairs, all comfortable, some with unusual shapes to allow better comfort for their occupants.� A closer look showed that the tables were modular, sections of different angles, shapes, and heights that would allow an assembly to accommodate any party.� There were no televisions or jukeboxes.� The two most dominant sounds were conversation and laughter, all taking place at a spirited level.

��� Sadira saw two other albinos, and a man whose skin was an even purple hue, as if every inch was a birthmark.� Heights ranged from dwarf to giant, and two of those extremes were engaged in a ferocious darts contest, the dwarf standing straight and the giant lying on the floor.� There was heavy betting being placed on the match.

��� There were people without legs, people without arms, sight, hearing, or speech.� None of it slowed down the gesturing or conversation.� Some just gestured with feet or argued with hands.

��� Most people had a marked physical difference, something that would get them a second glance on the street.� Not all were handicaps, and seeing how they laughed and played, it was hard to believe that any of them were.� There were some very minor things � one man had hair the color of brass, a woman with a extra finger on each hand, perfectly placed and functional, which she was using for some very animated sign language.� Some people were very skinny, and one short, bespectacled blonde woman was very buxom, matching Pamela in proportion if not actual size.� They were just things people would notice.� There were some who looked ordinary, but there was something about their bearing that made them stand out more than the others.

��� It was, Sadira decided, the one place in the world Carmody couldn't blend into.

��� Jason was looking around, a slow smile spreading across his face.� Pamela looked back and nodded to him.� Jasmine was staring about wildly, eyes dancing in desperation from one person to another, looking for something ordinary to latch onto, and said "Fr�"

��� That was as far as she got before Pamela clamped a hand over her mouth.� "You too," she hissed, and brought her hand back down.� Jasmine glared, but kept silent.� If anyone in the room had even noticed, they were too polite to even glance over.

��� Pamela looked around and spotted someone familiar:� a woman with red hair � pure red, without a hint of orange or brown � who was nearly Jason's height.� She was watching the darts contest.� "I'll catch up," she promised, and headed across the room.� "Hey, Skyler!"� The redhead turned around, smiled, and met her halfway.

��� Jason grinned again:� they'd discussed it at the lab.� They were both supposed to find something to do within seconds of entering, and then keep an eye on Sadira from afar for the first half-hour.� "Excuse me," he said, "but this country mouse has a hankering for a good old-fashioned square dance."� He strode to the dance floor and, with a little fast negotiation, got the microphone away from the laughing caller.� "All right!" he sang out.� "Swing your partner, dossie-do, line those wheels up in a row...!"

��� "Sadira," Jasmine slowly breathed, "what is this place?"

��� "I don't know," her sister replied, "But they have a bar."� And she went up to it and took one of the high-backed plush stools.

��� The bartender immediately came up to her and smiled. �"A new face!� And a pretty one, judging from the heart rate jump around here!"� Several patrons, males and females, blushed.� "What would you like to drink?"

��� "Do you have Blackened Voodoo?"

��� "Miss, there's nothing I don't have � or can't make up on the spot."� He spun, twirled, extracted a black bottle from seeming nothingness, uncapped it, and poured it into a mug that had appeared from the same place.� "Blackened Voodoo!� Take it slow, it's a powerful mix."

��� "Thanks."� Sadira lifted the mug and breathed the aroma.� She seldom drank, but her tastes were exotic when she did indulge:� Blackened Voodoo smelled like a forest under a full moon.� "How much?"

��� "How much?"� He leaned close and whispered, "Nothing.� Ever.� For anything.� And don't insult me with tips.� But if you are going to insult me, make it devastating."� He danced away to fill another order.

��� Sadira smiled, took a sip � the buzz seemed to hit and fade faster:�� another side blitz from her metabolism � and had started to relax when a voice at her elbow said "Pardon me."

��� She looked down.� One of the shorter denizens, wearing an expensive brown business suit, a bald pate, and a smile, was looking back up at her.� "You look like someone with far more practical knowledge of baseball than anyone should have," he said.� Across the room, Pamela watched and smiled:� set-up complete.� "My friend and I �" he indicated a Asian woman wearing a sleeveless gown, which exposed her artificial arm "� are having a rules debate on Batting Out Of Turn.� Could you help resolve a bet?"

��� Sadira, who was too far into amazement to add another layer � and who suspected that she'd been set up anyway � clambered down from the stool and went over to discuss baseball's most confusing rule (behind balking).� She was quickly meshed into the debate, and was soon drawing diagrams on the table with a damp finger.

 

��� Jason, his throat getting dry, passed off the microphone to another caller, got a drink, and joined Pamela at an empty dartboard near the fireplace.� They each grabbed a set.

��� "So what was the risk again?" he inquired as he checked on Sadira, who was moderating a lively debate on the makeup of the ultimate New York baseball team � 25 positions, all squads and decades, no choice allowed to go unargued.� They were currently doing their best not to settle first base.

��� "The Princess," Pamela replied, automatically checking on the dancer, who had wound up at a corner table, her book laid open as the man who had earlier led the invisible orchestra signed it.� It seemed she had found the author.� "You can guess what the rest of that word was going to be.� She never struck me as the most tolerant person � but she adapts quickly enough once she realizes she's outnumbered."� Although that might be slightly unfair:� the Princess was chatting merrily, trying to ferret out information on upcoming works from a man who was only too happy to be questioned.� But she never looked at the rest of the room.� Pamela wasn't sure what had led her to the big man in the first place:� probably a dust jacket photo.

��� She gently poked the dart tip into her finger:� sharp and ready to go.� "I was worried that for whatever reason, Sadira would take the same point of view:� one among others, if you know what I mean.� But I also wanted to show her that other people had things worse, and they still knew how to laugh and have a good time.� That no matter what she looked like, there were still people who would talk instead of stare.� Look at her."� Jason looked.� Sadira was making a push for Keith Hernandez, which was drawing some support from the younger crowd.� "It may be a temporary pick-up, but we can come back � without explanation, I hope.� If it was a week from now, people would have to fight the urge to ask hard.� But you don't discuss these things here.� Club rule."

��� "And I'm minor," Jason said.� "No 'How's the weather up there,' nothing at all."� He looked at Jasmine's companion.� "I'm barely noticeable.� Pamela, what is this place?"

��� "A very private club.� International sites:� this is the East Coast branch, and the original.� Like I said, it's invitation only.� They try to keep out the fetish fans:� plenty of people interested in amputees, tall and short...� One of these days, I'm going to check the newsgroups and find alt.sex.albino.

��� "If you get a card, you can try it.� You can bring dates, but most people don't.� It's a haven.� Somewhere to go when the weight of the eyes drives you to your knees.� If there's anything different about you, anything that some idiot would think disqualified you from the human race, you're in.� Skin color, height, build � and that includes macromastics, although I used to be the biggest one here.� And geniuses, although you'd have to show your IQ test at the door.� Sadira would have gotten in before:� a lot of scholars hang out here.� Actually, it includes just about everyone under the right circumstances.� On the right day, you can find admission from being Caucasian.� Club motto."

��� Jason waited.� Pamela smiled.� "'Nobody's normal.'� This place isn't for skin color or handicaps or oddities or genetic hiccups.� It's for forgetting about them and everything else, at least for a little while.

��� "The other risk is that she might meet someone really great, and then we're both out of luck � but I don't see anyone here better than me."� She smiled, threw the first dart, and proved that someone in the club was probably better at one thing by hitting the '2.'� "Damn.� Your turn."

��� Jason sighted, threw, and nailed the '16.'� "What are the dues?"

��� "You pay what you can afford.� The club gets supported by the original funding.� It's been around for nearly a century.� There's someone powerful behind it, but no one's seen him.� Sometimes I think it's Grace:� she makes the final decision on who's in or out.� But you don't bring your troubles in here:� club rule.� This is for respite.� Someplace to come when there's nowhere to go."� She threw the second dart and got it just inside the '18.'� "I still think it's too good to be true."

��� "You would," Jason said without malice, and took aim again.� "I like it just fine."

��� "Yeah," Pamela said, checking on Sadira again.� Third base, in true Brooklyn tradition, had three men occupying it.� "So do I."

 

��� "Defensive!� Ordonez!� Maybe he hasn't been around as long, but he makes the impossible plays like no one else!"

��� "Sure, but he can't scoop up a routine grounder!� We're looking for an all-around shortstop, and Rizzuto's in the Hall!"

��� "Oh, so we're not going to even consider active players �"

��� "Gentlemen!"� Sadira threw up her hands, laughing.� "And ladies.� If I wanted a war, we would have started with the outfield.� Do you think you can keep from killing each other until I get back from the bathroom?

��� "Sure," Peter said.� "I have other ways of dealing with �" he gave Elmora a hard stare "� Yankee fans."� There was a brief pause that in many other clubs would have been for the drawing of weapons � but then the laughter swelled up, and Sadira headed for the bathroom.

��� She finished and washed quickly, ready to get back to the discussion � someone had to be ready to rally for Duke Snider when center field came up � and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

��� Sadira stood there, looking.� Bigger than Jasmine.� Bigger than Pamela tomorrow morning. �She rinsed her hands.� A freak among freaks.

��� But here, everything she'd seen in proxy to Jasmine and Pamela was wrong.� People looked at her eyes, talked to her face.� The talk was merry and equal:� anyone with an opinion could get in.� No one stared.� No one cared what she looked like.� They cared about what she had to say because they wanted to argue it.

��� Pamela had said it:� some people were good.� Maybe you didn't have to be a little bit different to understand, and it was quite possible that some of those who were would be as narrow-minded as everyone else.� The people of Fancy That were different, physically, mentally, socially, and perhaps they indulged in self-pity and sorrow when they were outside the club, but this was the inside, and at the moment, they didn't give a damn.

��� And at the moment, neither did she.

��� She smiled at herself in the mirror as she dried her hands.� "This still might kill me," she whispered, "but if I live through it, then � it really isn't everyone.� No matter how big I end up, there's a place for me, to talk and laugh if nothing else."� Although they might need to build a special table module.

��� If the rest of the world laughs and stares � there are people who won't.

��� And the love issue was still under debate, and whether anyone would ever find her attractive again could be argued to the point of insanity.� Maybe she'd need a wheelchair with an extended front platform to move, and all of that still scared her, terrified her sometimes, every day and hour a little different.� But for the moment � if only here and now, while it was all still fresh � it was bearable.� A freak among freaks � but what freaks we are!� A precious second of peace.

��� "Thanks, Ivory," she whispered, and headed back to the debate.

 

��� And that night, when she changed into the larger bra so she'd be more comfortable in the morning, and found herself looking at the label � a Z � and realized she was about to leave the alphabet behind, venturing into mostly-unknown territory � it still hurt.

��� But it didn't hurt as much as she'd thought it would.

   

19

60:� Troop movements

 

��� Jason woke up at five a.m.� It was hard to sleep with someone caressing his crotch.

��� His eyes snapped open, and he quickly looked to his left.� Jasmine, eyes closed and breathing deeply, had her right hand under his blankets and her breasts pressed up against him, gently kneading and massaging as she slept.

��� Jason had heard of sleepwalkers, sleepeaters, and one disastrous instance of a sleepdriver, but someone attempting sex while out cold was new to him.

��� He gently pushed her away, winding up touching some anatomy that he didn't want to go near (and that was still a debate, damn it) � but that was hard to avoid.� Jasmine had apparently chosen to sleep without a bra, and her breasts moved as he shifted her:� clearing her shoulders didn't help with the torso.� With a lot of care � and a few feels that he really hadn't meant to cop � felt guilty about and enjoyed at the same time � he got her off, then sat up.

��� His eyes gradually adjusted, and he made out Pamela and Sadira, still fast asleep.� Pam's left arm was draped across Sadira's waist, which hadn't been covered by her breasts.� Yet.� They were a few inches away from beginning the crossing.

��� "Aw, come on," he whispered, then took it back.� Pamela could hardly help what she did while asleep:� he probably would have wound up in the same position.� Still, he would have felt better if Sadira was sleeping on the floor.� It was probably even better for her back.

��� Then again, Pamela had been living with her own endowments for years:� the mattress was probably designed for back support.� And the pillows...

��� Jason gave up and went back to sleep.

 

��� When Jasmine was sure Jason had dropped back into sleep, she sat up, glanced at the bed, and decided it was interesting.� Jason's reaction had been worth paying attention to as well.� The egghead had never figured out that she was awake and, at the end, watching through half-lidded eyes.

��� The feel, however, had been the most fun.� She'd learned about as much as she needed to know about Jason's body � actually, she wouldn't have minded a little more information.� Jasmine wondered if she could risk another grope before morning.

��� Reluctantly, she decided against it, lay down, and went back to sleep � after arranging herself so that, from Sadira's angle, it would appear that she was lying with her breasts pressed against Jason.

��� When Sadira woke up, she spotted the scene, and looked at it until Pamela finally stirred.

 

��� Sadira watched Jason and Pamela head out the door.� They'd all had another obsessive morning, which had somehow rushed into an afternoon without their notice, and was threatening to verge on evening.� Sadira had simply nibbled at a Powerbar whenever the need arose, but the others were getting hungry for real food.� (So was Sadira, but the bars took less time to eat)� Finally, at five p.m, they'd declared a mutual need for nourishment, and headed out together to bring back food.� This left Sadira and Jasmine alone in the lab, something neither of the two was happy about.

��� Five o' clock on Friday, March the 22nd.� One week ago, she'd been infected with the BE-1 virus.� Seven days and twenty-eight inches.� Sadira was currently wearing a I2 BI, whatever that meant.� It was comfortable when worn, but heavy to hold, and made of something a lot tougher than ordinary cloth.� The shoulder straps had widened, and, looking ahead in the sizing, hip supports were about to appear.� Sadira was starting to wonder exactly what kind of clientele Pamela's aunt serviced...

��� Her eyes unfocused, and the world vanished beneath an overlay of numbers, letters, and lines, carrying chemical interactions, DNA sequences, and genome alterations, all flowing before her in a steady stream of information.

��� Jasmine, who had chosen that moment to glance over, knew the look.� Her sister had gone inside again, to that odd place where her highest intelligence was, and she wasn't coming back until everything had been resolved to her satisfaction.� Jasmine would never admit it, but the expression scared her:� it always looked as if Sadira had been taken over by something that wasn't sure if it wanted to let her go...� It was the idea, really, being controlled by something instead of doing the controlling.

��� After thirty seconds, Sadira blinked, then moved as fast as she could to a notebook, braced it against a support column, and began frantically writing.� Jasmine put her book down and went to see what it was.

��� It was an incomprehensible series of numbers, letters, and sketches, all coming out at incredible speed.

��� Jasmine looked at it for a while, and realized she was going to wind up asking anyway.� "Big brain find the cure?"� Please.� She's already larger than I am...

��� Sadira didn't seem to hear her at first, but Jasmine didn't notice:� she was too busy looking at her thoughts. �Because if she's bigger than me and she ever figures out how to use it, then I've got nothing left.� Nothing...

��� Sadira finished writing and looked at Jasmine, who was standing on her left.� "No.� This is the metabolic acceleration program.� It's pretty simple.� If I constructed a virus with these sequences, it would induce enhanced healing, the ATP carriers, the works, without causing breast growth.� Perfect for speeding recovery."� She shrugged and closed the notebook.� "But it's just the start sequence:� no way to turn it off."

��� "Have you thought about trying to shut down the metabolic thing by itself?" Jasmine asked.� "You'd still be growing, but a lot slower."

��� Sadira looked at Jasmine, and kept on looking, eye to eye.� "Must be the isolation."

��� "What the hell are you talking about?"

��� "There's no men around to do things for you.� You're starting to think for yourself."

��� Fuck you, Jasmine thought.� Sadira had the brains and Jasmine had the body, at least that was how it used to be...� "Well, there's one guy around here."� She artfully paused.� "A pretty good-looking guy, actually."� Another stop, just long enough to twist the knife.� "You know, I think he might like me."

��� "Fine," Sadira said, turned away, and went back to writing.

��� Jasmine blinked.� "Fine?" and blinked again.� She hadn't meant to say it.

��� "Fine.� Perfect.� You want him, you take him."� She wasn't looking at her sister.

��� Jasmine got back on track:� the next words had a teasing lilt.� "So you don't have any interest in him at all?� You've been working together:� I just wanted to make sure �"

��� "� that there was something to break up," Sadira interrupted, words stark and matter-of-fact.� "There isn't.� No dates, no movies, just a lot of snacks in the cafeteria.� He's yours.� After all, there's nothing I can do to stop you."

��� The sisters had been allowed to start dating at fourteen, and there had been a dozen little crushes before that.� Jasmine had moved in, Sadira had fought back, Jasmine had won.� It was their cycle.� They had run through endless variations on "He might like me."� It was Jasmine's official starting gun for the race.

��� Sadira had never refused to run.

��� "I was just checking," Jasmine said, keeping the stun from her voice.

��� "Oh, he's clear, and available, and doesn't deserve what's about to happen to him.� I've seen what you leave of your dates:� mummification doesn't leave a corpse that dry.� If you're in the mood to emotionally destroy a good man, go right ahead.� It's your addiction.� Feed it."

��� Jasmine took one small, unconscious step back.� "When I love someone, I give them everything.� Some people can't handle that."

��� "No," and the tone was a professor delivering a lecture to the remedial class.� "you take everything.� You drain whatever you need and move on.� I may not know how to fuck, but you don't know how to love, and you can't even tell the difference between the two."

��� "There is no difference �" Jasmine said � and stopped.

��� Sadira finally looked at her sister again, just long enough to say "I feel sorry for you," before she vanished back into the maze.

��� Jasmine stood in place for a long time, thinking.

 

��� "How long until we reach the lab?� This bag is leaking all over my shirt."

��� "So hold it straight out from your body.� Another �" Pamela checked the street signs "� seven blocks before we turn.� We're pretty close to our section of Alphabet City."� They were walking along the northern border of Central Park.� Pamela had her mask off and was basking in the cloud cover.

��� She hadn't cried out in delight upon seeing the weather forecast.� She'd just sat on the bed, quietly smiling.� It had been sunny ever since Jason had arrived in New York, and he could understand why she might be sick of it.� "It's a nice fast walk.� Enjoy it."

��� Jason looked around, eyes penetrating into Manhattan's more old-fashioned jungle, gazing at the surrounding buildings, taking in the sights � he stopped three seconds after the other people on the street pinned on the "hayseed" label.

��� He couldn't help it.� He was a country mouse visiting the big city, and there was just so much to see.� The variety of people, shops, buildings � Helena was a decent size, but there was only one Manhattan, and it was a little overwhelming.� A block later, he started looking again �

��� "Pamela," he said, his voice suddenly low, "we're being followed."

��� She shrugged.� "Ignore it.� People follow me all the time � oh.� Are you sure about this?� A car is one thing, but this is pretty common when I'm on the street."

��� "When I looked back the first time, he was glancing down at something in his hands:� it looked like he was checking photographs, and then he looked up at us just as I turned back.� He's dropped back a bit, but he checked the pictures again."

��� "Damn," Pamela said quietly.� "Okay, Mouse, follow my lead." She looked at the gate half a block away.� "We're going for a walk in the park."

 

��� The targets grasped hands and snuggled close, as if they had decided they were on a date, and headed into Central Park.� Alex blinked and picked up speed.� He didn't think he'd been spotted as a tail:� the tall one had "tourist" inherent in every movement, and had been looking at everything around him.� He'd had to keep checking the photos on him:� there were more tall people wandering around New York than he wanted to think about.� He was willing to bet there was only one palling around with a huge-breasted albino, though.

��� Even if they hadn't seen him, he could very easily lose them once they were in the park, especially if they didn't keep to the main trails.� His assignment for the two was specific:� find out where they're going to roost.� If nothing else, he'd spotted them together in Manhattan:� that might get him the "first sighting" bonus.

��� He went through the gate and looked around:� there were, incredibly, no people in sight.� The day had dawned cloudy and cold, more kin to January than March, and a lot of people had stayed indoors.� No albino, no tall guy.� Just a lot of trees in the damp, cold air.

��� Alex started down the path, wandering from side to side, looking through the gaps.� Unless they'd run full-speed upon entering the park � and the albino wasn't built for running � they should still be in view.� It wasn't like they were going to be hard to pick out of a crowd.

��� Nothing past the first twenty trees on either side.� He kept moving.� Maybe they'd veered past the large oak on the left...

��� He discovered he was right when the hand shot out and pulled him off -balance before dragging him behind the tree.

��� The oak's trunk was huge, easily big enough to conceal a few people standing directly behind it.� They'd probably been peeking out and shifting position to stay concealed, waiting for him to get close enough � he didn't have instructions for being caught, he was just supposed to follow them � and suddenly all of that was a secondary concern.

��� "Tell me," the albino said, "is this a finger or a gun?"

��� "A gun," he said softly, because it was.� A .38 Police Special, hammer cocked and ready to go.

��� The albino smiled.� "Mouse, they're getting smarter.� In fact, if he's smart enough to say the right things, he just might get out of this with three limbs intact."

��� The tall man, who was holding him pinned against the tree, nodded once and said nothing.

��� "So now I'm going to ask you a few questions," the woman said, "and you're going to answer them very truthfully.� And don't give me any of that 'code of honor, can't betray my employer' crap.� You need to be alive to apologize."

��� When really stuck, lie.� "Look, lady, I'm sorry, I was just following you because you walked by me before and I wanted to get another look at your �"

��� "Really?"� Her face said she was entertaining the idea.� She took a small step back, still holding the gun on him.� "Free view.� Go ahead, look at my chest."

��� Alex looked down �

��� � flinched up.

��� "Moron," the albino said, resuming her original position.� "You don't like this kind of body.� I can see it in your eyes.� And that's one."

��� "One what?" he asked, realizing it was going to happen whether he spoke or not.

��� She cracked the butt of the gun against his nose.

 

��� Pamela watched him jerk back, as if he was trying to burrow into the tree.� His eyes closed with pain, just in time to miss seeing Mouse wince.� Pamela shot him a dirty look before returning to the idiot's eyes, which were just beginning to open.� "That was one.� After one comes two.� Then you get three � and three is the end of the sequence.� Do you know what three is?"

��� He nodded.� His nose was bleeding heavily.

��� "Good."� Because I don't remember the rest of the movie. �What had Sadira said about confronting Carmody...?� "Now for some truth."� And fast, because if someone interrupted them, she had no idea how she was going to explain it.� If she had a camcorder, they could claim to be filming a movie...� "You're following us.� Right?"

��� Another nod as he tried to lick away some of the blood from his face, wincing at the rusty taste.

��� "Good.� A point for you.� Now, the man who hired you is named Nigilo, correct?"

��� "Right."� His voice was now distinctly nasal.

��� "Very good."� Pamela smiled.� "Definitely a higher grade of thug than the last one.� Now, what was your assignment?� Full details, please."

��� He explained.� It didn't take long.

��� Pamela looked at him and thought hard.� He was talking to save his life.� He was telling the truth because he was scared of the alternative.� But he'd seen them in Manhattan, and could probably guess that Sadira was somewhere in the vicinity.� She could tell him any number of lies for relay back to Nigilo � but what were the odds that he'd believe any of them?

��� And that left them with three alternatives.� Let him go and live with the consequences.� Try to hit him hard enough to cause amnesia � a one in a million shot if you were trying for it deliberately � so that he'd have nothing to report.� Kill him.� Pamela didn't think Nigilo was going to use a spirit medium to get his information.

��� If she shot him, someone would hear the gun.� The park was fairly empty, but it was fairly empty for a city of eight million:� she couldn't believe they'd gotten this much time alone.� The body would have to be left in place, and Mouse was wearing fingerless gloves:� no prints on him anywhere, not for the innocent country boy, but...

��� They could conceivably get away with it.

��� Pull the trigger.� Pull the trigger and buy some time.

��� But she didn't want to kill him.� She had to � it was the only thing that would purchase the hours.� Nigilo, she could probably shoot and grind her heel in his face afterwards, but this poor idiot, who might just be trying to make a buck � idiocy was a crime to Pamela, but it wasn't one where she could enforce the death penalty.

��� And if she didn't, then it was one more clue for their pursuers, the deadline got closer, they closed in on them and �

��� "I have to kill you," she told him, almost gently.� "You know that, don't you?"� The Mouse's jaw dropped, and his grip almost slackened, but he held on.

��� "Ivory �"� It was the first time he'd used the nickname.

��� Her gaze flickered.� "Shut up, Mouse."� She looked at the man's eyes.� "I think you understand that."

��� Slowly, expressionless under the mask of blood, he gave her one small nod.� He was no longer scared.� He saw his death coming and accepted the inevitability.

��� "Damn you," Pamela whispered, without knowing who or what she had said it to.� She leveled the gun, aiming between his eyes.� The Mouse started to let go, grabbing for her arm �

��� � she brought back her right hand and rammed it into the man's stomach, putting all her hate in the blow, with the injustice flowing through the knee that went into his crotch as he doubled over, and all the sadness in the gun butt that landed on the back of his neck.� Pamela quickly stepped back, and he fell to the ground.� She threw her jacket open and put the gun back into the special pocket near her hips (she'd considered a shoulder holster, but her breasts slowed down the drawing time).� "Let's go."� The Mouse reached down to recover the food.

��� They left, leaving the man gasping into the grass, staining the new spring with his blood.

 

��� "Directly or long way?" Jason said as they exited the park.

��� "Does it matter?" Pamela replied.� "We have to go back eventually.� Just keep those eyes open and keep looking around.� You're better than I thought."� She had a horrible urge to stare at her feet, gave in to it, and wound up looking at the black fabric that was stretched over the top of her breasts.� Sometimes, even she forgot.� "I couldn't kill him.� It was the smartest thing to do, the thing that would have bought us the most time, and I couldn't do it."

��� It surprised her when the arm was gently laid across her shoulders, but not enough to provoke her normal reaction to being touched without permission.� She simply twitched once as her mind accepted it, then tolerated the contact � no, suffered it gladly.

��� "I know," Jason said, and they went back to the lab.

 

��� Alex didn't know why they hadn't killed him.� The logic had been perfect.� He would have killed him.� Instead, they'd let him live.

��� He'd found some newspapers in a garbage can and mopped most of the blood from his face, but he was still getting odd looks as he went up to the phone and started dialing.� He didn't have enough change and, all things considered, Nigilo could pay for a collect call.

 

��� The sisters sat and listened quietly until Pamela and Jason finished their story.� Neither broke in with questions or comments.� They just paid attention until the end.

��� "Sadira, do you remember what I taught you about shooting a gun?"� Sadira nodded.� "I think you used the .22 Remington at the range.� I'll give you the smallest one.� Princess, can you shoot?"� Jasmine shook her head.� "You get the taser.� Try to pay attention to who you're pointing it at.� Mouse, do you �?"� But he had walked away.

��� Jason reappeared a moment later, holding the Magnum that Pamela kept under the computer.� He hadn't been sure whether to believe her when she'd originally mentioned it, and had gone searching for it when he got to the lab.� He could understand Pamela's viewpoint:� the neighborhood, the chemicals and drugs in the lab � having a gun within reach was a logical move.� Pamela had three, secured in various places around the maze.� She occasionally carried one when she went out, and had kept one with her since Philadelphia.

��� He hefted the Magnum, making sure the safety was on, checked to see if the other three were watching, then threw the gun into the air �

��� � caught it as the down arc began, fingers sliding into position, clicking the safety off, leveling and aiming in one smooth motion.

��� "You know," he said conversationally, "farm boys don't have a lot of recreational options.� Mostly, we line up bottles along fencetops and try to pick them off."� Pamela and Sadira were staring with undisguised delight.� Jasmine was just staring.� "It's either that or risk getting bored enough to look amorously at sheep."

��� When Pamela finally stopped laughing, she said, "Fine.� You get the Magnum and I'll keep the .38.� We're armed and ready.� If you miss, just try to hit something that isn't expensive."

��� "Do you think they'll try to get us here?" Sadira asked.

��� "It's possible," Pamela said.� "People still respond to gunshots in this neighborhood � takes a while longer � so I don't have silencers on these things.� If there was actually someone else in the building to hear it, they might report the sound."� She sighed.� "And if the police do show up, then we have a lot of explaining to do, during which time they might detain you for a few days.� I don't know, Ebs:� we carry them with us and hope we don't need to use them.� If they're just wandering the streets looking for us, then Nigilo has no idea where the lab is � although we're going to be real careful when we go into the apartment."

��� "Sleep in shifts?"� This from Jasmine.

��� Pamela stared, then nodded.� "Makes sense, Princess.� Make it a habit.� But if we've got any brain cells we haven't kicked into action yet, throw them in gear."

��� Sadira got up, wincing all the way.� The weight was increasing as fast as her back could heal, resulting in a status quo of Much Pain.� "Pamela, Jason, I need you to look at these diagrams.� I puzzled out the metabolic acceleration effect, and Jasmine had an idea."

��� "Two in the same year?" Pamela said as she followed.� "Going to be a long wait for the millennium."� Sadira sighed as they went around the corner.

��� Jason started to follow, but Jasmine caught his arm.� Her words were fast and desperate.� "She's right, isn't she?� We all could die if they find us."

��� "No," Jason told her, trying to convince himself.� "They won't kill us.� We've all been working on the virus now, they've got to realize that.� If we're dead, we can't tell them how to make it.� If they find us, they're looking to capture � probably all of us at once by now."

��� "But I'm not working on it," Jasmine protested.� "They don't have to keep me alive.� They won't care �"� She threw herself into his body, hugging tightly.� He stood shocked for a second before instinct kicked in and he returned the hug, patting her back.� "I don't want to die, Jason.� I don't want �"

��� � and her hands were on his cheeks, and she'd stepped back at some point, pulling him down, and �

��� � on her side, the kiss was hot and powerful, and beneath that there was expertise, long experience in kissing that might even come out in an honest moment �

��� � he found himself returning it.

��� They separated.

��� "I just wanted you to know that," Jasmine said, and turned away, heading back for her desk.

��� "Mouse?" Pamela called out.� "The data?� This year?"

��� He headed towards them, head spinning.

 

��� Carmody put down his coffee and answered the phone.

��� "Carmody.� No, Mr. Stanis, he's gone home for the night.� I'm coordinating all operations.� Shaw and Pterros?� They did what?� Could you speak a little more clearly?"� The man on the other end couldn't:� Carmody decided his nose was broken.� It took several repetitions to get the whole story across.� "Yes, we'll pay for the medical expenses.� You did your best."� He made a mental note to adjust the budget again.

��� "Central Park North.� And you didn't see where they were headed?� Did anyone else know?"� Of course not:� it was hard enough to ask New Yorkers questions on the street when the lower half of one's face wasn't covered by blood.� "No, that is the first sighting.� You will get that bonus.� We appreciate your services, but we'll have to cut you from the operation.� I think Ms Shaw and Mr. Pterros would be able to recognize you now, possibly even with a disguise.� You also have to consider your health."� He listened.� "I'm glad you agree.� Yes, I will warn the others.� I'd like to apologize for your suffering � I suppose it is part of the job.� Thank you for your services."

��� Carmody had been writing notes as he listened to the call:� he looked at the small pad and analyzed the contents.� If Shaw and Pterros had been on foot, then their destination was most likely close by.� He glanced at the map of New York City that he'd attached to his desk.� The gate in question was nearest to Alphabet City and Harlem, both odd places for a genetics laboratory �

��� � unless, of course, you had a very limited budget, and weren't all that concerned about the neighborhood � or had the raw strength of personality to believe you could hold it off.

��� Harlem would welcome the economic development:� the area was rebuilding, bringing a positive reputation back � but people were usually a little reluctant to allow a virus factory in their neighborhood.� There was also, realistically, the small problem of the owner being white.� Very white.

��� And then there was Alphabet City, where the police looked twice before entering, neighborhood revitalization meant all the crack houses had hit a simultaneous high, and no one asked questions.� And no one answered them.

��� It made a very strange and oddly wondrous kind of sense.

��� He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and continued studying the notes.

 

��� Pamela watched Sadira pick up the gun, look it over, and put it down again.� She wasn't comfortable with it.� Pamela wasn't all that comfortable with her having it.� They'd gone to the shooting range once and only once.� They had been asked not to come back together.� Sadira's aim lacked something:� a consistent sense of direction.� By the time she fired the seventh bullet, everyone on the range was ducking at the sound of the shot.� It might have been better to give her the taser instead:� at least if she dropped it, it wouldn't go off �����

��� � but Sadira hadn't been dropping things lately.� Her range of motion was becoming restricted through size and injury, but her hands moved with a new confidence.� No flying elbows, no interlocked feet � her agility and manual dexterity had been steadily improving since her arrival in New York.� There was no way the virus could be having that effect.� So what was going on?

��� Pamela thought it over, and smiled.� Sadira was still looking at the gun.

��� "Catch!"

��� Sadira turned, eyes scanning and focusing, right hand shooting out to grab the moving object �

��� Pamela's apartment keys were resting in her palm.� She looked at her ex-roommate, uncomprehending.

��� "When exactly did you start getting clumsy?" Pamela asked.

��� Sadira stared at her friend as if she had suddenly turned into a very large cave fish.� "Eleven or twelve.� I always figured the treatments damaged something vital."

��� "Sure.� Right around the same time Jasmine started developing."� Pamela shook her head, still smiling.� "Lots of people look at a pre-teen girl with D-cups.� I bet they don't pay a lot of attention to ordinary sisters at first glance.� Intelligence isn't obvious.� On the other hand, someone tripping and fumbling gets a lot of attention."

��� Sadira's eyes narrowed.� "You're saying that I made myself clumsy in order to get people to look at me?"

��� "Not consciously �- but it worked, didn't it?� But now you're bigger than Jasmine, and people are going to look at that without prompting.� You don't need to drop things anymore � so you're not dropping them."

��� Sadira started laughing.� She could see the logic of it, but it was so silly, and so simple...� "Where did you get that piece of crap?"

��� "The usual place:� Psych 101."

��� "It sounds a little pat."

��� "Do you have a better idea?"

��� It was hard to speak through the laughter.� "No, damnit, I don't!� One little childhood insecurity problem and I spend a decade tripping over my own feet..."� and infecting myself.

��� Pamela saw the mirth drop away, partially changed the subject.� "So pick up the gun.� You might be able to hit what you're aiming at."

��� Sadira reached out and recovered the weapon.

 

��� Work.� Try to solidify a theory.� Attempt to work past the paranoia long enough to test it.� Fail and start again.� Surprisingly, Sadira was holding up better than anyone.� Whenever the stress started to close in, she took a small, empty tin and tossed it in the air, catching it without looking at it until she felt ready to try again.� Jason nearly walked into things, his focus narrowed on the future, and Pamela was caught softly swearing under her breath.� Jasmine simply stared at the words in her books as if she'd forgotten how to translate the symbols into concepts, and couldn't capture the memory of meaning.

��� They worked until midnight, and then went back to the apartment, checking the windows from the street for three minutes before attempting entry.� It seemed unoccupied when they entered, and took only seconds to search:� there was hardly room to hide.

��� Jasmine drew the long straw, so took the first two-hour shift, sitting by the door with the taser in her hand and fear in her face.

��� Eventually, the others somehow managed to find sleep, and even Sadira tossed and turned, the cocoon no longer solid enough to keep the night away.

   

20

62:� Probability reversal

 

��� Sadira woke to find Pamela sitting up in bed, wireless headphones on, with her gun at her side.� She was alternating glances at the door and the television set.� Sadira focused on the second �����

��� � managed to look away for a moment, to where they'd piled Jasmine's bags.� The duffel that held the merchandise was open.� The tape case was on top of a pillow.

��� Pamela turned at Sadira's movements, and her face held nothing but passive neutrality.� "Four positions and three lines," she said evenly.� "And she flubbed the lines."� She shrugged.� "I was very bored and when I turned on a light to read by, the Mouse started waking up.� Waste of time.� Sorry:� I didn't think you were going to wake up this early."

��� Sadira found herself looking at the screen again.� Pamela reached for the remote, ready to turn it off.

��� "I've seen it," Sadira told her.� "I walked in on her once.� This isn't much different."� She got up and headed for the bathroom.� Pamela turned off the set.

��� Well, she thought, glancing at the sleeping Princess, if nothing else, she's limber.� Jason stirred.� Pamela reached for the case and crawled across the bed, reaching for the VCR.� She was going to replace the movie before the Princess saw what she'd been up to.

 

��� "I don't think we're anywhere near the Museum of Modern Art.� We should have paid more attention to the subway map."

��� "Well, that homeless person was sleeping in front of it.� I just didn't want to get that close."� Claire shaded her eyes and looked around.� If the neighborhood could be described as any sort of artwork, it was a Dada painting:� randomly picked chaotic elements with no intention of achieving a coherent whole.� The only consistent factor was decay.� "Nearly a week late starting our vacation and now we can't even find anything.� You should have taken that map from the token booth."

��� "I didn't because you told me there was a map in every car.� We could have �"� Vic stopped and took a deep breath.� "We're on vacation.� We are finally, almost miraculously on vacation, and I'm not going to spend it fighting with my wife."� He looked around the street, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of the people standing around � and leaning � and sleeping on the sidewalk...� Vic reached out and hugged his wife.� "This was supposed to keep us from falling apart, remember?� To get outside the hospital?� I think I can see Central Park from here, and the Museum is supposed to be on the eastern side:� what say we just take a nice romantic walk until we spot the place?"

��� Claire pulled back slightly, but only so she could look directly at his face, her skin seeming to glow in the morning sun.� "Was that a proposal, Mr. Shalm?"

��� "No," he said, "that was a proposition.� If the day goes well, we may get to the proposal around noon."

��� She smiled.� "We may not wait that long..." and kissed him.� "But not here.� Let's get out of this neighborhood."

��� Victor laughed.� "Right!� No point stirring up the locals."� They started down the street, sighting on the trees, walking hand in hand.�

��� Claire allowed herself a smile:� maybe the rest would do them some good.� She might be able to forget the roving eye Vic had been developing � and, although she wasn't going to admit it to him, her own tendency to look around for more than a brief glance.� She'd realized the need for time with her husband when she'd spent four minutes treating a twenty-second leg scrape on a college student so she could enjoy the view of his butt...

��� But they'd made it to Manhattan at last, with no train derailment and medical mystery to slow them down this time.� Vic had spent two days fuming about his conversation with GenTree and the girl's escape, but he'd finally settled down and rescheduled everything.� Together, and he was holding her hand tightly, as if the bit of danger added a little spice to the day.

��� She didn't realize Vic had stopped dead until his hand didn't move forward with her:� she was nearly pulled off her feet, jerked back and sideways, nearly knocking her husband over.� "Victor Shalm �!"

��� "Shh!"� A fierce whisper.� He was staring across and up the street, looking at four people slowing their pace as they came up to a very shabby building.� Rather, he was looking at one of them.� A very, very large-breasted one...

��� "Victor," she hissed.� "I'm over here."

��� "That's the same woman," he whispered.� "The exact same one, with the black hair!"

��� Claire's anger faded long enough for her to focus � and then she kept looking.� Her eyesight was perfect:� even from across the street, she could make out the features of the young woman who had collapsed on the cold ground, and later run as if she'd been set afire.� The face was the same, the hair, height � but the bustline had undergone a drastic increase.

��� She felt her jaw start to drop, and gathered it in.� "That is her," Claire whispered back.� "You couldn't get two faces like that."

��� "Want to bet?" Vic replied.� "Look at the blonde."� Claire did.� The breasts seemed smaller, but the face was a near-exact match.� Of the other two, the man was turning towards the door, and she couldn't quite see his face.� The fourth was completely swathed in black cloth, but was obviously female.� Very obviously.� It was a macromastia convention.

��� "That's got to be padding," she argued, wanting to believe it.� "No one can grow that much in less than a week..."

��� "I don't think so," Vic answered.� The blonde woman looked as if she was starting to feel eyes on her.� "Let's go."� They hurriedly walked down the street.

��� Jasmine spotted them as they were about to turn the corner, but thought nothing of it.� She didn't think that scouts would go out in teams or run after being spotted (they'd walk casually away to avoid suspicion) � so she didn't think of scouts at all.� She saw a middle-aged white couple in good clothes rushing to get out of Alphabet City, which was something she could understand completely.� Jasmine didn't see it as being worth mentioning.� And she didn't.

 

��� Carmody had gone to the bathroom.� It was the only reason Nigilo could think of for his being out of the office.� He was, for all intents and purposes, living in his chair, but it didn't have a built-in toilet.� Nigilo didn't think he'd get very far proposing a new type of office seat at the next board meeting.

��� He walked around the desk, waiting for his assistant to return.� They had been getting together at the end of each day to discuss the latest results � or, realistically, the continuing lack of results � and formulate a plan for the next day's attack.� The talks hadn't produced the result Nigilo wanted, but he was determined to continue them.� If nothing else, it helped him focus his thoughts.

��� The phone rang.

��� If it was someone calling in a report, there was no sense in waiting for Carmody to return to get the information � and Carmody didn't get personal calls.� Nigilo picked up the receiver.

��� "GenTree Research."

��� "Is Carmody there?"� He didn't know the voice, but it was angry, tense:� none of his employees would talk to him that way.

��� "He's out at the moment.� This is his superior."

��� The tone was fluctuating, as if tension and relief were warring in every syllable.� "Good.� Then maybe I can get some straight answers out of you.� This is Victor Shalm; I spoke to Carmody earlier in the week.� Who I am speaking with?"

��� Nigilo stiffened.� He remembered Shalm very well:� he remembered the whole incident at the hospital, and the second phone call, which Carmody had given him word for word.� But why call now?� He'd said he couldn't prove anything.� Had he taken some sort of cell sample and actually deduced what was happening?� Carefully, carefully... "Victor, my name is Kyle Nigilo.� I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Kyle:� that might help repair whatever damage my assistant has done.� What can I help you with?"

��� The relief was winning out:� Shalm was obviously happy to get someone who was at least willing to put forth the semblance of honesty.� "Do you know what I was originally speaking to your assistant about?"

��� "Yes.� No need to waste time on a rehash."

��� Barking laughter.� "Good.� Well, I went on my own vacation, and spotted your little vacationer again �"

��� Years of lying, years of deception, his knowledge of the prior conversation, an entire career reached synergy.� "Victor, if you've seen Sadira Archer, then you may be responsible for saving a life.� I need you to tell me exactly where she was and what she was doing."

��� A long pause.� "Whose life?� Does she have something spreadable?"

��� "No, thank God."� He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength to force out the truth.� "Sadira is one of our top geneticists, and she really is on vacation at the moment � but the day she left, she was accidentally infected by a proto-virus.� From what our researchers have been able to tell, the virus was one of the trial runs from her own metabolic research:� it's accelerating her body functions.� There's also a radical degree of breast hypertrophy � and dementia."� He paused and took another breath:� so hard and yet so good to tell the truth at last...

��� "It took us a while to figure out what had happened to her, and we've been working with the government to bring her back and find a cure.� Yours is the first real clue we've had.� The metabolic effect is increasing:� if we hadn't found her in a few more days, she would have �" he put a small pause in, just enough time to choke back false pain.� "� she would have died.� But if we can find her, treat her, then we might be able to save her.� The control agencies have been making us work quietly � they don't think the public would believe it can't be passed along.� They wouldn't give Carmody the clearance to tell you the first time, and we were too late.� If you can tell me where you saw her..."

��� "Dementia?� She ran out of the hospital like she was possessed."� He was buying it, full price from the impulse counter.� He needed someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that his world made sense, and now Nigilo was doing just that.

��� "Yes, and getting worse.� We think she may have some awareness of the mental effects, and be working with old college friends to fight it � she may have convinced them that she's in danger:� the dementia also manifests as paranoia."

��� "Oh, God."� A very real choking sound.� "I waited the whole day to call because I thought I'd just get lied to again.� If she dies because I didn't call earlier, then �"

��� "Victor, it's not your fault.� There's no way you could have known, not with all the secrecy the government's been forcing on us."� When in doubt, blame the authorities.� "They don't seem to feel one young woman's life is worth anything.� Help us prove them wrong."

��� And at the other end of the line, sitting in a hotel room, with his wife listening to every word, Victor Shalm told Kyle Nigilo everything he could.� Nigilo helped him bring out the details, speaking reassuringly, calming him when the effort became too much and he again began to blame himself for the delay.� Under his guidance, Vic searched his memory with the determination of a man possessed, somehow dredging out the name of the street, a description of the building, and two digits of the building number.

��� Nigilo could think of only two places all four would have to go into � a laboratory or an apartment: �no other reason to haul their test subject around.� And with either location, they were guaranteed to return eventually.

��� "Victor, you've just saved a life."� He projected the smile.� "On vacation, no less.� Thank you."

��� "She'll be okay?"� The doctor worrying about his patient.

��� "We have the counter-virus ready.� All we have to do is get it to her � or her to it, so we can monitor the effects."

��� "Thank God."� A long pause.� "Kyle, thanks for the truth."

��� "No.� Victor, thank you for saving her life."

 

��� Carmody walked back into his office and found Nigilo sitting behind his desk, looking at a series of notes in exceptionally bad handwriting.� Nigilo looked up and smiled, wide, sincere and contented, like a shark who had scented blood from heavily-wounded prey.

��� "Game," he began slowly, relishing the moment, "set, and match."� And, taking great delight in every word, he told Carmody exactly what had just transpired.� Carmody stood and listened, his face reflecting none of the joy his boss felt � but then, he was always neutral in Nigilo's presence, no matter what he was feeling.

��� "So how do we proceed?" he finally asked.

��� "Recover her, of course.� I want a team assembled from the agents we already have in New York.� They'll check the building, they'll check the contents of the building, and then they'll check her off my things-to-do list.� I've been thinking about ways to smuggle her out of New York."� Nigilo held up the note pad.� "They'll probably have to drive out to a private airport:� if we have them drive her back, it'll take nearly three days � they'll certainly notice any growth over that period.� Unless she's stopped � no, let's not take the chance.� Do we have anyone trustworthy on staff who can fly a plane?"

��� "I'm not sure, sir.� I'll have to check."

��� "All right, but if we don't, just bribe a pilot.� And we'll have to get the facilities at Cascade ready for her.� I should contact the potential sponsors at some point..."� He got up, stretched, and suddenly laughed, head tilted towards the sky.� "Come on, Carmody!� Hurry up and make those calls so I can buy you dinner!"� Nigilo walked around the desk and sat in one of the visitor's chairs, perfectly comfortable, then gestured for Carmody to sit down.

��� Carmody sat down, turned on the computer, and began to search the personnel records.

��� "It's got to be the lab," Nigilo said.� "No other reason for them to be dragging the lab rat with them in the morning.� By the time we finish setting things up, they'll probably be done for the night.� We'll have to wait for tomorrow morning."� He still had the note pad with him:� a few more words were scribbled.� "I think we can afford to wait.� She's gone to ground:� no further running.� She doesn't know how close we are.� It's something else, Carmody.� All negatives, not a single encouraging word from the East Coast, no sightings at all, and now we pin them down exactly on a phone call from someone we're not even paying!"

��� Carmody looked up from the screen. �"Harold Adams in Grafting.� He has a pilot's license, and might know someone to contact for a plane.� A rental, perhaps, under a false name."

��� "Sensible," Nigilo said.� He was still in high spirits.� "I'm telling you, Carmody, it's almost enough to make me believe in a benevolent higher power � higher than me, anyway.� I'm feeling so good, I'm going to let Victor Shalm live."

��� "Sir?"

��� Nigilo grinned hugely.� "It's a joke, Carmody.� He's no danger to anyone.� He knows the virus isn't contagious, he believes it's dangerous, and he thinks he's saved Archer's life.� He also believes the government was involved, and that the matter has to be kept quiet.� Mr. Shalm is not going to talk.� The only real question is who else might open their mouths, and I'm not sure anybody will."

��� Carmody carefully listened as Nigilo said "Archer's the key:� Pterros and Shaw are secondary.� We don't need the sister at all.� But the more people we have to transport, the greater the risk.� Maybe we should just concentrate on Archer..."� He looked up from the pad.� "I'm bringing in another phone.� Two people can plot faster than one � and the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat."� He eased out of the seat and headed for the door.� "Lobster, Carmody!"� A smile.� "Now what should I have?"

   

21

66:� Hang together...

 

��� Sadira looked at the bra label, then at the mirror, then at the measuring tape.

��� The label said 32 LII A.

��� She could no longer see the full bulk of her breasts unless she stepped back from the mirror � and, given the size of the bathroom, into the tub.� The basic shape had remained the same throughout the growth, with her size increasing in even proportion in all directions, but there now seemed to be a slight shift, with the newest cells accumulating towards the front of the glands:� somewhat more projection and less descent.� It might be an optical illusion:� things changed fast enough to make keeping exact track difficult.

��� At the moment, the lower slopes were well past her navel, heading for her waist � but there was a proportionate amount of forward growth.� Her breasts projected over a foot from her torso even out of the bra, just from sheer mass.� The overall effect was to completely shroud her upper torso:� from the front, the view was mammaries from collarbone to waist, and she could, turned and looking over her shoulder with arms partially raised, catch a reflection of them from the back.� (Or, for that matter, with her arms lowered)� The nipples were semi-erect and still over an inch in length. �On Pamela's recommendation, she'd started wearing Band-Aids over them.

��� The measuring tape read sixty-six inches.� She was now quite literally bigger around than she was tall � and, in a flash of raw intuition, she realized that was what Level II meant.

��� I should probably tell Pamela.� She'd caught Ivory staring at the Level IIs on occasion with a mixture of confusion and frustration.� Maybe later.� She's already annoyed about being up this early.

��� Sadira struggled into the bra � she never got to stick with any size long enough to master it, and the new hip and lower back supports were giving her some trouble.� They'd moved out of Pamela's personal experience, so she got to tackle it alone � and help hadn't been offered.� While Pamela had continued offering advice and thrown herself into the new role of exercise therapist, she hesitated at anything that involved physical contact � sometimes with an odd side glance towards Jason.� Sadira had stopped asking.

��� Of course.� I don't find me attractive either.� She finally got the straps aligned and reached for the blouse.� It was the largest one left from their first shopping trip, and it was getting tight.� They'd have to make another run on the Brick S. House.� Or the camping store.� A pup tent might fit.

��� "Come on already!"� Jasmine.� "If we're going to do this, let's get going before daylight!"� If she didn't get to enjoy a full night's sleep, no one else got to enjoy the morning.� Sadira could hear Pamela grumbling outside, and Jason rattling pots.

��� Yeah.� And if we picked the right place and you used the right booth, we could be there all day.� Sadira toweled her hair and left the bathroom.

 

��� "Look, I'll just wait outside.� You three go in without me."� Pamela stared at the stonework.� "I'll yell if anything happens."

��� "You're the one who said we should stay together, remember?" Jason insisted.� "And we could all use this."

��� "Not me.� I avoid this.� They don't want me here."

��� "I'd prefer a Methodist church myself," Sadira said, "but this is what's close by.� I made everyone get up early so I could do this, so let's not stall.� And Pamela � he wants everybody."

��� "Don't I get a choice in the matter?"� Sadira pointed down.� "Right, very funny.� I'll be in the foyer."

��� "You'll be inside.� Come on.� You told me you believe in God."

��� "Sure.� I need someone to blame."

��� Jason shook his head.� "Pamela, He doesn't bite."

��� Pamela didn't seem to believe it.

��� Sadira pointed at the door.� "Ivory.� In."

��� Pamela still looked skittish, but quietly went inside with them.

 

��� The church held multiple pews and four people:� there were no priests around at the moment.� Each Bible in the pews was attached to the wood by a short, thin chain.� Most of the lit candles had burnt close to the base, and the stained glass was illuminated only by the harsh streetlights outside.� The statue of Jesus looked as if he was loving and suffering as usual, but his head was tilted towards his shoulder, as if he was trying to see someone sneaking up behind the cross.� A streetwise saint.

��� By unspoken agreement, the group separated.� Jason went to the front, getting close to the statue.� Pamela, obviously uncomfortable, stayed near the door.� Jasmine just sat in the nearest pew.� Sadira, who had a fondness for candlelight, went to the area with the most burning wicks and carefully knelt down, trying to keep her back straight.� The required medication dosage had been steadily increasing.

��� "Hi," she whispered.� On the rare occasions when Sadira prayed, it was always out loud and on a personal basis.� It was easier to talk to a person than some sort of distant, omnipotent, and seemingly aloof being.� "I know it's been a while, but � well, you know what's been happening lately.� I just wanted to �"

��� She stopped and looked across at Jason, about fifty feet away.� He was sitting on the floor, hands pressed together and eyes closed.� His lips were still, and he seemed at peace.

��� "Once before, I asked to live, and you gave me that � but the price was that I had to live in fear, because anything else I got would kill me unless I could deal with it myself.� Is there always a price?� I thought it was just the other one who made bargains."

��� Sadira focused on one of the lights.� There was something comforting about a lit candle:� it was delicate fire, something that seemed to need protection.� It couldn't consume and destroy, only illuminate and guide.

��� "I know about all the problems of the world, and the pain suffered by others.� I was trying to solve one of them � and maybe I got sidetracked by jealousy, and the memory of pain.� Maybe the project was about me all along.� But if jealousy is a sin, then the punishment is too extreme for the crime.� I never thought you were petty.� We may be created in your image, but you're not supposed to be flawed."

��� A glance back.� Pamela was looking at the door, keeping watch for all of them, and standing as if she hoped to be moving through it soon.

��� "I want to live.� I want to be cured.� I want to be loved..."� She looked at the flame again and reached out with her mind, trying to feel something tangible.� "I think you're here:� I don't believe any one religion is right.� We've never been able to do any real testing."� Sadira smiled faintly.� "I just hope that you're listening, and seeing us.� We've all paid the price, in fear and paranoia and..."

��� She stopped and looked back to Jasmine.� Her sister had leaned back in the pew, as much as the uncomfortable configuration would allow.� She seemed to be examining the ceiling.

��� "If pain is always the price, then we've paid it in full."� The flame danced, flickered, steadied.� "Please," Sadira said simply, and waited.

��� She felt nothing in the church, no presence waiting just beyond her normal senses, no flow of love and comfort.� There was only the quiet glow of the candlelight.

��� The flame went out.

 

��� Gordon was the first to see the lights on the seventh floor.� "Shit!" he said.� "We're dealing with fucking owls!"� Given the description of the building, he'd been able to run down the address, the name of the landlord, and the name of the person renting the space:�� all a matter of paperwork, once you knew where to start looking. �You could even do it late on a Saturday night with the right connections, but it took a while.

��� By the time they'd confirmed the information and checked in with Nigilo, he'd decided on a morning trip.� They were to get there early in the morning and wait for the four to arrive, then, if it looked like it was going to be easy, pull them off the street.� Gordon, as the senior member of the team, had decided to show up forty-five minutes before sunrise, just in case the targets were early risers � and he got owls.� "So much for grabbing them off the sidewalk," he muttered.

��� "Now what?" Carter asked.� "Do we wait around until they're finished for the day and then take them?� Or do we hang out here until they go out for lunch?"

��� "If they go out for lunch," Stan pointed out.� "If they're here this early, they may be sleeping in the lab and working in shifts.� The doc might have caught them on a supply run."

��� Roger shook his head.� "Nigilo sounded happy.� Nigilo spends money when he's happy.� If we sit around out here for a week waiting for them to need a change of underwear, then he's not going to be happy any more.� It's early, it's Alphabet City, and if they are sleeping in, there's a good chance some of them are asleep."

��� "You want to go in?" Carter said incredulously.� "You want to risk waking up the whole damn neighborhood?� I hope you explain it in exactly those terms when the police show up."

��� Gordon stroked the scar on his throat.� It was from shaving:� he told people it was an old knife wound.� "Not necessarily," he said.� "I've lived around here long enough to know how the locals think.� They'll probably wait until long after the shooting stops to call the cops � not that they'll hear anything to begin with."� He hefted the special gun.� "And Nigilo wanted a security expert �" a glance at Stan "� in this group for a good reason.� We've broken into labs for him before."

��� "Yeah, but no one was home at the time," Carter argued.

��� "You heard the man, same as I did," Roger reminded him.� "He was willing to wait for morning, but not much longer than that.� And you also heard his reasoning on the others.� You may not agree with the man � I'm not sure I follow all of his logic � but he's the one signing the checks.� He gets what he wants.� And he wanted us in the lab before we finished:� if they're staying there, then we have to go in."

��� Gordon nodded.� "I don't like rushing in," he said.� "But I don't like waiting, either.� We might have to flush these quail.� Think hard, boys.� We need a solid plan.� I've never been shot, and I don't intend to be taken down by game birds."

 

��� Pamela was practicing science as meditative exercise:� constructing the metabolic acceleration virus was helping her calm down after being in the church.� She had nothing against most religions.� She had nothing towards them, either.� Pamela occasionally wished they felt the same way about her.�

��� At the moment, she was using the same philosophy the Mouse had employed in rebuilding the BE-1 virus:� see what this does and then think about ways to undo it:� maybe it all goes to the same place.

��� Even if it had come from the Princess, the slowdown was a good idea.� She had been somewhat ashamed of herself for not thinking of it.� The real problem was the speed of the growth, not the growth itself:� slowing things down to normal human speed would buy them months, years to work on a full cure.

��� But not a reversal; some of the tissue was fat, but most of it was glandular:� exercise and weight loss wouldn't help that.� There was no viral way to get rid of matter.� All they could do for that was take her to a psychiatrist, try to get her past the phobia...

��� Pamela glanced at Sadira, who had adopted her new favorite writing position:� notebook braced with her left hand against a column and just above her head, pressing the pencil down hard.� The notebook was shifting slightly, but she was compensating.� She looked ridiculously sexy.

��� I like her this way, Pamela thought, and then mentally slapped herself before kicking her libido into a dark corner.� Sadira was in pain, more every day.� Her breasts had become large enough to make sitting down near a table and writing uncomfortable, and writing sidesaddle wasn't as easy as typing; that was why she used the column.� She had almost outgrown her clothes, she was moving so very much more slowly...

��� But she was still Sadira.� Flat or insanely buxom, she was still sexy.� And that includes insanely buxom, her libido reminded her.� She kicked it around again.� Great time to decide I have a breast fetish.� Archer fetish.� Whatever.� She'd been avoiding potentially sexual contact, honoring her agreement with the Mouse, but still...

��� Sadira wasn't the only one who needed to bring changes of undergarments to the lab.� Only hers were going to be for the lower body.

��� Some cold water in the face might help:� it might wake her up a bit more, anyway.� Pamela stepped away from the Mutator, and was heading for the bathroom when she heard the beep.

��� It was fairly high-pitched, formulated to act as an instant sonic annoyance that could penetrate nearly any amount of concentration.� A good case of sexual confusion didn't stand a chance.� Pamela immediately swerved and headed for the door, focusing on the little status panel as she approached.� One of the lights was glowing red.

��� "Oh, fuck," she whispered, then, more loudly, "People!� We've got company!"

��� They were with her in seconds, even the Princess.� Pamela jabbed a finger at the panel.� "Someone just cracked the second lock, just past the door, but whatever they used to open it wasn't electrically conductive:� they broke the circuit.� We're going to have visitors, and they already beat the first keypad."� She hit a switch on the side of the panel.� "If they've got the second combination, that'll slow them down:� I just scrambled it."

��� "How long?" the Princess said urgently.

��� "Don't know.� Everyone remember what we discussed earlier?"� Nods.� The Mouse walked over to the wall phone, picked it up, and shook his head:� no dial tone.� The police had been a dubious option before, and now they were a closed one.� "All right.� It's just us.� Grab your weapons and break.� Let's make these rats run the maze."

 

��� Shaw's security was good, but anything less than great in Manhattan wasn't enough:� Stan got them past the series of locks and pads on the first floor in eight minutes.� They emerged from the stairwell (because you never trusted the elevator) and got past the second series in six minutes, working carefully and quietly.� Gordon motioned the others forward as the final barrier fell, and they got into position, ready to storm the lab.� There was a slight chance the occupants knew they had arrived.� They might also have weapons, which was why the team had bulletproof vests under their ambulance whites.

��� Gordon signalled ready with a quick hand motion, and put his rubber-gloved hand on the doorknob.� No electrical charge.� A quick turn and push �

��� � they rushed inside, spreading to the sides, weapons ready �

��� � darkness.

��� The first hints of dawn were starting to make themselves felt through the closed curtains, lending odd shadows to the pieces of equipment in front of them.� Gordon could see a tangle of little paths leading around and through the metal, little indicator lights here and there, and nothing else.

��� Carter tapped his shoulder and, when Gordon turned, began signaling with his barely-visible hands � a useful skill in covert operations � raising them so they'd be visible to the group.� "Lights on a timer?"

��� "I don't think so," Gordon signed back.� One of the indicator lights was on the wall next to him, and it was an angry red.� "I think they want an ambush.� We've got a bunch of scared scientists here:� let's see who's better."� He turned fully and signalled to Roger and Stan.� "Be careful."� They could always be scared scientists with weapons.

��� Nods, visible as a shifting of shadows, and more hurried signing.� Roger proposed separating, arguing that the occupants wouldn't huddle together in the center:� they would have to be found and caught one by one.� Gordon agreed and searched the wall for the light switch, considering that it could be hooked up to a trap.� He rejected the idea and tried it.� It didn't work.

��� They went into the maze.

 

��� Jason knelt next to the huge filing cabinet on the west wall:� as the largest, he had to hide by the biggest thing available.� The Magnum felt surprisingly comfortable in his hands, though he would have preferred an old-fashioned long rifle.� And a silencer:� he understood they made some sound, but it might help a bit.� Unfortunately, Pamela had been unable to acquire them.

��� He had never shot a person before.

��� They were after Sadira.� He could damn well shoot one now.

 

��� Carter moved slowly through the maze.� There were double-blinds everywhere, strange shadows, odd twists and veers.� He suspected it was a bitch to navigate in full lighting.� Waiting for dawn wouldn't have helped much:� what he could see of the curtains looked thick, and the street was on the wrong angle.

��� He hadn't wanted to invade directly.� The place might be populated by wimp brains, but who knew what those brains had come up with?� He was carefully avoiding contact with the machinery.� These people worked with viruses:� there could be some nasty booby traps set up...

��� Given a second chance, he would sit on the curb until Doomsday.� But he was here now, and he intended to get out in one piece.

 

��� Pamela waited by the photocopier, watching and listening.� Her thoughts mostly concerned not making the same mistake twice.

 

��� Roger spotted the two computer systems and almost headed for them, but checked himself and turned right.� They had to find the occupants first.� Unless Carter was right, and the lights were on a timer.� A great thought:� they could sit and wait.� But what kind of timer shut off at this hour?� Computer failure?

��� He could look at the computer later.� He could search the lab now.

 

��� Jasmine crouched between the electron microscope and the disposal oven, clutching the taser in trembling fingers.� She remembered how to use it:� just squeeze the sides and thrust forward.� That was all.� If it was working.� If the person was within reach.� If she was still moving after she was seen.

��� She'd kissed Jason because she'd wanted to kiss him, begin the next stage, but there had been an honest emotion behind it.� She wasn't an egghead, she hadn't been working on the virus.� If they were all captured, then there was no reason to bring her back.� Jasmine couldn't help, they probably knew that already, and how long could she fake it if they didn't?� Easier to just keep her quiet, and the most permanent way of keeping her quiet was...

��� She unconsciously, compulsively squeezed the taser.� The blue sparks flew from the contact points, almost blinding after the long darkness, and there was a crackle, and a faint smell of ozone.� Jasmine's first thought was relief:� the battery was charged and ready � and the first realization was that the taser made a sound, and made a light, she'd just heard and seen it, and someone else might �

��� � the hand seized her wrist and squeezed hard.� Jasmine screamed in pain and dropped the taser as she was dragged out into the maze, a gun pressed against her head.

 

��� The scream rang across the lab.� Pamela and Jason couldn't tell who it was:� the twins' voices were too similar � but Sadira knew.� She was at the east wall, too far away to reach Jasmine quickly:� they'd spread out to make it harder to catch them.

��� She started to move � and remembered Pamela's plan:� there was only one way out of the lab.� They'd have to take her out the door, and Jason was closest.� And if they came out of hiding and rushed towards Jasmine, they lost all advantage.� Free for all, and who knew what could happen?

��� But Jasmine was in danger.� Her sister...

��� If she got to the microscope from the right angle, moved without being seen or heard, she might be able to trump the hostage card, take the invader prisoner.� But how to move?� She risked a glance out �

��� � and saw the shadow of a man, gun drawn, to the right.� She darted back.� She'd have to emerge more fully to get a good shot, and if she missed � even if she didn't, if they heard the sound and panicked...

 

��� Gordon looked at his catch in the dim light:� the face was about right, and the boobs were fine for all those "very's," but the hair was blonde.� The sister was a blonde, unless the scientist had dyed hers in the past few days...� No, hair wasn't good enough for identification:� almost completely reliable normally, but not under these circumstances.� He was ninety percent sure he had the dancer, but he wanted one hundred.

��� "Jasmine or Sadira?" Gordon asked.� "So they can hear you."

��� "Sadira, oh God, please, Sadira, don't kill me..."� Because they won't kill Sadira, they can't, if they're confused then they won't kill me...

��� Gordon considered.� "I'm not sure you're telling the truth."

 

��� Jason flinched.� Jasmine and her captor were standing in an acoustical center:� they were audible to the entire floor.� He was supposed to get to the door, wait for them to try and exit � but this was now a hostage situation.� Gun vs. gun � they'd sacrifice him and he couldn't risk Jasmine...

 

��� "I'm not sure you're Sadira," Gordon said, cultivating a special tone in his voice:� reassuring menace.� What he told her was true, no matter how terrifying it sounded.� If she believed him, then it was close to being over � and this one seemed too scared to think straight.� They'd told him the scientist thought fast under pressure, and she would know they wanted her alive for the information:� therefore, this was the dancer.� So it was time for information, because this looked like a planned setup that was starting to break down, and he had the weak link in his grasp.

��� His voice became softer, pitched only for her ears.� "I think you're Jasmine.� I don't need Jasmine." She was shaking in his grip, too scared to try to escape, too scared to think straight.� "But maybe you can live through this.� Where's Sadira?"

��� She was trembling harder, almost vibrating, and the faint light let him see beads of sweat on her forehead, flowing around the barrel of the gun.� "I don't have to kill you, not if you help me, just give up your sister and you can live, she got you into this, just tell me where she is and I'll let you go, you'll live..."

��� � and Jasmine couldn't tell which words came from him and which were from her own thoughts, because the two were merging, finding the same pulse, because she didn't want to die, she couldn't die but he was going to kill her and she was expendable and she was going to die �

��� "THE CENTRIFUGE!" she screamed, flinging her right arm to the east.� "SHE'S NEXT TO THE CENTRIFUGE, ON THE EAST WALL!"

 

��� Something took over, something beyond both impulse and reason, something that was tied into her blood, and Sadira broke cover and dived forward, trying to reach Jasmine, adrenaline surging, the wild energy building and pushing �

��� � the darts hit her with a hiss of compressed air, a neat grouping of five, punching through her jeans and into her right leg.� She stumbled, the pain of the impact and the weight of her breasts combining to throw her off-balance.� She threw out her hands, trying to catch herself, but her balance was wrong, her breasts hit first with an explosion of pain that was muted too quickly, because her heart was still pumping fast and any chemical that entered her body, with her metabolism, would take effect much faster than normal, especially if it was already designed to act almost instantaneously.

��� She realized they were tranquilizer darts as her eyes began to close, and her last thought was that for the first time in days, there was no pain in her back at all.

 

��� The cry was something fundamental, betrayal beyond belief, and Pamela didn't realize it was coming from her lips until she'd launched herself into the aisle, taking the most direct path to the center.

 

��� Carter saw the long body suddenly unfold itself from the shadows, and he saw the outline of the gun, knew it for what it was, and fear took over.� He dropped the weapon he was carrying, drawing from his second holster, the one with the real gun, catching the silencer on the edge, shooting almost the instant it was clear.

��� The shot was very loud, solid, and on target.� The silencer clattered on the floor.� The shadow fell.

 

��� Stan had his orders:� he picked up Archer's limp body, hooking one arm around her waist � he could feel the underside of the huge bra and its contents over his arm � and started dragging her towards the exit, his other arm pointing the gun towards any new targets that might present themselves.� If things became disastrous and they had the scientist, the first priority was to get her out. �The others could fend for themselves:� he was the only one in position to transport the target.

��� He was still thinking that when he heard the gunshot, and the echoes were still fading as he dragged her along without a pause.

 

��� Gordon heard the shot and threw the sobbing dancer to the floor, clearing his aim because the rule was that in a real firefight, with the kind of person who had made that cry, someone might just shoot through the hostage, getting his own gun into position as a living shadow flung itself around the corner in front of him, all black but for a narrow strip of white at head height, and fierce blue eyes that almost glowed �

��� They fired simultaneously.� Three of the darts in his burst hit, taking his opponent in the chest as the bullet ripped through the unshielded shoulder of his gun arm.� He screamed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound, and saw the shadow stagger, bringing the gun up again �

��� � he dived left, into one of the small passages.� He heard the shadow stagger, a clatter as the gun touched the floor, but it was still moving, coming towards the corner with mad determination, it wasn't going to allow the drugs to work �

��� � and a thud as it hit the floor �

��� � and he realized just now much blood he was losing, the bullet had nicked something major, he needed medical attention, fast �

��� "Boss!"� Stan's voice.� "Arrow clear!"� Far away, possibly out in the corridor, and that was the code which meant the scientist was in their control.� He didn't know how the others were faring, but Nigilo had said that Archer was the most important target.� The computer files in the lab that Roger was supposed to get, the other two geneticists, fuck them all because they had the person Nigilo really wanted � the one who could recreate the data he wanted.� And he was bleeding, and he needed light so he could be bandaged and worked on, and he couldn't drag the shadow with his bad arm and still hold the gun, and someone could have heard the shots �

��� � and he didn't want to get shot again.� He was afraid, and he was in charge.

��� "Move out!" he yelled, and headed for the exit, trying not to clutch his shoulder, praying there was no one else in the dark.

   

22

67:� ...or hang separately

 

��� Jasmine knew the siren's wail.� Not police, but an ambulance, moving away from the building.� It was the only thing that reached her as she lay curled up on the floor, trembling, trying to force everything back, find a measure of control.� She was alive, that was what mattered, she was still alive...

��� There was slow, steady breathing in front of her:� the ghost, with darts casting odd shadows across her body.� Jasmine recognized the shape from a National Geographic article:� tranquilizers.

��� She convulsively straightened her legs, kicking against the microscope � the sound was like another gunshot � and when that trembling fit subsided, tried to stand up.� Her elbows and breasts ached:� she'd hit the floor hard.

��� The gunshot had come from the west wall, somewhere near Jason...

��� She stood, orienting herself against the sharpening shadows, and moved west, picking her way across the lab as more light forced its way in.� Jasmine didn't know how long she'd been on the floor, how much time had passed since the ambulance had left.� She was up and moving and alive and �

��� � a ray of sunlight snuck through the curtains and illuminated a trickle of red running across the cracks in the old floor.

��� She froze, unwilling to look further � then did.

��� Jason was sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, blood pouring from his hands � no, behind his hands:� they were pressed against his left thigh, as if trying to push the liquid back in.

��� He was breathing, slow, shallow gulps of air, and his eyelids flickered.� He was trying to staunch the bleeding, hold back the tide, but he was barely conscious, and his hands were starting to slip.

��� Jasmine knelt down next to him and pressed her small hands over his large ones, pushing down, trying to get pressure over the wound.� It didn't seem to have any effect.� He didn't even notice her presence, and his breathing was getting softer...

��� Tourniquet.� That was the word, something wrapped around � no, just above the injury, tight enough to cut the circulation.� She needed to tie something around his leg.� Her blouse was too sheer:� it would probably rip if she pulled it tight...

��� Jasmine whipped off her blouse with one practiced motion and got her bra on the way back.� The straps were thick and heavy:� there was no way they were going to tear.

��� His eyelids flickered as she lifted, getting the limb up, and he gasped as the leg came back down.� She risked moving his hands:� she had to see exactly where the wound was so she could tie above it � but the shadows were still thick, and his pants were mostly intact.� She forced herself to work by feel, widening the tear and moving her hands up until she felt whole skin, then sliding the bra up to just above that point.

��� Jasmine pulled tight and made the best knot she could manage.� Never should have quit the damn Girl Scouts... �The blood made it slippery work:� she had to wipe her hands to get a better grip on the straps, streaking red across her pants and, accidentally, her sides.

��� There were footsteps behind her:� she turned around, the fear speeding back as she focused...

 

��� Pamela staggered up and knelt down, pushing her mask back as she moved.� It was almost too much to coordinate:� she was so dizzy, so tired...

��� Her night vision was excellent:� a quick glance at the Princess saw her topless and covered in blood, but none of it was hers.� Mouse was in worse shape.� "Tourniquet?" she pushed past the fog.� "Creative..."� Pamela checked his pulse:� weak but steady.� There was no way to tell how much blood he'd lost.� He was going to need medical care, a transfusion �

��� � from where?� Any gunshot wounds that appeared in the emergency rooms had to be reported to the police.� The police might be on the way, and they could help if they showed up, but she had to improvise, had to treat Jason herself.

��� Did that make sense?� It was so hard to think...

��� The Princess was staring at her � at her breasts.� Pamela wondered what the hell was drawing her attention in the middle of a crisis.� She automatically looked down.

��� Three darts were embedded to varying degrees in her sweater � no, in her bra.� Only one had penetrated her skin, and only just, on a strange angle.� The other two had gotten through the garment, hit the bra, and become stuck in the heavy fabric, been blocked by the fine network of fibers within the cloth, or blunted on the underwire.� She'd only taken a small percentage of the drug carried by the darts, which explained why she'd woken up so quickly, and why she felt so bad now.� "Son of a bitch," she whispered.� Note to Aunt Susan:� design a Kevlar bra for use in law enforcement, sale to the army...� No, they'd be stiff and uncomfortable � stay focused...� She looked up at the Princess.�

��� "Keep your hand here, in this position," Pamela told her.� "That's his pulse.� I've got to get the lights back on so I can see �" the dizziness washed across her again.� All my fault.� If I'd just shot the one in the park...� "� see what I'm doing a little better.� Night sight isn't enough.� Yell if the pulse rate changes."� She pulled herself up, using the filing cabinet as her ladder, and staggered towards the light switch.

 

��� Roger had turned off the ambulance siren long before they got to the George Washington Bridge.� It wasn't unusual for a city ambulance to venture outside the borders:� they occasionally got "loaned" to other hospitals, and a few of the privately affiliated ones simply went wherever they wanted to go.� A few quick decals had turned this one nicely generic.

��� He'd borrowed the vehicle from a contact on Nigilo's recommendation:� no one ever questioned paramedics coming out of a building with unconscious bodies.� Neither of the two homeless people on the street had blinked as they'd carried Archer out on the stretcher they'd left by the door.� So that part of the operation had been successful.� And all of it might have worked if Gordon hadn't turned out to be a chickenshit.

��� Carter had basic medical training.� It was the main reason he was on the team.� Nigilo wanted an IV feed hooked up to Archer, no questions.� Do what they were told, or someone would find out about some of the other things they'd been told to do in the past.� Standard deal.

��� At the moment, Carter was finished with the sleeping geneticist, and was busy checking the dressing on Gordon's wound.

��� "I'm telling you, it'll heal perfectly," he insisted.� "The bullet passed completely through.� It's cleaned, it's covered, it'll be back in one piece in a few weeks.� A little conditioning, you'll never know you were shot.� Now hold still so I can apply more disinfectant."

��� Gordon winced and cursed softly as the liquid was applied, but held still.� Stan was snoozing in the passenger seat:� the noise didn't disturb him.� And Archer had enough chemicals in her body to tranquilize a good-sized bear.� "How long until we get to Stamford?" he grunted.

��� "At least three hours, with these local roads," Roger replied.� "I'm not going to push the speed limit around the yokels.� Some of them might ticket an ambulance just for the fun of it."� The smaller roads weren't in the greatest shape, either:� the heavy-duty shocks on the ambulance still rocked as they went over potholes.� Gordon cursed again.� "You know, you should be glad we left three of them behind.� It would have been pretty crowded in here."

��� Gordon's glare was visible in the rear-view mirror.� "There were shots fired, remember?"� Carter briefly closed his eyes.� "Did you want to be around when the cops showed up?"

��� "And what happens when they do show up?� If they show up?"� Seven floors up, no other occupants, early in the morning, Alphabet City...� "They're going to tell the cops something.� Think they might accuse us of kidnapping?"

��� "Well, the descriptions are shit," Carter reminded him, briefly rubbing his makeup.� "And Nigilo implied that they wouldn't go for help.� Remember, if things went wrong, it was grab Archer and run.� We did that."

��� "Nigilo doesn't always think straight," Roger pointed out.

��� "He seemed pretty confident on this one," Carter replied.� "And it's not our asses.� So we didn't copy out the files, or grab any specimens."�� He smiled and patted Gordon's sore shoulder.� "We can just blame that on Old Faithful here."� The mercenary in question glared, but said nothing.� "After all, if he hadn't been taken by the Shadow Ninja..."

��� They went over another pothole.� Carter adjusted his balance and glanced at Archer:� she was in place, strapped to the trauma stretcher, each limb separately stabilized.� They hadn't been able to get a strap around her chest.� The IV bag was still attached, the needle was holding nicely � according to the doc who had spotted the target, he was supposed to change it every three hours, who knew why � and Archer was still sleeping, her fingers flexing slightly...

��� She had taken five full doses of poractudine, and her fingers were flexing .

��� Carter had put the dart gun on one of the shelves, out of the way, he was going to have to reach past Archer to get it �

 

��� Sadira's eyes snapped open as she finished running through her fastest wake-up check ever.

��� Her brain said ambulance, then straps, and that was enough.

 

��� Archer's arms came up, at least from the elbows, straining against the straps � and they were beginning to give.� Carter could see the white bands starting to appear in the thick plastic as she strained, back arching, mouth open in a soundless scream.� He reached across her, spotting the dart gun, grabbing it �

��� � her right arm broke free, swung up, and nailed him in the crotch.� He was wearing a protective cup:� standard equipment for covert operations.� The impact was hard enough to dent the plastic:� he went down anyway.� The gun flew from his fingers, out of sight.� Gordon was just starting to get up as her left leg broke free, and now there was sound, screaming and wailing, all the pain in the world coming from a single mouth as she thrashed and strained, an explosion of energy that was almost too much for the body to contain.� The plastic over her left arm was starting to stretch and break �

��� � three darts thudded into her left leg, fired from the front of the ambulance.� The scream went higher, reached a crescendo as her left arm began to pull free � then cut off, a thousand decibels to zero without intermediary steps.� She collapsed against the stretcher.

��� Stan shook his head and blinked away the last remains of sleep.

��� Carter got up, oxygen coming back to him in short bursts.� It felt like his virility was going to take a lot longer.� "She couldn't have woken up," he gasped.� "She processed all five darts in one hour.� That's impossible..."

��� "That," Gordon said slowly, "is why Nigilo wants her.� The question is, can we make more money giving her to someone else?"

��� They thought it over for half a mile.� Roger finally said, "No.� I don't think we can get enough money in one shot to make up for an entire career's worth of blown reputations � not to mention retaliation.� From what I hear, Nigilo knows some people."

��� Gordon nodded.� "You're right.� But if we play it right, we can get some extra money for keeping our mouths shut."

��� Carter sat down and took a deep breath.� The air reached his balls and made them hurt.� "And personal injury compensation."� He exhaled and tried a second breath.� "Lots of it."

 

��� Pamela carefully extracted the bullet with the long tweezers:� it had come to rest just next to what she judged was the femoral artery, the major blood supply line for the leg.� A hit there would have meant bleeding to death within a few minutes:� Jason had just had many other, not-so-major highways nicked.� She'd force-fed him as many painkillers as she dared, a few of which had sleep aids added.� The combination of medications had taken effect:� he had passed from shock into sleep, and she was carefully monitoring him to make sure he didn't slip deeper.

��� She'd come up with a formidable number of medical supplies (or workable substitutes) in her search of the lab:� Pamela disinfected the wound, then stitched it using a hastily-sterilized sewing kit from the Princess' purse (for emergency costume repairs on the road).� They'd had sterile tubing and sample kits.� The Princess and Jason were, by dint of welcome luck, both AB positive, and Pamela's blood was O negative, the universal transfusion factor.� A quickly-growled question established that the Princess was AIDS-free, and they contributed three pints between them.

��� Pamela had loosened the tourniquet after finishing the stitching, giving full circulation back to the leg.� There was no seepage from the dressed wound:� she passed the bra back to the Princess, who was still kneeling next to Jason, her fingers clamped against his wrist.� She looked at it and tossed it behind her:� it was soaked with blood.� Her blouse still lay on the floor.

��� One more look at Jason:� even in sleep, the pain was still etched into his face.� They'd made him as comfortable as they could, putting Sadira's wadded jacket under his head, cutting away the blood-soaked portion of the pants leg, and covering him with their own jackets.

��� "He'll live," Pamela said.� The bullet had damaged a lot of muscle tissue on the way in:� she wasn't sure what the exact effects would be, but it didn't look good.� "He might need a lot of physical therapy to avoid limping for the rest of his life, and any activity is going to be restricted for weeks."

��� Pamela glanced at her watch.� Seven in the morning.� The police had never come.� Either no one had heard the shots, which was certainly possible, or no one had cared, which was also possible and much worse.� The last of the drug's effects had been beaten down by raw necessity.� "All right, Princess," she said, turning to face the dancer.� "Your turn."

��� "What?"� She'd been fading in and out of shock, regaining enough insight to tie the tourniquet and remember the sewing kit, then forgetting the pulse point every time she had to move her hands.

��� "Medical attention.� You've got some bad bruises starting there.� Stand up:� I need to look you over."� The Princess stood up:� Pamela straightened slowly and looked her over.� "You hit pretty hard, and you've got some bruising on your wrist � did you hit your jaw on anything?"

��� "No � I don't think so �"

��� "There's something � tilt your head back:� I need a closer look."

��� She obeyed without thinking.

��� "Perfect."

��� It was perfect.� It was the single most perfect left hook she'd ever thrown.� There was barely any pain in her hand as the impact rocked the Princess, sending her reeling backwards, stumbling, heels locking into the bra straps �

��� � she fell backwards, hands shooting back in time to take most of the impact.� She sat there, propped up, breasts falling to the sides, eyes fearful.� Pamela liked the look.

��� "You bitch," she hissed.� "You goddamned Judas.� You'd sell out anyone to save your own hide, wouldn't you?"� Her fist tightened again, and she was closer, curled fingers in front of Jasmine's eyes.� "You killed her, you pulled the fucking trigger �"

��� "He was going to kill me!" Jasmine screamed.� "They didn't need me, I was a witness!� He was going to kill �"

��� "And that's why you said you were Sadira?� So they'd kill her instead, and you'd have another day before they found out they had the wrong person?� Piece of rancid shit �"� She brought back her fist, aiming for Jasmine's nose �

��� � there was a soft groan behind them.

��� They both froze.

��� Pamela slowly, slowly uncurled her fingers before standing up and going back to Jason.

��� "How are you feeling, Mouse?"

��� His eyes were open, and etched with pain.� "They got Sadira."

��� Pamela paused.� "They did."

��� "I was stupid, Ivory.� I broke cover without looking �"

��� "That makes two of us."� She wiped sweat from his forehead.� "I just got a little farther."

��� "My leg?"

��� "The bullet's out, and everything's clean.� If we take you to a hospital, they're going to ask questions..."

��� "I watch television."� His face contorted as another wave of pain washed through it.� "I can't think of any good lies to tell them right now, either.� Jasmine?"

��� "Alive."� She knew he could hear the acid.� "In one piece."

��� "We've got to go after her.� We've got to �"

��� "I know."� If she just had some morphine, any stronger painkiller � but she didn't, and the chemicals in the lab couldn't make a decent synthetic.� She didn't trust the stuff on the street.� "But I'll go.� You're not going anywhere for a while."

��� "Bullshit," Jason gasped.� Jasmine came up behind them.� He didn't see her:� all his attention was focused on Pamela's eyes.� "We can leave almost immediately, once we find where they've taken her."

��� "Mouse, you can't walk.� There's got to be doctors around here who treat gang wounds:� I'll find one and trade services for chemicals."

��� "No need."� Another spasm of pain.� "We've got all the medicine we need right here."� Slowly, he raised an shaking arm, waving it to the general east.� Pamela turned to look, and saw only assorted machinery � then guessed.

��� "No way."� Fast, almost violent head shaking.� "We don't know what the long-term effects are.� There's been no testing, no idea if it'll work when it's separated from the breast growth sequences.� We've already � misplaced Sadira:� we can't risk losing you �"

��� In the single worst Tonto imitation she'd ever heard, he said, "What do you mean we, white woman?"� A small smile.� "Fuck it.� Sadira came up with it, and I trust her.� I trust you to make it the right way, and we'll find a way to slow me down later.� Besides �" he pulled a breath between clenched teeth "� I like Powerbars."

��� Pamela smiled.� "You know the risk."

��� "Ivory, if you were on the floor with a hole in your leg, you'd be begging me to inject it."� He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, cracked them open again.� "Okay, ordering."

��� Pamela considered the reversal.� He was absolutely right.� "Point."� She drew the line on his arm.� "I always wanted to play mad scientist.� All right, Mouse.� I'm going to test it on some cell samples first, but if it looks good, you get the accelerator." She stood up and pushed past Jasmine as Jason's eyes closed in triumph.� She'd left the Mutator on standby power:� it wouldn't take long to finish the virus.

   

23

68:� Sic transit Sadira

 

��� They had been waiting at the private airfield for three hours.� Carter stood by Archer's stretcher, finger tense on the trigger of the dart gun.� They'd tried to regulate the dosage, keep her under without putting her out for good, but they'd played it a little too safe:� there had already been two other near wake-ups.

��� The weather had taken another swing during their wait:� it was now comfortably warm, the air finally verging into spring.� It made Carter nervous.� He preferred a bit of cold:� just enough so that it kept him sharp, not so much that all he could think about was how cold it was.

��� At one p.m, the plane finally showed up:� a twin-engine Cessna.� It braked to a smooth stop on the runway as they wheeled Archer's stretcher towards it.

��� A burly, heavily-tanned man hopped out from the pilot's seat.� "Somebody call for a package pickup?"� He marched up to Carter and put out his hand.� "Harold Adams.� Pleased to meet you."

��� Carter, somewhat bemused, shook the pilot's hand.� "Carter.� This is the package.� I hope you brought tranquilizers with you:� it has a tendency to unwrap itself."� Two other people got off the plane and headed for the stretcher.� One was carrying a fairly bulky phone:� a cheaply-made satellite connection.

��� "No problem.� We've got a full pharmacy in the back.� Where are the others?"

�� Gordon stepped forward.� Good; it's his fault.� "This is the only one we got.� We met heavy resistance."� He displayed his wounded shoulder.� "The minimum objective was accomplished, but that's it:� no data, no specimens, and the others were � left behind."

��� The woman holding the phone stepped up to Gordon.� "Then this is for you," she said with malicious amusement, and gave him the receiver.

��� Gordon visibly swallowed, then put the phone to his head and began to carefully explain things to Nigilo.

 

��� Pamela was whipping cell samples in and out of the microscope at top speed, watching the effects of the acceleration virus on each type, changing samples, observing, and trying to mentally combine the data into ramifications for a full organism.� It wasn't working.

��� The computer simulations said it should work for a generic subject.� The breast growth triggers weren't present:� Sadira had simply deduced a way to recreate her body's metabolism in another human.� The factor sequence wasn't complicated.� It was the genetic equivalent of finding a dial and turning it from 3 to 10.

��� And it had never been tested.� And there was no known way to reverse it.

��� But the Mouse was right:� if she'd been shot, and he'd turned down the request, she would have dragged herself to the Mutator and completed construction from the floor.� She wasn't sure she would have bothered with the testing, either.

��� Pamela felt the gaze and turned to see the Princess standing off to her right, just out of swing range.� "He's sleeping again," she said.

��� "Fine," Pamela said tightly.� "Put something on.� I don't feel like looking at you."

��� "You'd rather look at my sister, right?"� She took a small step back, moving out of kick range.� "Fucking dyke."� The words lacked any real strength.

��� "Not as often as I'd like and not entirely," Pamela replied.� "And she's got a beauty that you'll never have or understand."� She checked the screen, then looked at the Princess' eyes, her own narrowing.� "Bouncing back quickly, aren't you?� I guess you've forgotten exactly what happened."� Her fingers were starting to curl.

��� A long hiss of words, emerging under high pressure.� "I know exactly what happened.� I gave her up because I was going to die.� You can't understand that."

��� "If it had been me," Pamela said slowly, measuring each syllable, "I would have fed him an elbow.� I would have dropped and let my weight pull him down and bring the gun off-line.� I would have lied until someone else could get to us.� I wouldn't have caved in."

��� "Yeah, and you're just so damn tough," Jasmine spat.� "Nothing scares you, nothing could make you break down and �"

��� Pamela took one step forward, stopping with her breasts just short of touching Jasmine.� "Look at me," she hissed.� "I've lived like this for twenty-two years.� Guess how tough that makes you?� It wouldn't have been the first time someone held a weapon on me.� No, I wouldn't break.� I'd fight and stall and struggle because only fools are too impatient not to wait for miracles."

��� "And you charged out," Jasmine shot back.� "You didn't think.� You just ran through!"

��� "I was the miracle!" Pamela yelled, leaning in � then leaned back.� Jasmine blinked.

��� "At least," Pamela said slowly, "I was supposed to be.� I just fucked up.� So did the Mouse.� You snapped and the entire chain went to pieces."� Her left hand came up, seemingly without her knowledge, and covered that side of her face.� "I lost control and ran to help without thinking about meeting someone on the way.� You broke first, but we all broke."

��� Jasmine was standing quietly, looking as if she wanted to put her hands on her hips, but resisting.

��� "I hate you," Pamela said, her voice cold.� "And it's not anything Sadira said, either:� we were roommates for four months before I knew you were alive.� All she told me was basics.� I guessed the rest from watching her.

��� "I hate you for what you did to her.� I hate you because you won't change.� With what the Mouse has told me lately, I can read between the lines.� She didn't ask to be smart and you didn't ask for your body."

��� She looked at Jasmine, and for a moment, Sadira flickered into view.� Her voice became softer, more thoughtful, without losing any of the ice. "The difference is that she never flaunted in an attempt to make someone feel worthless, and you did.� Any offense you took, you picked up on your own.� You were kids:� get over it already.� Both of you.� She's sexy and you're �" a long, long pause, then a reluctant "� smart.� I saw some of those books, and you were reading them.� You both deny your attributes, you're both impulsive, you're twins, damn it.� Maybe it's time you were sisters."� She turned back to the screen and replayed the last interaction.

��� From behind her, a small voice said, "They're going to kill her, aren't they?� Because of me."

��� "No, not yet," Pamela said to the screen.� "Not until they get all the work out of her, until they have the second virus." �If they don't have it already.� But Pamela had seen the files, and seen the time it took to construct them.� There was no way they could have finished without Sadira to head the project.� "She'll stall.� She's got the gaming experience.� We've got some time.� But we're loose ends."� She thought it over as she switched samples.� "They may have wanted all of us.� They may come after us again.� They may not.� I'm still trying to figure out why that guy didn't take me or put a real bullet through me after I was down."

��� Jasmine hesitated, then told Pamela everything she'd heard.

��� Pamela laughed.� "Typical.� He sounded scared and all of us were down.� I thought I hit him:� nice to know it was in a good place.� All right:� I temporarily give up on trying to figure out Nigilo's logic.� Anyone walks in the door, I shoot them:� that's all."

��� "So what do we do?"

��� "We?"� Pamela started shaking her head � stopped.� "You go read files.� We're down to two, and I could use some insight."� Jasmine started to walk away.� "Fucking dyke," Pamela softly mused.� "You were enjoying yourself on the tape."

��� "I was getting paid," Jasmine replied, and left.

��� Pamela shook her head.� We should all be so lucky.� The thought was slightly ironic in tone.

��� She went back to work.

 

��� The Cessna had been chosen for size, silence, and proliferation:� there were thousands of them in the sky at any given moment.� Nigilo didn't think anyone would track the air path, but he'd chosen a common model in case someone talked.� He had not been happy with the overall results of the operation, and after he finished talking to Gordon (who had forgotten to try for extra money), he had expressed that feeling to Harold.� However, it was a mixed sort of not happy:� it was as if losing the rest wasn't really important.� He was mad because he thought he was supposed to be mad.

� ��Angela bent over Archer, changing the IV needle.� The disadvantage of the Cessna was its speed:� even with top speed, fast refueling, and hurried maintenance, it would take nine hours to reach Montana.� Keeping people out of the plane at their stops was easy.� Nigilo seemed to feel keeping Archer in the plane would be hard.

��� The plane was carrying, in addition to the miniature pharmacy, a full array of medical equipment:� Angela had been monitoring the geneticist since she'd come on board, keeping her asleep and beginning a battery of tests.� Aaron, who was there for security, stood around and looked bored.� Angela finally took a break and joined Harold in the cockpit.� "A walking fission plant," she summarized.� "Everything at full power, even with the tranks."

��� "Did you see her � chest?"� Angela was sensitive to word usage.

��� "Yes," she said frostily, then, warming slightly, "Couldn't miss it.� I saw her around the fifth floor before this.� Always the quiet ones, right?"

��� "Yeah," Harold said.� "As long as she stays quiet all the way to Montana."� Carter had taken a perverse delight in pointing out the broken straps.

 

�� �Sadira's asleep.

��� She dreams frequently � everyone does, the mind can't survive without that release � but she never remembers them.� Her mind works on levels:� there's the one that deals with the world and makes the everyday decisions, that higher plane where all the real thinking takes place, and deeper ones, including one where she never goes.� Where the fears are.

��� The dreaming level is many layers down, and she can't access it, not consciously.� But now, between hormones and drugs, she's aware of the dream, though unable to control it.� She's watching it, as if locked into a seat in front of the stage.

��� She's moving through the halls at GenTree, and she's got her old body back, the one without any breasts at all, and there's a curious freedom to that:� she can remember the infection, and for a moment, the dream selves think she's cured.� They're both a little wistful.� Sadira really did want to have something, just not quite all that.� She thinks.� She's not completely sure.� Some small part of her has its own competition with Jasmine.

��� Someone's been redecorating the halls:� the old white walls have double helixes covering them.� She recognizes some of the sequences.� She identified them.� She never told anyone that she'd been working late in the science hall one night when she'd come across the frat party in one of the labs, spent a few minutes outside the door, listening to drunken ideas, then, with that highest level in full gear, gone in to help.� She found the sequences, she found how to use them.� All about her in the end.

��� Nigilo comes down the hallway, grabs her hand, starts dragging her off.� She resists, leaning back � but it's no good:� he's a large man, outweighs her by a hundred pounds easily, and he's just pulling her along.� It's like she's surfing behind him.

��� Her arms fling out towards the wall, trying to find some purchase, and she hits one of the helixes.

��� Her breasts start growing again.� Not like before, not where she needs time-lapse photography to pick it out as it happens, but impossibly fast, inches in seconds.� The lab coat is stretching with her, covering evenly as she goes past C, past D, accelerating through the alphabet, and Nigilo isn't compensating for the weight.� He's pulling with the same strength, but Sadira's getting heavier.� He pulls forward and she doesn't come with him.� Their hands slip apart.

��� She turns and runs again, but it's getting hard to move again, she's in the forties and still going, and it's slowing her down, changing her balance.� Sadira reaches her lab and gets inside, pressing her hand to the door and the rest of her body just follows.� But it's Pamela's lab, Terragen, she's working the computer sidesaddle again, looking at a picture of Sadira, taken from the Christmas photo, that's morphing from nothing to Level II and back again, and there's this wistful look on her face that Sadira can barely stand to see.

��� Jason is standing in front of the electron microscope and he's got that look again, the one where he's got the really impossible problem which changes every time he catches up to it, but there's a new determination there.� He just keeps working, and tries not to look at the picture.

��� Jasmine is sitting at her desk.� Blood flows from the bullet hole in her forehead, cascading onto a blank page.

��� Sadira walks closer:� no one notices her.� She's still growing, and she gets too close to the page and blocks her view of it:� she has to turn sideways to read it.� It says, in letters of blood formed by Jasmine's stream, There are no children here.

��� Jason and Pamela turn, and they seem to see her for the first time, but then they turn away, and glance at each other with guilt.

��� Nigilo catches up and seizes her again, but he can't move her:� Sadira's breasts are down to her waist and out past her elbows, and she's too heavy to budge, but she can't run anymore, the weight affects her too.� She's frozen, sessile.

��� That's when Pamela and Jason, and Jasmine, still bleeding, get up and rush Nigilo, dragging him to the ground as Sadira's weight drops her to her knees, and the frontmost portions of her breasts are touching her knees, starting to overflow as Nigilo's struggles stop.

��� The Sadira on the stage looks at the one in the audience as all three help her to her feet, and smiles.� It's feral, like Pamela at her best and worst, and there's some pain in it.

��� The curtain drops.� Sadira is alone in the audience, and she doesn't applaud.� She couldn't bring her hands together in front of her, anyway:� her breasts are in the way.

��� A rain of red roses falls onto the stage from the ceiling.� Two of them bounce and land in her hair.

��� It's the end of the dream, but Sadira will remember it when she wakes up.

 

��� Pamela knelt next to Jason, who was awake again.� She had a needle full of vitamins and virus in her left hand.� "It'll work," she said, "but only as long as you're hurt.� All the energy you generated would go directly to healing.� Sadira could sleep at night because she was growing:� the calories had a constant outlet.� You'll heal � and then you'll still have the same appetite, the same need for power, with nowhere for it to go.� Either you'll wind up incredibly hyperactive, unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time, or you'll just burn out.� Pick one."

��� "So neutralize it after I'm fixed," Jason said.� "Virus, counter-virus."

��� "Simple," Pamela agreed.� "How?� I don't know what's going to turn it off.� I've been thinking:� we've got some time, Sadira will stall while they try to make her do the work.� You can heal enough to walk normally and we'll go after her �"

��� "Maybe," Jason said.� "She might be able to, we might have weeks.� The clock is still running on her end, remember?"� Pamela closed her eyes, because in all the chaos, she had forgotten, just for a second �

��� � and in that moment, Jason grabbed the needle, pulling it out of her hand, found a spot, and injected himself.� Pamela stared at him.�

�� "Now," he said clearly, "it's both of us.� So let's find those brakes."

��� Pamela stared at him.� "You're an idiot.� You know that."� Neutral, almost blank.

��� "Country mice aren't very smart."

��� Their eyes met, and she kissed his forehead.

   

24

70-71:� In conference

 

��� They had gone to a hotel (after a quick trip to the store for fresh clothes).� Jasmine had paid cash, and they'd registered under false names.� Jason had originally thought that it really wouldn't matter, they made a distinctive enough trio � but Pamela had driven across the border and gone deep into New Jersey.� She believed they were safe enough for the night.� Jason, awake and in pain � and having gotten some sleep earlier in the day � had taken first watch.� Pamela had gotten the second, and Jasmine the third.� There were two bedrooms and two large beds:� they each took one in turn.

��� It was Jasmine's shift when Jason woke up.� He knew because she was the one who woke him.

��� She gently rubbed his arm until he came back, blinking up at her.� The adjustable lights in the room had been turned to their lowest level.� "What's wrong?" he whispered, working his way out of the sleep-fog.

��� "Just checking on you.� How are you feeling?"

��� And you woke me up to ask me that?� But there was real concern in her face.� "Shouldn't you be watching the door?"

��� "One of the busboys who was about to get off shift is standing in front of it.� I told him we didn't want to be disturbed for a while.� So how are you feeling?"� All in whispers, with Jasmine's holding a faint hint of bemusement.

��� "Still hurting, but I can sleep past it.� It's a little weird.� I can almost feel the new cells coming in.� It'll take a few days to get back to normal, but that's as opposed to weeks.� Pamela may have to take the stitches out tomorrow."� His brow furrowed.� "Are you that tired?� Can we trust the bellboy?"� God, he sounded like Pamela.

��� "For the amount of money I gave him, he'd better be trustworthy."� She smiled gently.� "But there's still some pain?"

��� Jason could have sworn he'd said that already.� "Yes."

��� The smile got gentler.� "Then I'll do all the work."� And she began to take her blouse off.

��� The fog dissipated, and sixteen expressions warred for control of his face.� Confusion won.� "What �?"

��� "You don't know?"� Bemused.� "This is going to take more work than I thought."� She shimmied out of the garment, braless underneath, then reached for the blankets.� "Let's get you out of those shorts..."

��� Jason was about to say something � was about to think of something he could say � and then Jasmine changed her direction and leaned in, kissing him, long, hard, and desperate.� Again, he returned the kiss, feeling the urgency behind it � then stopped, withdrawing slightly into the pillow.� Jasmine sensed it and straightened up, confused.

��� He looked up at her, saw the bewilderment in her face, the residue of fear, the hint of desperation he'd felt in the kiss, all honest emotions.� "No," he said, surprising himself a little.

��� "No?" she echoed, her voice very soft.� He had the distinct impression no one in this situation had ever said it to her.

��� "Jasmine �" She turned away and headed for the door, picking up speed.� "Jasmine, come back."

� ��She turned around and looked at him for a long moment.� Jason sat up and patted the edge of the bed.� She slowly walked over, then climbed onto the bed, hands heading for his crotch again �

��� "Just to talk," he said quickly and moved over, giving her room to sit down.

��� Confusion and betrayal crossed her face, almost too quickly to see, but she sat down, back braced against the headboard.� "I don't want to talk," she said, her position giving the lie.� "I want to fuck, and I'm not going to ask Casper."

��� Jason easily met her eyes:� while it was his first look at Jasmine topless, being around the three women had made it easier to override instincts.� "I don't want to."� He smiled.� "A little � I can't say I'm not curious �" or aroused "� but I can't.� I couldn't even look past a clothed photo of you in a magazine because I thought I'd be betraying Sadira.� Too old-fashioned..."

��� She looked away.� "So you love her."

��� Matter-of-fact.� "Yes."

��� "You, the ghost � I guess she's making up for lost time."� She kept staring at the doorway.� "I nearly died yesterday."� Slow, sad, "I just want to feel alive for a while."

��� "I can understand that," Jason said gently, automatically falling into "just friends" mode.� "But I'm not it.� I like you, and if things had been different, if I never met Sadira �"

��� "� then nothing would have happened," Jasmine cut him off.� Her words were flatly honest.� "Maybe I would have picked you up off the street and taken you back to my hotel for a fast run.� I don't spend all my free time reading.� But after that, I would have thrown you away and forgotten about you.� I never would have looked at you in the first place if I haven't thought it would hurt Sadira.� I would have broken up her and Shaw if I could, but I couldn't figure out how � and then they just stopped touching."

��� Pamela had been right.� It still hurt.� Even with his feelings for Sadira, the commitment, it was nice to know someone else found him interesting, good for the ego.� The idea that Jasmine had been using him, hadn't been attracted to him at all � the dagger quickly stabbed through his heart.� "And now?" he said softly.

��� She shrugged.� She still wasn't looking at him.� "I kind of like you.� I don't love you.� I kissed you back at the lab because I was scared, but I was using the fear...� And I just hurt Sadira as much as I ever could.� I � I don't think I can top that.� There's no point in even trying."� Whispering, "I've spent so much time hating her that I don't know how to stop.� And now I'm never going to get the chance..."

��� With Jasmine, it was sometimes difficult to tell what was real and what was artifice:� she was a manipulator, and she used emotions to her own benefit.� Jason could see that manipulation now.

��� She was trying to change herself, forcing her feelings out, make herself face them for the first time in years.

��� "She's not dead," he whispered back.� "Neither are you.� You'll both have that chance."

��� She turned to face him.� He reached out and hugged her.� She hugged him back, and nothing more came of it.

��� Jasmine's own healing had begun.

 

��� Oh, Sadira thought as the roses faded from her hair.� So that's the way things are.� And then, before she opened her eyes, she realized where she was.

��� There was something almost indescribably wonderful about waking up in her own bed after a long time away, an instinctive recognition that turned into another layer of comfort.� Sadira was in that bed, but she hadn't gotten into it herself, because the sheets were laid out flat across her body.

��� Sadira opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up.

��� The white room contained most of her bedroom furniture, including the wardrobe and nightstand, arranged in roughly the same pattern.� There was no debris on top of the little table, and all the drawers were closed evenly, instead of being stuck in varying degrees of jut from bad packing.� The past week-plus hadn't been a dream:� someone had just decided to transfer her residence and made the ambiance-destroying mistake of cleaning up.� It felt wrong.

��� That, and the cameras in the corners, swiveling to cover the room, with two of them currently scanning the bed.

��� Sadira got up.� Her bra was much too tight:� she'd been wearing it for nearly a day, and the fabric didn't have much give.� On the other hand, her back felt pretty good:� she'd spent that day doing nothing but sleeping and healing, and she didn't feel hungry.� More IV tubes...

��� Had she seen one in the ambulance?� She remembered having briefly been awake. �She didn't remember much beyond that.

��� There were three doors leading out of the room.� Sadira explored, finding a little kitchen, a bathroom (with an amazingly wide bathtub), and a solid lock.� She had to use the second.

��� There were cameras in the bathroom.� One of them covered the bathtub, the other scanned the toilet.

��� Sadira looked up at the cameras and gave the operator the finger, then looked at the toilet.� She briefly closed her eyes and tried hard not to think about it.� It didn't help.

 

��� She did think about Jasmine, Pamela, and Jason almost constantly as she bathed, carefully following Ivory's washing instructions.� It took much longer to wash her breasts now...

��� Sadira had no idea what had happened after she'd been knocked out.� There was a good chance that the others had been taken out in different vehicles, and were walking up in their own little faux apartments.� There was an equally good chance they were dead.

��� No.� They needed us alive.� We all worked on the virus, they have to realize that �

��� Except Jasmine, whom they could kill.

��� Her eyes squeezed shut, and the tears began to leak out as she sank into the water.� Oh, Jasmine... �She understood, and even sympathized with what might have been her sister's final cry.� Jasmine had just been scared, just wanted to live...

��� Vengeance, she thought softly.� You don't fuck with a Brooklyn girl, don't hurt her family.� Her twin...

��� But her sister, her friends, they might all be alive.� Looking for her.� No matter what she was eventually told, she had to believe that until she had proof to the contrary.� It was the best way to stay sane, so she could plan that vengeance.� Try to contact the outside, arrange a rescue � or, if necessary, escape alone.

��� And if she ran alone, she was going to have to run soon, because even her walking was slow and deliberate, and in a few weeks, it was going to be impossible.

��� The pain would have to wait � and that hurt most of all.

��� Still, she allowed herself to cry, splashing water in her face to hide the tears, because she couldn't make herself stop.

 

��� Her captors wouldn't give her any privacy, but they let her have some time to wash, get dressed, and have a quick snack.� Most of the clothing in the drawers was hers:� she got her lower body covered without difficulty, but the shirts were a complete loss.� There were, however, several large smocks of fabric, muu-muus with worse-than-average design, sized for color-blind women a few hundred pounds heavier, and equally huge belts.� She did the best she could.

��� There were no bras other than the one she'd brought in.� She tried to get it back on, but the discomfort quickly turned into pain:� the cups were fairly rigid, and wouldn't stretch to accommodate her.� Flesh bulged from the top of the cups, and the sides, and when she tried to force it into a better fit, her breasts started to hurt � she quit, got the bra and muu-muu off, then improvised with a second muu-muu and a few belts.� The result was almost completely ineffective, but it would have to do.

��� She noted the presence of knives in the kitchen with some interest.� Weren't they worried about her committing suicide � or attacking someone?

��� Probably not.� Sadira wasn't the suicidal type, except for certain very specific circumstances:� she had a living will in case of severe brain damage.� They had her psych profile from the scholarship tests, they'd know that � and she didn't know enough about the setup yet to risk a break � and at any rate, she was probably outnumbered and outweaponed.� Basic gaming principle:� scout the opposition.

��� The kitchen cabinets were well stocked.� Mostly with Powerbars.� She groaned, took one, and closed the doors.

��� Her radio was in the bedroom, and her television:� she turned both on long enough to verify that she was back in Montana � but, while she'd never been in every part of GenTree, she found it hard to believe that they'd set things up in the building.� The radio could still pull in the Helena FM stations, but they were dim.� She was somewhere near the limits of their range.

��� There was nothing to do but wait for someone to talk to her.

��� At 9:30 a.m, someone did.

 

��� The door opened.� Sadira looked up from the television.

��� "Sadira?"

��� It took a moment to place the face:� it even blended smoothly into memory.� "Carmody," she replied.� "And it's Ms Archer, or Miss, or kidnap victim.� Whatever turns you on."

��� He didn't flinch.� "I have to take you to a conference.� Would you please come with me?"

� ��"Please?"� Perhaps Pamela was dead, because it felt like she was channeling her.� "'Please' implies a choice.� I don't have one."� She turned off the television.� "Any more lies?"

��� He just stood by the door, waiting.

��� Sadira thought about staying in place, making him haul her along, or get a lot of help � but it really wouldn't accomplish anything.� She went through the door.

��� White corridor, florescent lighting, two guards with odd-looking guns � probably more tranquilizers � and hand-held screens that were tied into the interior cameras.� Perverts. �She had no doubt there were more guards close by.� There were several cameras, and plenty of doors.

��� "Follow me," Carmody said as he locked the door, and they went for a walk.

 

��� It wasn't GenTree:� all the floors had the same basic layout.� This was closer kin to Terragen, but on a larger scale:� a maze of corridors, winding about without seeming pattern.� The guards paced them, five feet ahead, five feet back.� They passed several other people on the way, none of whom Sadira recognized.� All of them stared at her.� In one case, she smiled and waved, remembering something Pamela had told her.

��� "Just smile.� Wave a little."

��� "Why?"

��� "Because it shorts out their brains and they can't do anything but smile back."

��� The man's lips twitched, and he hurried on.

��� Eventually, they went in an office, large, elaborately paneled and decorated, and the frost was waiting to greet her.

 

��� "Ms Archer.� Please sit down."

��� Sadira sat in the plush chair facing the desk.� Her breasts brushed against her lap.� She leaned back a bit, lifting them.� Behind her, Carmody went into a corner and held position.

��� "Mr. Nigilo," she replied.

��� "Kyle," he said, smiling.

��� "Not likely."� It had just slipped out.

��� The smile wavered slightly, then came back full force.� "I have to say, you look � different this way.� Are you content yet?� Have you beaten Jasmine to your satisfaction, or are you playing double or nothing?"� The words were couched in friendly, conversational tones.

��� Sadira kept the confusion from her face.� "Where is Jasmine?"� Soft, demanding.

��� "Concern for the lab rat?"

��� Sadira blinked.

��� "She's alive," Nigilo replied, "and you may see her in time."

��� Sadira wondered if she could believe him.

��� He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick file.� "I have a little story to tell you.� I think you'll be interested, and I only want to tell it once."

��� Sadira sat and quietly listened as Nigilo told her exactly what had led to her being caught, taking great pleasure in detailing the chase.� Some of the silence stemmed from confusion:� he wasn't covering everything.� He laughed at the coincidence that had led Victor and Claire Shalm past the lab entrance � but the man whom Pamela and Jason had confronted in Central Park was never mentioned.

��� Nigilo did explain his motives in placing an agent at Al's Barn �

��� � which made very little sense to Sadira.� She could follow his logic and see the false premise he'd built his chain on, but it was rough going.� She wondered what his family had been like to make him see everything in terms of competition.

��� Nigilo, however, was enjoying his chance to show off, speaking to her as if deconstructing a particularly enjoyable game of chess.� He congratulated the driver on the brilliant car chase.� He commended Pamela's ability to hide her tracks.� He really, really liked the trick with the credit card.

��� "So," Nigilo finished, "your luck has taken a turn for the worse � but if you work hard, you might be able to reverse it.� Not all the way, unfortunately, that's impossible now � but it might eventually become somewhat positive."

��� Sadira waited for him to continue.� He obliged her.� "Sadira �" first time for first name usage:� she wasn't sure how to stop him "� you used the virus too soon.� Two days, to be exact."

��� "It was an accident."

��� He waved a dismissive hand.� "Say whatever you like:� some of us know the truth.� You kept up appearances well, though."

��� As well as you did?� "Thanks," she said neutrally.� If he thought she was less than sane, it might lead to underestimation later.� "So what was going to happen in two days?"

��� "If all had gone well, I would have come to you with a new proposal.� I had been making some early inquiries � but you interrupted the work.� The project would have proceeded."

��� She stared.� "How?� You were right:� no one was going to allow me to test the virus �"

��� "Legally."� He smiled.� "No one ever said the control agencies had to be involved, did they?� That performance in the conference room was for the record only, so we could all truthfully say the project had been rejected if something went wrong.� But we're going to test the viruses, and we'll market them.� It's easy enough."

��� "On who?� You're hardly going to get volunteers for an untested cosmetic enhancement!"� It felt good to throw the words back at him.

��� Nigilo reached into another desk drawer and passed across a small clear vial, filled with small white stones.� "Do you know what this is?"

��� Sadira picked it up and looked at it.� She knew.� The local police had taken a case full of samples to the high schools, warning the kids.� "Cocaine, in the 'crack' composition."

��� "Correct.� We're allowed to keep a few samples around for the project on six."� Sadira knew about it:� the addiction breaker, removal of the physical need for the drug at the cellular level.� "It's also a very powerful motivational force, along with poverty."

��� Sadira started to see where he was going, and was paralyzed by the horror of the vision.� Nigilo kept talking.� "Montana has its share of addicts, but most of the deranged people in our state don't need chemical help.� Our� � private Mexican branch works in a different environment.� They are surrounded by poverty and drug addiction."� The chill smile formed a layer of ice across her mind.� "This is deliberate.

��� "Are you aware of the current organ market?"� She didn't respond.� He took it as a negative.� "Very poor people, or addicts desperate for their next fix, find a network of contacts � or sometimes they're sought out.� Desperate people, corrupt doctors..."� Sadira shuddered.� He didn't notice.� "The human body has several duplicate organs which can be transplanted out.� A kidney, usually, but sometimes a lung, and some of them are desperate enough to give up a cornea and lose half their sight.� The money is very good, especially at that economic level.� Admittedly, it's more common among the poor than the addicts � would you want a drug-soaked kidney?� But it's done more often than the media likes to believe or bothers to investigate.

��� "Now, if you were to offer people a fraction of that money, but told them they wouldn't lose any of their body parts � in fact, two parts might be enhanced and allow them another means of earning a living..."

��� "They'd talk," Sadira feebly protested.

��� "They don't.� You just spent some time in a fairly poor area, and you're originally from New York.� You know better than that."

��� Nobody talks.� Because if one person talks, then the money is cut off � or the person might vanish...

��� "We'd keep them locked down for a while, good food and clothing while the virus does its job.� A pleasant change for them, actually. After testing was complete, we'd begin selling it."� The smile was almost warm.� "You were right all along.� There are plenty of women who would love to have larger breasts, and are terrified of silicone poisoning, or the perils of the operation, even with saline."� This time, Sadira managed to suppress her reaction.� "They would pay thousands for a safe alternative."

��� "But how do you keep it secret once you start selling it?� Eventually, someone's going to talk..."

��� "Oh, you work through intermediaries � investors, so to speak, and we wouldn't sell it in the United States unless the money was simply too tempting.� It's like the cancer drugs that get imported illegally:� no one's going to reveal how they get into the country, because then everyone's source dries up.� For this, gratitude suffices to keep things quiet.� I'm not saying it would be easy � there's more work involved than I want to detail � but it can be done.� It's been done before, though normally with drugs.� Turning a profit is easy."� He opened the file and passed her a chart.� "Based on initial inquires and simulations, that's the profit picture for the first five years with an ultra-conservative distribution scenario."

��� Sadira looked over the chart.� Accounting wasn't her strong point, but she could add, and she could see the grand total in the bottom right corner.� Four hundred and twenty-three million dollars.

��� "That's based on an average cost of fifteen thousand dollars a treatment, with extra costs for more drastic enlargements.� If we increase the distribution and number of patients treated, we can lower the costs somewhat � but why bother?� It's almost all pure profit.� A breast enhancement performed by a professional can cost five thousand:� tripling the cost to account for absolute safety, and the added bonus of being able to get as large as you like � well, what do you think of a base cost of fifteen thousand, with an additional two hundred for every inch after the fourth?� That would allow a completely flat woman such as you � used to be � to go from zero to D for the base cost."

��� Sadira blinked.� "It seems somewhat expensive."

��� He shook his head.� "That's what the market is prepared to bear.� Again, the more patients we treat, the lower the cost.� I wouldn't bring it under ten thousand base at any rate.� I also have to consider the percentage our investors would take.� And even if someone talks � we'll be difficult to track, and once thousands of people are walking around with no side effects at all, the biohazard agencies aren't going to make any real effort to go after the source.� Breast enlargement is too trivial to investigate."

�� Nigilo reached out for the chart:� Sadira passed it back.� "So this is obviously where you come in.� I wouldn't have presented it all to you in these terms to begin with � your profile is a little too clean.� I would have told you we had a tentative approval outside the States, fed you a few lies about the Mexican site, and given you a healthy piece of the profits.� I do pay for good work, Sadira.� I run this company hard, but well.� I'm not the owner, but they know better than to cross me.� I have some connections, and information on most of the people in GenTree, including everyone at this site.

��� "You'll reconstruct both viruses for us.� It doesn't seem sensible to give you any of the profits now � after all, we now have to recoup the price of the hunt � but you'll get some of it."

�� �No.� I'll finish the work, and you'll kill me � maybe not.� It might be to his advantage to have a pet geneticist, but the logistics of keeping me hidden forever are formidable...� 'You'll' reconstruct?

��� "If you're wondering about how you'll spend it � eventually, if I decide you can be trusted to some degree, you'll be allowed out with company.� But that's going to take a lot of work on your part.� Call it a goal to work towards."

�� �Lie.� Maybe.

��� "There are places in India � palaces which the government can't touch � where the maharajahs have "private" scientists who make drugs for them.� You'll have the same status.� I promise fair treatment as long as you cooperate.

��� "And I suggest you start working fast, and cooperate fully.� I'll give you a team to head up, and they'll be monitoring your work.� I don't know how large you wish to be, but you must want to end the growth at some point.� You can't just stage a strike and refuse to build the second virus.� You may want to sacrifice mobility for �" his face momentarily betrayed his disbelief of the next word "� beauty, but how far did you intend it to go?"

��� Sadira thought about her next words carefully.� "Then I'd better start working.� When can I meet Jason and Pamela?"

��� The reply was automatic.� "You'll have to earn that �"

��� "Why?� They were working with me on the second virus."

��� "Lie.� The second virus was finished when you used the first.� You had the data on another computer, or remembered to erase it beyond the recovery of a file utility."

��� Sadira didn't react, she role-played, seeing Nigilo's perspective and working within it, gathering the information she needed.� "Fine," with just a hint of a resigned sigh:� you're too smart for me, I give up.� "But I still have to recreate it, and I need the partners who were helping me refine the virus.� I may be smart, but I don't have eidetic memory � with my metabolism so high, I'm running a small fever all the time."� Bluff, bluff, make it sound like a real concern, like I'm scared of what he might do � not exactly something I have to fake...� "It makes it hard to concentrate sometimes."

��� Nigilo said nothing.

��� "You don't have them here, do you?"� A small break, but still in character.� Alive, oh please, alive, even if they're all stuck here, Jasmine too...

��� "No," he said heavily, "I don't."� He stood up.� He loomed over Sadira, a former football tackle who hadn't let himself go to seed:� his width was imposing.� "They were killed when they tried to keep you from being taken, and the shots put holes in the computers.� The data was lost.� I wanted to take you all alive, but they made things difficult."

��� Sadira felt the blood rushing away as the room began to tilt and shift, disbelief and denial trying to work together, clashing with the dead factual certainty of Nigilo's tone...

��� "Now see what you've done," Nigilo said softly.� "You've gone and killed them all.� I guess there's nothing left but the work." He stepped around the desk.� "Whenever she's ready to move again," he told Carmody, "take her to the lab and introduce her to her partners."� Nigilo left the office.

��� Sadira had forgotten Carmody was there.

��� "Would you like some privacy?" he asked.� There was no sympathy in his voice, just a question.� "There are cameras in the office, but I can step outside."

��� "No," Sadira said, and started the slow process of getting up properly.� She thought she was up to about forty extra pounds (no scale in the bathroom):� still mobile, but she had to be very careful.� Her back twinged anyway.� "I don't believe him."� Dead.� They might all be dead.� All dead...� "And I need to get to work."

��� Carmody put his hands under her arms, helping her up.� She allowed him to assist until she was standing.� He let go.

��� Sadira turned, ready to head for the door.� She took one step, placing her in front of Carmody, who was about to step aside �

��� � a right jab went directly into his stomach.

��� He doubled over so fast that his descending upper body nearly hit her:� she stepped back just in time.

��� The guards, whose portable screens had been tuned to the office, rushed into the room, weapons drawn and pointed � but didn't fire.� Sadira just stood there quietly, arms raised, hands open.� Carmody gasped, trying not to throw up.

��� "He touched me," she explained, "and he's never going to do it again."� She stepped towards them.� The guns swung to cover her.� "Now where's my lab?� I have work to do."

��� The guards waited for Carmody to recover before they all left the room.

��� Sadira carefully memorized the path as they walked.� I am going to use this team to build the second virus, she decided, and then I'm going to use it.� And then I'm going to get out, and I'm taking the data with me, or destroying it before I go.

�� �I don't know what kind of projects they're testing in Mexico, but they may be giving potentially fatal organisms to people who might not understand the consequences.� They're treating humans like lab rats.� I'm not going to contribute to those projects.� Someone has to stop them.

��� I wouldn't commit suicide from a disease, not if I could try to find a cure �

��� And that was how the decision was made, with a simple realization of fact.� It'll have to be quick, something they can't fix.� They're watching me all the time.� I can't cut my wrists:� they'll sew me back up before the blood loss became dangerous...

��� She wouldn't live as a vegetable, and she wouldn't live as a slave.�

��� If there was no rescue coming, and she couldn't escape, she'd kill herself.

��� And she'd take the data, viruses, and building with her.

 

��� Nigilo caught up with Carmody an hour later, in the cafeteria.� Carmody's appetite was just starting to return.

��� "Is she working?"

��� "She went into the lab, asked the rest of the team a few questions, and began reviewing their data.� They were discussing sequences when I left."

��� "Good."� Nigilo sat down.� "How's your stomach?"

��� "Recovering."

��� "You shouldn't have let yourself get that close.� Women fake weakness.� They use it as a lure.� Let it be a lesson to you."

��� "I won't forget it, sir."

��� Nigilo thoughtfully chewed his ham sandwich, swallowed, and said, "Do you think we should hypnotize her to enhance her memory?"

��� "No, sir," Carmody immediately replied.� "Hypnosis only works when the subject is cooperative.� I believe Ms Archer still has a core of resistance."

��� "Agreed," Nigilo reluctantly said.� "I'm not drugging her because it might affect her mind, but I'd thought hypnosis might work.� Well, she's got her incentive.� Work � or not work."� He took another bite.� "Now, the others..."

��� Carmody waited while Nigilo ate.

��� "They'll be waiting for us," he finally said.� "They'll expect another raid.� Save the data, destroy the computers, shoot anyone who walks through the door.� If we go after the data again, some of our agents might die, and that might be a little hard for them to explain �� but it could backfire on us.� I don't want to drag the police in when no one's called them yet."� Carmody, posing as a reporter, had gotten a copy of the NYPD's activity ledger for Alphabet City faxed to an employee's house.� No one had reported the shots.

��� "Now, we might need that data," Nigilo considered, "but we're not going to get it.� Pterros may be dead.� If so, that leaves Shaw and the dancer.� So we have to decide what to do about them.

��� "If it's profit, Shaw may decide to cut her losses.� Who knows what she's going to do with the lab rat?� But if that little 'experiment' in college resulted in an emotional attachment on Shaw's end � and Pterros is still alive..."� Another bite, chew, swallow.� "We can certainly lie, deny, cover, fabricate evidence that could refute any charges they might decide to bring, but it wastes time, and there's always the chance that something might stick.� If they're stupidly involved, then they may do something stupid.� They may try to find her � although I don't think they can � and come after her.� And they do have that data.� With Archer present, I can talk to the investors, get more backing..."

��� He ate.� Carmody waited.

��� "I'm going to call an acquaintance in New York," Nigilo decided.� "I have a job for him."

   

25

72:� New deal

 

��� Pamela looked around the corner, gun ready.� The apartment had been clear, but the lab was going to be harder to search.� Jason and Jasmine followed her in, their own weapons drawn.� Pamela had given the Princess a brief lesson in gunplay which, simplified, translated to "This end towards enemy."� Each one took a third and began the hunt.

��� There was no one else in the lab, and no one had been there since they had left.� They converged at the door.

��� "Well," Pamela said, "all the data's on the computer, and no one broke the hairs."� She'd used a trick dimly remembered from an espionage novel:� taking small strands of her hair and invisibly taping them across the keyboards and access ports (not to mention the doorways, locks, Jasmine's facial powder spread on the floor to catch footprints...), so that any attempt to use the computer would break several.� She'd thought about hauling the entire system out with them, but had concluded that if anyone stole the information, it would go to Sadira, who needed it.� She'd made copies of everything important before leaving the lab, in case they decided to take and erase.

��� "Fine," Jasmine said.� "Now what?"

��� Jason looked at the computer.� "We make a decision.� Do we try to finish the virus � and it's going to have to be or include the metabolic brakes, to avoid possible burnout when the growth stops � and then try and get her, or do we head out immediately?"

��� Pamela looked at Jason.� "Take a step."

��� He shook his head.� "I'm moving more easily �"

��� "� and getting worse again.� You healed quite a bit overnight.� Any time you're not moving, you heal.� When you move, you risk re-injuring yourself.� You're still not up for a rescue operation.� And you're going to need a cure first.� Sadira probably won't be able to work on it:� she doesn't know about the burnout possibility, though she'll probably deduce it fast enough.� But they'll make her focus on the growth stop before they let her tackle her own problems."� Her brow furrowed.� "I think.� I'm not sure. �Damnit!"

��� "No, that makes sense," Jason told her.� "They'd probably want her eternally hyper.� She could do more work."

��� "Twin projects," Jasmine said.� "We work on the metabolism, she works on the growth."

��� "We hope."� Pamela turned to Jasmine.� "If you have any mystical twin telepathic connection to Sadira, this would be a good time."� Jasmine briefly closed her eyes.� It was either frustration or she was giving it a try.

��� "So," Pamela decided � tried to convince herself that it was the right decision � "Sadira stalls and works.� They'll probably put her with a team:� she's got better equipment than we do right now.� We put together the metabolic stop as fast as we can.� In the meanwhile, we start finding out where she is.� And when we finish and get the Mouse cured, we go after her."

��� "Why not call the police?" Jasmine asked.� "This is a kidnapping:� they'll get involved."

��� "Why not the FBI?" Pamela shrugged.� "They probably took her across a state line."� The idea was enticing, but she knew the answer.� "Because we can't prove anything.� We tell the truth, they lie.� Get a search warrant for the Helena building, she's probably somewhere else.� And in the meantime, with the barrage of legal investigations, denials, counter-accusations, we lose more time.� Same thing for the media."

��� She looked at Jason.� "You're right, Mouse � again.� I can go rushing off madly, but you could die.� Sadira's safe as long as she's working � but the instant we go after her, she's at risk.� And if we spend time getting her before we have a cure, then we have to bring her back and keep working � we lose the time for two trips instead of one."� They won't hurt her.� They can't.� I know that.� Why is it so hard to believe?

��� Jasmine smiled.� "Hit him."

��� "What?"

��� "He won't 'burn out' as long as he's healing, right?� If the leg gets completely better, hit him a few dozen times."� Her elbow nudged Jason's ribs.

��� Pamela stared at her, then started softly laughing, a low-pitched funeral chuckle.� "It's an idea," she admitted.� "We just might have to do that."� She looked up at Jason, who was wincing in anticipated agony.� "Kind of a variation on 'You always hurt the one you �'"

��� The intercom buzzer went off.

��� They all looked at it.

��� Jason went to the tinted window and tried to look straight down.� As with most genetics labs, Pamela's windows didn't open:� one of the former bathrooms had been converted into an closed environmental lab for working with airborne viruses.� "I can't see anything," he said regretfully.� "There aren't enough of them standing in line to reach the edge of the sidewalk.� No police cars on the street, though."

��� The buzzer sounded again.

��� "It's nearly two," Jasmine said.� "There's lots of people around to witness things, and even if they were that stupid, why would they buzz first?"

��� "Because they're that stupid," Pamela replied.� "It might just be a desperate scientist looking for a little extra help.� I'm going to have to say no..."� Another buzz.� They weren't going away and they might decide to come in.� She looked at Jasmine.� "Follow me and stay in the shadows." A quick glance towards Jason.� "Back us up from the stairway.� If things get weird, I'd rather not let people know you're alive."

 

��� Pamela could hear the buzzer outside the door, sounding every twenty seconds or so.� She couldn't see the person on the other side:� the front door had no security port.� A ridiculously obvious oversight that she was going to correct.� Later.� If there was a police officer on the other side, one who had decided to walk into Alphabet City without benefit of a getaway vehicle, she was about to be in serious trouble.

��� Pamela pulled the door open with her right hand, bringing it in across her body as she took a step back, and thrust the left hand forward, keeping herself well within the hallway, out of casual sidewalk viewing range.

��� The man in front of the doorway took a step back.� He was somewhere between twenty and forty � the face had too much time in it.� He was wearing a Knicks sweater and carrying a small briefcase.� Possibly a scientist.� "Hi," she said.� "And you are?"� The gun didn't waver.

��� "You have to be Pamela Shaw."� He had recovered quickly.

��� "Yeah, I have to be.� No one else wanted the job.� And you are?"

��� "Somebody with information and a need for more."

���� Paranoid scientist who really needed help was not an option.� She double-checked the safety:� it was off.� "No name?� Really?.� Let me come up with something."� Pamela considered.� "Okay, asshole, what do you want?"

��� "I want to show you something."� He was a professional asshole:� he opened the briefcase so she could view the contents, reaching around from the back to lift out the envelope.� "It's rather important.� You'll want to examine it closely."� He pulled out a single sheet of paper.

��� Pamela watched it emerge:� a good fax copy of a photograph, taken from a security camera, with time and date in the upper right corner �

��� � Sadira, in deep discussion with three other people.

��� She reached for the paper.� He pulled it back.� "If I don't report back, things happen," he said smoothly.� "And if you take this, I won't report back."

��� "Where �?"

��� The look said You know better than that. �She did.� It had still been worth a try.� "The status you see.� That's all the information that I have.� However, I also have a proposal."

��� She could see tendons standing out on the hand clutching the gun.� "Speak."

��� "You were working on the project.� A certain party would be interested in purchasing your data.� It could be helpful in the long run."

��� "And what happens if I don't?"

��� "Nothing.� As long as you do nothing."� Pamela waited for clarification.� "You have the potential to be competition.� You also might be thinking of trying to recover lost data.� Neither option would be beneficial to the long term survival of your business."

��� "Or my survival?"

��� "I wouldn't say that.� A mutual hands-off policy between our two businesses might simply be the best course to pursue."

��� Pamela gave up.� "I'm not wearing any recording devices.� I cannot play back this conversation for anybody else.� Speak clearly."

��� He shook his head.� "If you stay away from our territory, we stay away from yours.� If you pursue your current line of interest, your business could suffer, as could the value of �" he nodded at the photo "� your real estate.� It might crash through the basement.� It certainly could if you attempted to recover full market value.� I wouldn't seek consultants either.� You're better off doing something else entirely.� It befits a small business."

��� Pamela's mind translated:� We're not sure how to keep you quiet.� We thought fear might do it.� So if you try to come after Sadira, we think about hurting her.� If you go get help from the police, media, anybody, ditto.� We also don't want you selling the viruses.� And by the way, would you mind selling us your soul?

��� "If I give you the data, does it get put to good use?"

��� "It results in maximum benefit for all parties."

��� "Could you give me a moment to think this over?"� Good, nice and calm.

��� "Thirty seconds," he replied, voice oil-slick.

��� She closed the door and walked slowly down the hall, trying not to alert the man with rapid footsteps, then pitched her words low.� "No questions.� Mouse, hide on one of the empty floors.� Princess, get up to the lab fast and quiet, find a good place to hide, and cover me.� I'll explain later."� A pause.� "And if he kills me, I will haunt you."� She walked back to the door and opened it.

��� "Deal," Pamela said.� "Can you come in?"

 

��� He watched as she copied the files.� He'd brought an advanced zip drive with him, and the data was being imprinted on the cartridges.� "Where's the second half of the project?"

��� "We don't have it because it doesn't exist.� I'm giving you all the avenues we were pursuing."� She was including the metabolic data:� maybe Sadira would have a chance at it.

��� "My employer isn't going to pay for partial results � or for deliberate withholding of information."

��� Pamela straightened up and looked at him.� "Your employer seems given to flights of fancy and illogic.� I want to help, so I'm giving you every piece of information I have.� I feel it's essential that the new team receives it.� I'll copy out the entire hard drive for you.� You can copy out the entire hard drive.� But I can't give you what I don't have."� She stepped away from the computer.� "Go ahead and look."

��� "You could have taken out the essential data first �"

��� "I'm not taking that risk."� She nodded at the briefcase.� "And when would I have had the chance?� I didn't know you were coming."

��� He made sure she was out of punch and kick range � but still in sight � and took her up on the offer, examining the hard drive carefully, checking for hidden directories and deleted files.� He was good.� If there had been any, he would have found them.� He finally looked up.� "'Flights of fancy and illogic?'� That sounds about right."� Her eyes were met.� "You really don't have the data, do you?"

��� "No.� Would you like to tell him she didn't trust me with it?"

��� "It's an option."� A twitch was twisting the left corner of his mouth.� It might have been an attempt at a smile.� "Or you had bad sectors.� I was given payment to get everything you had.� It's hardly either of our faults if you didn't have everything desired."

��� "You don't sound sympathetic."

��� "I obey orders to the letter.� If I'm not provided with enough letters, it's the fault of my employer."

��� "Then tell what I need to know."

��� "That was prohibited in the letter."

��� So much for bonding.� They copied out the hard drive.� He reached into the suitcase again, put in the zip drive and seven filled cartridges, then opened a second envelope.� He gave Pamela the contents.

��� She glanced at it.� Bearer bond, probably passed off through a series of banks, completely untraceable.� Pamela put it on top of the Mutator.

��� "Thank you for your cooperation."

��� Pamela looked at him.� "You're welcome, Citizen."� He didn't get it.� She hadn't expected him to.

��� She escorted him out, and gathered the troops on the way back.

 

��� "So now Sadira has all the data we had," Pamela said, "and we were paid for it.� Nigilo seems to think he can either threaten or purchase anyone he pleases.� This was a combination of the two."

��� "How much?" Jasmine asked instinctively.

��� Pamela blinked.� "I didn't even look."� She walked into the maze, heading for the Mutator.� Jason and Jasmine watched her go.

��� Twelve seconds later, they heard a very quiet "Jesus fucking jumping joker Christ."

��� Jasmine reached her first and looked at the bond Pamela was holding in limp fingers.� "One hundred thousand..."

��� "Yeah."� Jason limped up.� Pamela kept staring at the number.� "Wow.� When he buys silence, he goes for the expensive stuff."

��� "So now what?" Jason asked.

��� "Same thing.� We find a cure, find Sadira, and go get her."� Pamela closed her eyes.� "I read between his lines.� She's safe as long as we stay away.� Nothing will ever touch her again � including fresh air."

��� Jasmine shook her head.� "And if we screw up � if they even know we're coming � they're going to kill her."

��� "Maybe.� She's valuable, but they might try it."� Her hand crumpled one corner of the bond.� "I know her, Princess.� So do you.� Given a choice between slavery and death, what does she pick?"

��� Jasmine didn't hesitate.� "Live free or die."

��� Jason slowly, painfully, nodded.

��� Pamela closed her eyes and let her heart fall apart in silence, then opened them and looked at the bond.� "So we're going to do it right."� The snow leopard manifested.� "And Nigilo's going to pay for it in every way possible."

 

��� Temperi walked over to Sadira.� "You had this sequence, right?"� He handed her a piece of printout.� She leaned it against the disposal oven and made a few corrections.� "Thanks."� He left.

��� Sadira watched him leave.� Temperi had been on the leukemia project:�� they'd shared data before.� She didn't like him.� Sadira had caught him giving her odd, almost guilty looks before the accident.� She was normally outside the rumor mill, but one had reached her:� Temperi supposedly liked his women six to ten years short of the term.

��� She hadn't believed it at the time, but it did explain the strange looks:� Sadira had been as flat as the average eight year-old.� And there hadn't been a single one of those looks since she'd walked in.� If anything, he seemed to be avoiding her.

��� Jonas was just creepy.� He was on the addiction project, so they'd never met in the lab.� He would just flow through the cafeteria every so often, the crowd parting for him, avoiding contact.� It had taken two minutes of working with him to find the perfect description:� ghoul.

��� The third man was new to her:� small, strongly built, prematurely bald.� He'd introduced himself as Calvin Menken in a voice that sounded rusty from long disuse, and hadn't said anything since.

��� She hadn't given much thought to recruiting help from her co-workers on the way in.� She'd completely discarded the idea within three minutes of entering the lab.

��� They had equipment, at least, top of the line and plentiful.� Sadira had access to the central computer � but the modem was passworded:� if Sadira wanted data from another source, she had to ask one of the others to get it.� Her partners had even made some progress on the stop virus.� They'd managed to eliminate several possibilities that the New York team hadn't gotten around to examining.

��� Still, according to Temperi, they had been working with ninety-five percent of her original data, and they hadn't been able to recreate BE-1.� She'd filled in the missing pieces with a glance, but she hadn't put them to use yet.

��� Sadira wasn't sure how to go about playing for time.� Nigilo was convinced that she had finished both viruses, and was trying to recreate her work from memory.� It therefore made sense to finish BE-1 quickly and take more time on BE-2, for which she had no data to build on � but how much time could she take, if she was waiting for a rescue?� (If her rescuers were alive...)� Every day was another four inches.

��� And if they did complete the second virus, and she used it on herself, then Nigilo would begin manufacture and outside testing almost immediately.� Some of the samples would be out of reach.� And if she was allowed to live, she'd be shifted to another project, something with deadlier implications...

��� If it was a game, then her life was serving as ante.� And there were some victories that would result in everyone forfeiting the pot.�

��� Sadira worked and plotted, rejecting dozens of scenarios, trying to find the foolproof way out of the fort.

��� Some of those plans turned into fantasies, where she broke out, cured and triumphant, to find an eager biohazard agency, ready to dive past her and arrest all of GenTree, and friends and family right behind, waiting to hug her.

��� And some of those fantasies turned into nightmares, as Nigilo stepped out of the wreckage and shot them all.

��� She kept revising the plans, editing the contents of the fantasies.� Sadira was going for a happy ending � or a tragicomedy that would bring down the house.

   

26

81:� Dear Kay,

 

��� Sadira looked at the notebook and thought hard.

��� They had, after a quick session with Carmody, put a computer system in her room, but it was what used to be called a dumb terminal.� Sadira had thought of several worse things to call it.� It connected to the central computer, but the only thing it would let her do was work within the database.� No modem line, no access to building systems, nothing.

��� Given a few minutes to learn a program, Sadira could warp it in interesting ways, but hacking wasn't a skill she possessed � and she didn't see any real way to get into the other systems from the database even if she had the skill.� The computer just didn't have the capacity.

��� She had also asked for, and gotten, a large supply of pillows, which was the reason she was able to write comfortably:� she was on her stomach again � on her breasts, really � diagonal across the bed, breasts lying comfortably between columns, pillows taking the weight.� It had taken a lot of awkward arranging and a lot more pillows than Pamela had used.� It also wasn't as effective � there was a larger center area to compensate for � and she wasn't looking forward to moving again.

��� They still hadn't given her bras.� They had given her painkillers, but they watched her take them.� No overdosing allowed.� It had been hard to convince them that the amount she was taking was a normal dose.

��� And she had the notebook.� And she couldn't think about BE-2 anymore, because she'd been working on it for nearly fifteen hours straight, and whenever she tried to focus on the sequence charts, they rearranged themselves and became dancing stick figures.� She'd pleaded exhaustion and tried to go to sleep.� She couldn't do that, either.

��� If she thought about something else for a while � if she got all the thoughts out of her head and on paper � then she might clear out enough space to let sleep come in.

��� Sadira looked up at the cameras.� "Notes," she told them.� "If I come up with anything interesting, I'll let you know."� But the project was out of reach.� She was going to write a letter � a letter that would probably never be mailed.

   

��� March 27th

��� Dear Kay,

 

��� I want to start this letter with two apologies, one minor, one major.� First, I'm sorry I can't come to your wedding.� I appreciate the invitation � it's nice to get good news from family once in a while.� But it was really a formality for both of us: �you can't afford too many guests, and I could never get time off from work to come � especially now.� I hope you and Rick are doing well.

��� Second, I'm sorry for the way I acted when you started developing.

��� I know you noticed, even though you never said anything.� You just looked hurt that last time we visited, just before I went to college.� Before that happened, I looked forward to those occasional summer weeks in England, visiting family.� Visiting you.� You were a wonderful alternative to Jasmine, open and loving, and you never resented me for being smart.� I thought of you as a little sister for a while there � God knows you were preferable to the real one.

��� And then you started growing, and I stopped talking to you, and writing those seasonal letters.� I cut you out.� I couldn't stand the thought of another "true" Archer blossoming while I stayed at zero forever.� And with me on top of everyone else at that stage � believe me, I'm learning about it now � it must have hurt.

��� I started writing again after Pamela (you remember her) adjusted my attitude for me, and you picked up the correspondence without a word.� But I never apologized, and this might be my only chance � even if you never see this...

 

��� Sadira stopped and wiped away the tear that had splattered on the page.

��� It took several pages, even in summary, to tell Kay everything that had happened from the fifteenth up to Monday, with some background information added.� Sadira held nothing back, including the more embarrassing details.� After all, Kay was probably never going to read it � and if she did, then Sadira had gotten out alive, and embarrassment didn't matter.

 

��� You never really said why you retreated to working at home, or that you wanted a reduction � although I just guessed:� I read between the lines a little.� Everyone knows I go nuts when someone says "surgery."� I would have tried to talk you out of it.� And then a few months ago, in your last letter, just before the wedding announcement I got on the fourteenth, the tone changed.� You were at peace with yourself.� You'd found someone who loved you � and you were getting support from new friends, and this new source of income you found � I think you were avoiding telling me exactly what it was because you know how I feel about Jasmine.� If I've guessed right (took me long enough), you're forgiven.� Nothing to be sorry about.

��� You didn't say much about Charlotte, but I'd like to meet her one day, and Rick.� Anyone who could turn you around is someone worth talking to.� I could probably use some time listening to them myself.

��� Not that I'm going to get a chance.

��� Well, judging from your last picture, I've passed you in size now, and I've been getting first-hand lessons in how I can expect to be treated from now on...

 

��� Sadira recognized the woman delivering lunch:� Lisa, from the Accounting department, who always took so much pleasure in her (lack of) social life.� She was built along the Cosmopolitan lines:� rich blond hair, a classic figure, long legs, a sculptured face, and an attitude which projected eight feet from her actual body.� It begged the question of how she'd wound up in Accounting in the first place.� Most people thought she just liked rejecting things: budgets, raises, all of her co-workers...

�� �"Lunchtime," she said distastefully.� "Aaron snagged me in the corridor and force-fed me this.� Come and get it."

��� Sadira, whose movement was still slowing (especially without the bra), got there last.

��� Lisa looked down at her and indulged herself with a long, satisfied smirk.

��� Sadira reached out for the bag.� Lisa lifted it over her head, well out of Sadira's reach.� Jumping wasn't an option.

��� "Drop it," Sadira spat.

��� "Why?" Lisa teased.� "I didn't listen to you when you were the Flatty from Flatbush.� Why should I listen when you're the Bovine from Brooklyn?"

 

��� ...and I was standing in front of her thinking When I was flat, this woman made fun of my chest.� And now look at me.� And what does she do?� Right.� Pamela had it called to the last pitch.

 

��� Sadira prepared to kick Lisa in the shins, hoping she didn't lose her balance �

��� "Give her the food, Trevor," the passive voice said.� "Mr. Nigilo would be very upset to learn that Ms Archer isn't receiving proper nutrition."

��� Lisa glared down at Sadira, and handed her the bag.

 

��� Saved by Carmody.� She was, anyway.

��� He's been my go-between with Nigilo.� I ask him for something, he goes and gets it � within reason.� I don't think I can get a gun.� I wish I could get bras, but no one's thought of it, and I keep missing chances to bring it up.� Figures.� Whenever Carmody shows up, I think of a million other things to complain about � and they're so important that the pain in my back gets forgotten.� I've been seeing him twice a day:� you'd think I'd manage to remember.� It's just that the work always seems to take priority.� (And I think Nigilo would tell him to make the answer no.)

��� Maybe they're afraid I'll hang myself with the straps.� They'd certainly be strong enough.

��� We have been making some progress, and not just in eliminating things.� Temperi of all people proposed a new avenue that we've been chasing down, and this one doesn't seem to be heading for the usual dead end.� It's complex � a lot more complex than the start sequence, so it'll take longer to find out it's not going to work.

��� Or maybe it will.� Temperi is very dedicated.� Glance back at the rumor I gave you:� I think he's afraid of any woman who doesn't look like she just came out of the uterus, and I'm getting farther from that every day.� He has to work in the same room.� I think he's getting desperate.� It's pushing him to new levels.

��� I've seen some of that from other people.� There aren't a lot of women in here � there weren't a lot in GenTree, period.� Nigilo, probably.� Some of them look away.� A lot of them stare.� One licked her lips.� The men are pretty much the same.� The best I get is quiet acceptance, like I found in the club � or, from Carmody, disinterest.

��� I've seen Nigilo twice, briefly.� The first time, he popped his head in and looked around for a second.� Today, he came all the way in and asked me if I thought my metabolic rate could be imposed on someone else separate from the breast growth.� I told him I thought it was possible.� I didn't tell him that I already had the sequences.

��� He went over to the computer and called up some new files � but I'd seen them before.� They were from Pamela's computer. �He said a team had been sifting through the wreckage and reconstructed some of the data.� He sounded mad about it, like he'd been expecting a lot more, and then he looked at me and said, "You don't trust anyone, do you?"

��� It didn't make sense.� But not much about him does.� He left after reminding the others to double-check my work.� And the metabolic enhancer is officially our next project.� I'm glad he didn't decide to shelve BE-2 in favor of it.� This one could go into general testing without much fuss from the government.� The hospitals, the military � everyone would love it.

��� So I have some more data, and I have to wonder how they got it.� I never heard of someone getting files after a computer had been shot.� If Jason, Pamela, and Jasmine are still alive, they may have abandoned the lab.� I don't know where they could have gone.� Maybe they're looking for me.� Maybe they're still working on a cure...

 

��� Pamela examined Jason's leg.� The scar, a thick, bright red on Tuesday, had faded to a quiet pink.� "Take a few steps."� He did.� His motions were becoming increasingly natural:� there was hardly any limp now.� "Put your pants back on."

��� Jason recovered the jeans and pulled them up over the boxer shorts.� "That bad or that good?"

��� "Both.� You'll be completely healed in another day or two.� After that, I don't know where the energy's going to go."� She gave him a small, wry smile.� "Maybe I should start beating you now."

��� "Maybe Jasmine knows a professional attacker."

��� "Dominatrixes and feature dancers don't mix," Jasmine called out from her desk.� "And you're too innocent to know about that stuff!"

��� Jason blushed.� "Heracles had a magazine."� He looked at Pamela.� "How's your end coming?"

��� "Not well."� They walked over to Jasmine's desk.� They'd both learned a lot about the dancer's intelligence level over the past two days.� While Jasmine couldn't master the full field in forty-eight hours, she'd picked up the basics from her reading.� Her eclectic perusals had given her a little knowledge in a lot of fields, all of which she put together to make suggestions, ask questions, and provide more help than nuisance.� Her specialty was spotting whatever they'd overlooked, such as the idea for a solo metabolic slowdown.

��� At the moment, she was reading over a file full of pregnancy data with a huge dictionary at her elbow, looking up every third word, struggling through the text.� She glanced up as they approached.� "Back to work, you two.� If I find anything, I'll let you know."

��� Pamela snapped off a salute.� "Yes, your royal highness!"� She quick-marched back into the maze.

��� "I want to go out to one of the Internet cafes," Pamela told him.� "We should give your idea another try:� find a hacker and get into GenTree's systems.� You don't think they're keeping her in the main building?"

��� Good.� That'll get you out of the lab.� They'd switched roles:� Jason now had to remind Pamela about eating.� She got up too early, worked too late, and slept too little.� "A branch operation," Jason replied.� "I know about one in Kansas � the agricultural labs � and there were rumors of a few others.� Michigan, Mexico..."

��� "So we need to find out exactly where she is, and plan an attack.� Download the blueprints if they're available, get the security codes � whatever's available.� A good hacker could do it."

��� "And you think we can find one this time?"

��� "Whatever it takes."� She grinned.� "We're going to give some of that excess energy a new outlet.� And my other idea might come through."

�� �"You heard from him?"

��� "The number was a message service:� someone forwarded it.� He'll be in town on Friday.� If we finish before that, we find a backup and leave without him.� But Sadira said she liked him, and I think she'd like my throwing him a very big bone.� Even if I had to lie to get him here."

��� "I still think you should have gone with a professional."

��� "He is a professional.� I've seen his work �"� Pamela stopped.� Jason was giving her one of those smiles again.� "At least he'll get the lighting right."

 

��� ...if what I think is happening is what's happening, then �

��� I love Pamela, as a friend and something more than a sister.� And as a lover.� She reverts a little in bed, becomes a big playful kid who's basically interested in how fun this is � but there's a lot of tenderness there, too.� And now I finally know why she was so sad that last night on campus, beyond roommates separating after four years together.� She's in love with me, and it took the first remembered dream of my life to figure it out.� Some genius, huh?

��� Jason is a good friend � you couldn't ask someone to go through what he has for me.� (If Rick's like that, then lucky you!)� That's the way Pamela started out, and I think � I think he's in love, too.� I'm starting to believe that Jasmine can't get to him, and I can keep believing that until I see evidence to the contrary.

��� And, adding all up, I think they both know about each other.� There's some sort of truce drawn up, to keep from upsetting me � that might be why Pamela avoided touching me again.� She honors her promises, no matter what.

��� It's funny.� I never thought I'd have anyone love me like that, and two of them were right in front of me the whole time.

��� In my defense, it's becoming very hard to see things which are right in front of me.

��� If I got out, and they were waiting for me, what would I do?� Can I make that choice?� Because I do love them both, in different ways � but those ways are converging.� I don't know what to do:� this isn't something I have any experience with.

��� I don't think I'm gay:� I chased boys in school with too much devotion for that.� Bisexual, probably, although Jasmine wouldn't be surprised to find out that I'm still a virgin with men, and I've never felt this way about any woman but Pamela.� So that's no help.

��� So what do I do?

��� I wish this was a chat room, and you could write back to me within seconds of reading this, because I have no ideas...

 

��� Carmody looked at the screen.� Sadira continued to write, all her attention focused on the paper.� The hand movements were too regular for formulae:� she was working on something else.� A diary, possibly.� She'd arranged the pillows as a blockade, gaining a measure of privacy � but the camera could zoom in and magnify: �even with the awkward angle, he could try to read some of the words if he wanted to �

 

��� I tried to suck my nipple last night.� (Even though I'll probably never get to mail this, I still can't believe I just wrote that)

��� It was the best thing to come out of this.� My nipples got a lot larger, and they also seemed to acquire more nerves than size.� I had a nipple orgasm:� I thought that just existed in woman's magazines, too.

��� Last night, I was in the bathtub, and I was looking at the cameras.� I can't tell you how much I hate them:� bad enough that they have to follow my every movement, even worse that those movements include the bowel variety.� They watch me at every moment:� nothing is private.� They might even be able to read these words, but I used the pillows pretty well, and none of the cameras are directly over the bed.� My thoughts are safe for the moment, even outside my head.

��� Anyway, I was washing, looking at the camera, and having it there was, right then, being naked in a crowd.� I'm stared at all the time, every second � and I just thought So watch this, assholes! and tried to orient my right nipple for sucking.� I don't know what I was really thinking.� Maybe I just wanted to shock them.� Nigilo already thinks I did this to myself deliberately:� I don't mind him thinking I'm a bit deranged.� If he saw this, he'd probably think I was writing it to mislead him.

��� Well, I tried to get my nipple to my mouth, and I couldn't.� My breasts are too big now, and too firm.� Maybe if they were more floppy, I could do it � but there's too much flesh between me and the nipple, and while it compresses, distorts, and jiggles, it doesn't really bend very well.

��� I must have been a hilarious sight.� I did everything I could to get to it.� I tried to slide one breast under the other...� I even lifted my breast up as far as I could � I thought that if I just tilted my head back far enough, my mouth and the nipple would meet eventually � and I wound up realizing that my breast is a lot bigger than my head.� (I didn't really think about it until I had a direct comparison going.)

��� And they thought I was attempting suicide by suffocation and broke in on me.

��� You would have enjoyed hearing me try to talk my way out of that one.� I was very creative.

��� My breasts have reached past my waist now, but they're projecting forward faster than they're descending at the moment.� I don't know why:� maybe there's some sort of automatic change in the genetic program that triggers at this size.� My nipples are about two inches long erect, and an inch across.� I don't have any Band-Aids here, and the muu-muu isn't much of a help.� Taken on a straight line, I'm out past my elbows even without the bra � and any bra is going to have to be very interesting to let me do much with my arms in front of my body at all.� Pamela's keyboarding lesson becomes more important every day:� I'm doing a lot of things sidesaddle now.

��� Jason told me that if my genes had triggered naturally, I would have been pretty big � maybe to Jasmine's scale, maybe even to yours.� It's hard to believe I would have gotten this big, though.� Still, I'm starting to realize even if this isn't normal for me, it's closer to the normal I would have been than the normal I was �

��� I think what I mean is what Pamela said earlier:� I got ten extra years of sleeping on my stomach, but that's not how I am now.� I was supposed to be large-breasted, but now I've caught up and passed that level.� I think I'm officially at huge, or somewhere past it.

 

��� Sadira stopped and stared at the paper for a long time, using the whiteness as a blank screen, watching the movie play again.� Eventually, she resumed writing.

 

�� �When I was eleven, they operated on me, after the bone marrow transplant.� All the treatments were working, and the leukemia was going away.� I don't even remember why they took me into surgery.� It might have been exploratory, or some small tumor that they wanted to examine, the disease running off-course � I've blocked that out.

��� What I remember is the eyes of the anesthesiologist as he lowered the mask over my face.� They were very, very bright.

��� He had access to the hospital pharmacy.� He used most of it.

��� The anesthetic wore off in the middle of the surgery.

��� I woke up on the table.� They'd strapped my limbs down to keep my position stable, so no one would brush against an arm against me and knock another doctor's scalpel off course.� That was the first thing I realized when I woke up.� The second thing was that those scalpels were cutting into me.

��� Everything else was pain.

��� The hospital admitted what had happened � they didn't have a choice:� they were working on me with students watching.� One of them freaked, ran out, and found my parents.� Mom and Dad sued, and won, but awards weren't so big back then, and we didn't exactly get a sympathetic judge.� The hospital offered to pay for all the bills plus a million more.� After all, I'd lived, and they'd fired the anesthesiologist:� what more did he want them to do?

��� Nothing, as it turned out.� So we got the million, and Dad lost all but a hundred thousand of it in the S&L scandal, tried to invest the rest, and lost that.� So the scholarships were all I had.

��� I know where my phobia comes from.� It doesn't help me deal with it.� I start shaking when I think about reduction surgery � any surgery.� If I do live through this, then, as Jasmine said, I'm stuck wherever it leaves me.

��� So it helps to think that I was always supposed to be this way � maybe even to this degree.� And if I get out, I'll write more to this letter, and send you the happy ending, and maybe even come visit to compare notes.� I owe you a hug along to go with that apology, and Pamela taught me how to do it, although I'm not sure how much longer it'll work.

��� But if I don't, then maybe someone will find this and take pity on me by sending it.� And if that doesn't happen, it still felt good to write to you again, and let someone in on what I was really feeling.

��� I wish I was with you right now, free.� But I'm with you in spirit, always.

��� Don't forget me.

 

Love,

Sadira

 

 

27

83:� Plots, plans, parallels...

 

��� Jason woke to find Pamela coming out of the bathroom, already fully dressed, absently munching on an apple � from the stem down.� She saw him and stopped moving.� "Good," she said.� "Bathroom's yours.� I'll wake up the Princess."� All the words were uncertain, as if she had to concentrate to string them together.

��� Jason sat up and got a good look at the clock.� Four hours of sleep.� "Wrong."

��� Pamela stared down at him.� "Fine, if you don't have to go, the Princess can use the bathroom first.� Frankly, though, you could use a shave.� Get in while it's free."� The apple fell from limp fingers.� She didn't notice and brought her left hand up to take another bite, then stared at the empty appendage in confusion.

��� Jason slowly stood up, letting the blankets fall to the floor around his feet.� Jasmine stirred, becoming aware of the noise.� "We worked past midnight yesterday," he reminded her.� "We never went to the Internet cafe.� You barely ate.� And now you've barely slept, and you haven't gotten much sleep over the past three days.� Neither have we," he added, indicating Jasmine.� But he was dealing with it fairly well, and Jasmine was napping at her desk.� Pamela � her jacket was on backwards �

��� "I'm up," Pamela argued.� "I can work.� I'm going to �"

��� Jason took a step forward.� "Bed."� He took her right hand and started pulling her forward.� She was too tired to resist.

��� Physically resist, anyway.� "We have to work.� We have to finish the virus.� I can go to the lab and wait for you if you're tired.� No one's chasing us now."� Pamela tried, and failed, to fight off a huge yawn.� "I'm fine."

��� A few steps brought them to the bed.� Jason pulled back the sheets, then began lowering Pamela onto the mattress.� "No, you're not.� You're exhausted.� You've been pushing yourself too hard.� You'll burn out before I do, or start making mistakes."

��� "But �"� Another yawn just as her head touched the pillow.

��� "No argument.� Now close your eyes, and I'll wake you up in three hours."

��� "I can't."� Her eyes were open, but they didn't seem to be seeing him.� "It's my fault, you see.� I didn't kill the man in the park.� If I had, they wouldn't have found us."

��� And she'd been pushing herself, working extra hours while the belief built and festered...� "You don't know that," he argued.� "We could have been spotted by someone else."� It was possible, after all.� Not likely, but possible.

��� Still, he forced belief into the words.� Pamela had to believe it, even if he didn't.

��� "No," came the tired voice, beginning to fade.� "My fault...� want a second chance..."

��� Jason was out of words, except for the one that she still might respond to.� "Ivory �"

��� Pamela's eyelids flickered as she whispered, "Sadira calls me Ivory �" then slowly fell shut.� Jason pulled the covers over her and went back to his makeshift bed.� Jasmine's movements slowly subsided as the silence closed in.

 

��� Sadira stepped into the bathtub, and looked over her shoulder at the mirror.� There was definitely more flesh showing past her sides than there had been.� Was there a focused side expansion occurring, or was she just now noticing it?

��� She kept looking.� Her back wasn't showing any real signs of the strain it was under.� Judging from the feel of it, she'd almost been expecting a harsh red streak, or a deep tear �

��� � there was an indentation.� It wasn't all that deep, but it ran down the center of her back, following the spine.� It was from �

��� Now how did that happen?� And when?

��� Sadira had always been in good shape, and had worked to maintain it � with her love of chocolate, it was called "staying thin."� Her workouts had been designed with that goal in mind.� They were never meant to produce this result.

��� Fresh layers of muscle were just starting to become visible, forming on her back, shoulders, and pectorals.� She looked down to the side � straight down hadn't been an option for well over a week � and tilted her right leg out a bit, bracing herself on the wall.� Her calf muscles were somewhat better defined.

��� She wasn't stronger just because there was more energy available to power her efforts � a nuclear adrenaline burn whenever she needed one, as long as the calories held out.� She was stronger, period.

��� It only took a second to figure out.� As long as the virus was active, injured cells would be replaced by healthy tissue at a highly accelerated rate.� Muscle development through exercise was the ongoing process of causing small injuries to the tissue so that when it healed, it would be stronger than before, with additional cells forming at the damaged site.� With all the extra weight she'd been acquiring, most of the muscle groups in her body had been stressed, injured � and thus, new tissue.

��� If I didn't know better, I'd think my body was trying to compensate.� But it's just a side effect of a side effect.

��� The injuries were still occurring faster than the repairs � but the repairs had been taking place.� If she was careful, the pain might even level off.� It was now a race between muscle and breast development � but her breasts had a huge head start.� The gap couldn't be closed until the growth ended:� she had to keep the lead from getting wider.� With her metabolism and her increasing resistance to the medication, she was up to thirty pills a day.

��� Why didn't I notice this before? �That one was easy:� she'd had a lot on her mind, no one at GenTree would bother to point it out, and it hadn't been visible the last time Pamela had seen her naked.� Also, she'd (and probably everyone else) spent a disproportionate amount of time focusing on her front.� If I can find some way to work out my arms, it might help me fight my way out if an escape plan goes wrong.� But if I try to deliberately work out my back beyond what Pamela taught me, I could really hurt myself.

��� But the arm workouts were still an idea, one more thing that might help her escape.� All she needed was something which she could lift repeatedly in a short period of time without arousing suspicion.� And she had to start testing things, working on plans...

��� Sadira turned to the shower controls.� She'd been examining herself for about two minutes:� she hoped none of the people watching the screens had picked up on her discovery.� Probably not.� They'll just think I'm vain.� And they never saw me naked before I came here.� She turned on the water.

 

��� Pamela handed the bond to the bank teller and waited.� It was visually examined, held to the light in a search for watermarks, and taken to the back room for further identification.� Eventually, she came back.� "And how did you want that?" she said with new respect.

��� "Cash," Pamela replied, giving her the slip.� "Twenties, fifties, hundreds, thousands, a fourth for each."

��� Jasmine watched as the money was counted out, unconsciously licking her lips.� Pamela spotted it and glanced over.� Jasmine stopped.� Pamela shook her head.� "What is it with you and cash?"

��� "Did you see Indecent Proposal?"� Pamela nodded.� "Remember the scene in the bedroom where they're lying down in the middle of a million dollars?"� Jasmine grinned widely.� "It feels pretty good with a few thousand, too."

��� Jason looked around, noted that the people who were currently staring at Jasmine had been staring at them since they'd walked in, and turned his attention back to the teller.

 

��� The cliche was true.� The bank really did give out briefcases when someone was removing a large amount of money.� It wasn't a very expensive briefcase, though:� Pamela resisted the urge to swing it back and forth.� The handle wasn't attached very well.� "Nigilo will pay for everything," she said gleefully.� "This is the insecurity deposit."

��� "At least we got that done," Jason said.

��� She nodded.� "I was preoccupied."� She had woken to the smell of frying bacon, sat up, given Jason one long nod, then had breakfast.� "And we will knock off work at ten and go looking for hackers tonight."� Pamela glanced over to Jason as they approached the car.� "And maybe a dominatrix.� You're moving too well."

��� Jason glanced at his leg and nodded.� "I really don't feel like being beaten, though � even by a professional.� If it's the only solution, fine, but isn't there something else we could try?� A high-energy activity that would drain the excess?"

��� Jasmine looked up at him.� "Well, unfortunately, you've eliminated one source of energy use.� One good �"� Jason was blushing.� She smiled, goal accomplished, and waited by her door.

��� "Watch it, Princess," Pamela told her.� "You're backsliding."� There was only a little malice in the words.� "Besides, I saw him first.� I'm the one that gets to make him blush."� She unlocked the door, hit the release for the other locks, and they all got in.� "High-energy activity, sure, but remember what happened to Sadira on the train?� If you exhaust yourself too completely, you'll slip to a level where hunger won't wake you up."� She looked across at Jason, who, after days of fiddling, finally had the passenger seat where he wanted it.� "And believe it or not, I really don't want to see you hurt.� So what do we do with �"

��� They waited for her to finish, realized she wasn't going to, and followed her gaze.� She was looking across the street, at the entrance to the World Gym.

 

��� Sadira opened the notebook and jotted down a few symbols.� She had decided that if she kept it with her, there was less chance of having the letter discovered.� She didn't think anyone would hesitate at searching her trash.� A quick glance at the clock:� 1:38 p.m.� They'd already had lunch.

��� She put a puzzled look on her face and stared at the notebook for about thirty seconds, feigning confusion, then picked up a folder and feigned a little more.� Finally, she looked at Temperi.� "Can I go down to Chemistry?� I need some hormone samples."

��� Temperi looked up from his workstation.� "What do you need?� I'll send someone down for them."

��� Her brow furrowed with carefully-faked thought.� "I'm not sure.� I've got an idea, but it's not quite coming through.� I'll know it when I see it."

��� To Sadira's concealed relief, he did not start reading off a mental list of human secretions, send out for a book of protein structures, or examine her motives closely.� Sadira had guessed correctly:� he was nervous around her, didn't particularly like being in the same room with her, and was happy to do anything which would get her out of the area for a few minutes.� "I'll call for an escort."

��� "Okay.� I just have to use the bathroom first."

 

��� Sadira was accompanied by three guards.� She'd made sure her entire team was deep in work before proceeding.� It was now a question of how many guards went in the chemical storage area with her, and how closely they watched her.

��� She was also trying to memorize the layout of the floor.� She thought she had only seen a fraction of the building, but her money was on underground.� There were no windows anywhere.� Air vents in a genetics lab always sounded a little odd � it all had to go through so many filters � but this was louder, more forced.� On Wednesday, she'd rapped on what she'd thought was an outer wall, pretending to beat her fists in frustration.� (Not much of a stretch � and she did want them doubting her sanity)� Although it was probably too thick to get an accurate sounding, Sadira thought there was solid matter beyond.

��� And if she was underground, the question became just how deep she was.� She'd have to work her way up and out, instead of just making a dash for the front door.� Guards on each floor, security systems everywhere...

��� Call the gaming companies.� This is a dungeon crawl.� And she'd better work it out before crawling was the only motion she was capable of.� If her arms even reached the floor at that point.� Her breasts might occupy all the space in between...

��� They continued moving through the halls.� There were no real landmarks to pick up on, just the occasional researcher passing through.� Sadira continued to utilize the smile-and-wave theory � the freak-out effect on the staff was increasing.� One man waved back as he wheeled himself past the group.

��� "How much farther?" Sadira asked the guards.� They said nothing.� They were just large, silent, practically omni-present.� Sadira had spotted six of them, taking different shifts.� They also seemed slightly annoyed, because Sadira was walking very, very slowly.� It was partially deliberate:� more time to memorize the walk � and she wanted them bored.� She occasionally glanced at her folder in an attempt to forestall suspicion.� The notebook was tucked inside.

��� She'd made some adjustment on her standard belt pattern while getting dressed.� Her breasts were now very tightly tied to her body � too tightly:� she could acutely feel the straps cutting in.� But for what she was planning, she had to try and eliminate any possible shifting.� Anyone watching would hopefully decide she'd just been trying a new arrangement � and perhaps even be inspired to buy her some bras:� Carmody had yet to show up.

��� Eventually, they reached a door with smoked glass and embossed silver letters:� Chemistry Supplies.� Sadira waited while the smallest guard used his handprint � All the exits are probably handprinted.� Can I take another hostage? � and then tucked the file under her left arm and walked in, hoping no one followed her �

��� � wrong.� Two guards stayed outside.� The largest came in on her heels.� Sadira mentally groaned.� If she hadn't hit Carmody in the office, they might have given her some time alone...

��� Don't worry.� They might let me come back.� If I can't find what I need, this is a scouting trip.� Maybe.� Nigilo might chew them out for not bringing one of the scientists along.

��� She looked around quickly as they entered, getting an idea of the contents.� GenTree was at heart a genetics lab, but no science can stand alone.� The chemical supplies were extensive, rivaling what a pure Chemistry lab might have on hand.� Besides extensive collections of hormones and biological reaction agents, the room also had a good selection of basic elements arrayed in small vials and other containers, and a wild assortment of oddball chemicals.� Some of the scientists at GenTree had very esoteric specialties, and there was no telling what a virus might be asked to react to or survive in:� the proposed oil-spill cleaners had to exist in a very hostile environment...

��� What it meant to Sadira was that there was a lot of stuff available, some of it very useful � but the problem was in taking any of it with her.� Most of the really good chemicals were locked away.

��� One guard inside, two outside, and they can watch what's happening in here.� Possibly a central surveillance area with more people watching monitors.� The guard, keeping her in sight, was unlocking the hormone storage area, which was right next to the door.� Sadira pretended to be bored and wandered away, looking at the rest of the room.� Other locked cabinets held the drugs for the addiction-break project, accompanied by various agents to which the body reacted badly and the labs were trying to produce immunities to.� All very handy.� All very inaccessible.

��� The only things in the open were the elements.� Sadira glanced at them.� Vials of the liquids and gases, containers for the solids, multiples of everything nicely arrayed on a large rack which took up most of the center table.� It was a holdover from a seventh-grade science class:� practically every chemistry lab had one, a cherished memory that, even in a building dedicated to genetics, saw a fair amount of use.

��� She took a closer look.� Hydrogen, helium, lithium, and so on across the periodic table.� A basic assortment, no radioactives.� Standard glass or plastic vials according to the element.� The setup was a virtual duplicate of the one at GenTree's main building.� She hadn't expected looser security here:� the element rack was all she had to work with � but she still hadn't thought of a distraction, and this might be her only shot.� No one paid much attention to the basics: they probably weren't even counted.� She'd taken a vial of silicon for the joke she'd played on Jason in January: no one had ever missed it.� None of the cameras could directly scan the interior of the rack.� Still a chance...

��� The observations had only taken a few seconds, and the lock was being stubborn � but the guard would have it open soon enough.

��� Think.� This is a game.� I caught a break from the lock.� If Pamela gave me this scenario, I'd already have the treasure.� There's nothing at stake but a few admiring glances from the other players when and if they show up.� The only difference is that there's no dice to roll. What's the answer?

��� Another glance at the rack.� Distraction.� They all know I'm clumsy.� I dropped a few things this morning in case they'd forgotten.� These might be shatterproof � but I can 'accidentally' knock something across the room pretty hard.� They might get suspicious � but I do have that reputation.� One vial without pushing my luck too much.

��� Lithium:� no good unless I got it in skin contact, and that container looks secure.� Chlorine:� that might be a good concentration � dangerous to both of us if it breaks.� Sodium:� I don't have any water �

��� And there it was, a flash of inspiration combined with the small touch of insanity that goes with genius, and a frantic defiance of odds...

��� The guard almost had the lock open.

��� Sadira prayed her dexterity had improved as much as she needed it to.

��� Her arm eased away from her body, letting the folder tilt back and out � and it fell, scattering papers across the floor.

��� Sadira felt acute irony.

��� The guard didn't notice:� he was still having trouble with the lock.� This was for the benefit of the people outside.� Sadira stepped away from the mess so that she could see it more clearly.� The scatter wasn't too extreme.

��� There were no women on staff who even came close to approaching Sadira's size, and all of the guards were male.� With even more luck, no one would know (or deduce) that the best way to pick something up for a woman carrying a guestimated forty-plus extra pounds on her chest was to step back, then kneel.

��� This part could really, really hurt.

��� Sadira, in a display of imperfect logic, took a visible look at the rack.� She'd already seen that it was bolted to the table, but she noticed it for public view.� She grabbed onto one of the lower shelves, using it as a brace, and began to bend over, reaching out with her other hand.� After all, she'd need help to straighten herself out.

��� Lower, lower � the straps were holding � her back began to throb almost immediately � the next part was going to be easy to fake.

�� �Sadira yelped in pain, and partially lost her grip on the rack, clutching for a handhold before she went down completely, trying to brace herself against the floor with her right hand, her left trying to find purchase �

��� Dexterity, and agility, and luck.

��� She grabbed a vial and flung it, forward and down and hard, just over her head, got a solid grip on the rack, and pulled herself up and back with every bit of energy she could channel �

��� � and screamed, long and loud, as her back, stressed beyond endurance, went out again.

��� The guard spun just in time to see the vial break on top of the papers.

��� The phosphorus, exposed to air, ignited immediately.� The paper quickly followed.� Smoke began to billow up.

��� The guard, working on instinct, ran towards the fire extinguisher, as Sadira braced herself on the rack, for real this time, trying not to fall over as the pain cascaded across her body, making it hard to think...

��� The guards outside would be inside at any second, but at the moment, she couldn't hear them moving, they were probably looking at the fire on their screens.� It was the nature of flame:� people were taken in by it, almost hypnotized, firefighters had been known to give in to the sensation � Concentrate, they won't stare for more than a few seconds at most...

��� She clutched at the rack, the pain which she'd hoped to fake all too real, and got two small vials concealed in her hands, then straightened up, another scream of pain escaping, fists closed with need and agony.

��� A yell of "Fire!", inside and outside, and the other two guards rushed in...

��� Sadira put her hands at her sides, where she'd left the muu-muu hanging loose after her visit to the bathroom, and slid them under, up, and in, trying to get them in a position to push on vital muscles, either insanely clutching at the source of the pain or making a desperate attempt to reset her back, moving wildly under the garment �

��� � and then she withdrew and put her hands behind her back, pushing, eyes tearing from the pain, biting back the screams, staggering back �

��� � just in time to get out of the path of the flame suppressant.� It was designed to deal with almost any kind of fire � including small, focused ones, so that it could put them out without damaging the lab.

��� The chemical foam landed on top of the fire � and the guard with the extinguisher, who had just reached it.

��� He sputtered and dived back, but the white foam had already covered his head and shoulders.� It was designed to be harmless to the eyes:� he didn't know that.� Neither did the other two guards:� they helped him over to the eye wash.

��� Sadira didn't think she had another distraction:� anyone in a central monitoring room would be watching her again.� Even if they weren't, she couldn't take advantage of it:� the pain was still increasing, no longer suppressed by the need for action, and while she still had plenty of storage space left, she didn't think she could push her luck any further in reaching it.� So she braced herself against the table, gasping in pain, and waited for the guards to get around to her.

��� They were too busy helping their partner wash his eyes and explaining the accident they'd seen on their screens.� He didn't take it well.

��� "Goddamn clumsy bitch!" cursed the doused guard, shaking the water out of his eyes.� There was brown hair dye running down his forehead:� the chemicals had broken the bond.� "I could have been blinded!"�� He turned and took a step towards her, hands clenched and shaking �

��� � Carmody got to her first.� He ran into the room � including the disaster at Helena, it was the first time she'd seen him in any kind of hurry � and rushed to her side.� "Are you all right?"� The guard's fists fell open, and he stepped back to the sink.

��� She managed to push a look of pure disbelief past the pain.� "No."

��� For a fraction of a second, his face said that he was aware what a stupid question it had been, and then the neutrality was back in force.� "What do you need?"

��� "Pills, and rest."� She tried to give equal emphasis to both, but it was getting harder to think, the pain was still increasing � "I can't work like this..."� She risked a quick glance at the guards' faces:� there was no suspicion there.� Just plenty of anger.� If no one thought to check the rack � if � The damage is worse this time.� I hurt so much...

��� Carmody took a walkie-talkie from the guards and began quietly speaking into it.� The wheelchair showed up three minutes later.

 

��� Carmody pushed Sadira down the hall, flanked by two of the guards.� (The third was cleaning out his locker:� he had been reprimanded for poor conduct and transferred.)� The scientist she'd seen in the hall apparently kept a backup on the premises in case something went wrong with the one he used.� This one wasn't motorized, but it was sturdy, and came with an detachable desk, which Sadira momentarily wished she could rest her breasts on �but the straps were doing their job, and once she got in, her lap provided plenty of support (even though her breasts were starting to overflow it).� It didn't lessen the pain.

��� The scanner beeped as Carmody opened her door.� She heard someone push a tray up behind her.� "I'll take that," Carmody said.� "You two wait out here." Sadira looked up, startled.

��� The guards immediately focused on their screens, and Carmody pushed the wheelchair into Sadira's cell, then went out and brought in the tray before closing the door behind him.

��� "Going to take revenge for that punch?" Sadira asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.� Would the guards break in if Carmody tried to do something?

��� "No," Carmody replied, pushing the chair next to her bed, then stepping in front of her.� "I am, however, going to try and help you into bed.� You're too badly injured to do it on your own.� This means that I have to touch you.� I won't proceed without your permission.� Do I have it?"

��� Sadira thought it over.� "At least you asked this time."� He nodded.� She considered the risk.� "Watch where you put your hands."� She held out her arms, giving him a subtle encouragement to work with them, and waited.� He took the folder from her and put it on the nightstand, then began to help her up.

��� Carmody went out of his way to avoid unwanted contact � literally:� Sadira was so large that trying to get any leverage while standing in front of her almost guaranteed contact.� There were some very awkward moments, and he wound up on the bed twice � but eventually, she was lying on the mattress, the covers pulled down to her feet.

��� She looked to the left and finally saw the tray.� It had two IV poles and two attached bags � one ridiculously-huge, filled with calorie solution, and one small, unlabeled.� There were some sterile pads, rubbing alcohol, a blood pressure monitor, and a large, filled syringe.� The fear rose, and it started to verge into panic.� She could still swing her feet out and try to kick him, but she was on her back, which was still screaming, and sitting up was going to be a problem...� "What is that?"

��� "Morphine, with a sedative mixed in.� As I understand the reports, if you're asleep and provided with a constant supply of energy, you heal very rapidly.� This will take away the pain and let you rest.� This provides the energy.� This should maintain the sleep for about eighteen hours.� You're not doing any more work today."

��� "And you're going to give it to me?"� She was starting to wonder about the consequences of that punch again. �IV bags.� Needles.� Monitors.� Like an operation.

��� "While we have a formidable number of doctorates on the staff, we have no actual doctors.� I have some experience with needles.� The data we acquired on your metabolism was used to calculate an effective dose.� Without that data, Mr. Nigilo would not have approved your pill consumption.� May I administer the medicine?"

��� "I can stop you?"� Just barely deadpan:� the pain was surging again and the fear was approaching the surface.

��� "You can say no, and I will leave."

��� Sadira thought it through very, very carefully.� Given her normal state during sleep, it might be possible to search her without waking her, and if she was drugged, it was a guarantee.� But the pain was much worse than before, and if she didn't get a chance to partially heal, she wouldn't be able to escape.� And if she was asleep for eighteen hours, the straps were going to get even more uncomfortable.� And if she loosened them...

��� "Sadira," Carmody said, the neutrality of tone even more perfect than usual, "I am not a doctor.� No one is going to operate on you, and this decision is entirely under your control.� I will not inject you without your express consent.� There is nothing to be afraid of."

��� It was too close to be a guess.� She stared at him, looking for a change of expression, and found none.� "How do you know so much about me?"

��� "Mr. Nigilo asked me to investigate your background before he gave you the proposal."

��� He's not a doctor, anymore than I am.� I can inject myself � no, he'd never allow that:� what if I tried to put an air bubble in the vein?� I need the medicine.� But he's putting me to sleep...� "I'll just rest like this," she said.� "I can undress myself in the morning.� Could you look away for a second?� I have to adjust the belts."

��� He turned away.� Sadira did all the work under the muu-muu, letting the belts out a few risky holes.� Her breasts slid to the sides:� she moved her arms away before they were pinned.

��� "No one will touch you without your consent.� I will personally change the needles before your skin heals around them," Carmody assured her.� "May I administer the medicine?"

��� She looked at his eyes.� There was no shine to them.� All she found was an infinite supply of patience.

��� He wasn't a doctor.� She had to remember that.� They didn't want her dead yet.� She was being monitored.� It was just needles.� There were no scalpels.

��� She was shaking.

��� She wanted to scream.

��� She had to escape.

��� She couldn't escape if she couldn't move.

��� The words were weak, barely audible, but somehow, when they were needed, the effort was made, taking more energy than anything the virus had done.� "Permission granted."

��� Carmody rolled up her sleeves.

��� He had some expertise:� she barely felt the needles.� Or maybe the back pain and fear were drowning out the lesser sensations.� He fastened the blood pressure cuff and stepped back, waiting.� "I'll take the folder back to the lab.� They can continue working while you sleep."

��� The panic began to rise �

��� Carmody extracted the notebook, put it on the nightstand, and tucked the folder under his arm.

��� The morphine and her metabolism began to do their work.� Sadira felt a wash of pleasant numbness moving in from her right arm.� It was like warm water was supporting her from all directions, and the fear dissolved in it, she was under the sea and breathing normally, and she was beginning to lose her body, it was drifting away from her, somewhere off to the left, but she didn't care, she could always get it back later, the pain had gone with it, that was the important thing, and maybe while they were adrift, the pain would be lost at sea...

��� One clear thought:� The drugs are working. �She looked up at Carmody, who was still waiting.� For what?� Well, he was the liaison, and as long as she was awake, she might request something.

��� That was a good idea.� What could she ask for?

��� "Carmody?"� Her voice was soft, and seemed to be losing cohesion, but he nodded.� "I need some bras.� I can't keep goin' like dis.� It's gonna happen again, an' worse, unless I've got some support..."

��� "Mr. Nigilo had forbidden it," Carmody replied.� "He was saving it as a reward for good work.� He is meeting with the investors tomorrow, and has already left.� However, given the circumstances, I will attempt to contact him there.� You can't be expected to work with this kind of pain."

��� "T'anks..."

��� "He may not agree."

��� "T'anks anyway..."� Her sight went away, came back.� She blinked up at him.� "Carmody?"� Another nod.� He was still there.� Good:� that made one of them.� "I wanna go home..."

��� But the warmth was everywhere, washing away all pain and thought, and she went with it.

��� Carmody watched her face as the pain slowly faded into artificial peace, then checked the monitor before pulling the covers over Sadira and leaving the room.

   

28

???:� ...and passwords

 

��� The Casual Link had been designed with the hope of building an Internet cafe with a homey atmosphere, the sort of place you could leave your kids for an hour while you went shopping.� A computer playground, the electronic equivalent of the crawl tubes and slides found outside classier fast food restaurants.

��� It had been a valiant effort.� It just hadn't worked.

��� People liked to surf in private � they would call sites from the Link that they wouldn't call from home.� So the computers had to be shielded.� And they didn't want to be interrupted, either.� The result was a imperfect grafting:� a diner in the middle, and cubbyholes filled with computers and users around the perimeter.� The two halves mostly ignored each other, but it was like looking at the graft points on Frankenstein's monster:� you knew this was supposed to work together, but it was hard to see how it could.

��� At ten-twenty on a Thursday night, the center section was almost deserted.� But the little nests were full of birds, and the rat-a-tat of woodpeckers on keyboards filled the room.� If there was any feel of home about the place, then the home had been broken, and the residents needed therapy.

��� Pamela walked in, took a look around, and was tempted to give up on the spot.� Anyone who would frequent this sort of place might barely be able to manage electronic contact, let alone human.� The flip side of the argument was that if they found a hacker in this place, he would almost have to be extraordinary.

��� No one looked at them.� They were all lost in the Net worlds.

��� "Want to go to the next one now?" Jason asked.� "This doesn't seem like a place any self-respecting hacker would work from."

��� "I know," Pamela replied.� "That's why it's perfect.� No one would look for a hacker here.� So there's one here, because he doesn't want to be found."� She grinned.� "It'll make sense if you think about it long enough.� Ready?"

��� Jason began to shrug � then stopped.� By his estimation, his leg was up to about ninety percent of normal capacity:� the intense workout Pamela had signed him up for might have come just in time to prolong his life.� The excess calories were now going to repair the damage he'd done to every muscle in his body.� Pamela had gotten that one right.� But this one felt a little crazy.� It was the exact opposite of everything sensible.� That was why Pamela thought it would work.

��� However, it was Jasmine's idea.� Pamela had just agreed to give it one shot.� For some reason, that worried him.

��� Then again, his idea hadn't worked the last time...

��� "Ready," Jason said.� "But if this fails, I'll die heroically defending the two of you, go to Heaven, and I won't be able to haunt you..."

��� Jasmine shook her head.� "Sometimes the best thing to do is the stupidest one.� People don't know how to react to it � so they act exactly the way you want them to."� She took off her jacket, handed it to Jason, and walked to the center of the room.� Both of the people eating there watched her.� She looked around, making sure she could see everything with a quick rotation, checked the nearest table for surface strength � then climbed up on it.� Jason and Pamela flanked her from ground level.� The waiters stopped moving.

��� "Your attention, please," Jasmine called out, then "Hey, over here!" at top volume.� A few people looked away from the screens.� They kept looking.� The reaction began to run around the circle.� More people turned their chairs, staring at the center of the room.� They might have been reacting to something pheromonal, just beyond the senses they knew, but most of them were turning to look � and once they were looking, they didn't look away.� It might have been the tightness of the blouse, the woman filling it out, or the legend Free Eats! printed on the front, but for the moment, she had their attention.

��� "I need a hacker," Jasmine told the group.� "A great one, the best available.� If any of you qualify, or know someone who does, please step forward."

��� Jason and Pamela waited.

��� A young black man with closely-shaved hair, wearing a dark sweater, faded jeans, and a backpack, stepped away from a occupied cubicle and took a step towards the center.� "Lady," he observed, "you are nuts."

��� "And that would make you a hacker, then?" Jasmine replied.

��� He stood still.� "You're too stupid to be Feds �"

��� "We wanted to make that clear from the start," Pamela interrupted.� "Answer the question."

��� The young man considered.� "Outside," he said, and they followed him to the sidewalk.� Once they were all clear, he took a long look at the trio.� "What the hell are you three doing in the Link looking for a hacker?� Why not just go down to the computer room at Bronx Science like everyone else?"

��� "If you're not what we're looking for, we'll go there tomorrow,"� Jason assured him as he internally groaned.� We should have checked the colleges...

��� "You know I could be lying," came the reply.� "I could say I knew someone and be setting you all up."

��� Pamela unzipped her jacket and let it fall open just enough to reveal the handle of her gun.� "You could," she agreed.� "We could be doing the same thing.� But neither of us are, right?"

��� He looked at her for a long moment, then took one step towards Jason and put out his hand.� "The name's Cypher.� And you three are either crazy, desperate, or brilliant."

��� Improbable, impossible, and it might have just worked.� "Three for three," Pamela said.� "You're a hacker, then?"

��� He dropped his hand away from Jason's rising arm.� "No, they call me Cypher because my parents love cryptic crosswords.� Of course I'm a hacker.� Man, white �"

��� "� wait."� Pamela restrained herself.� The hacker was just feeling them out...� "You're about to make some joke about how white people are dumb, and how that must make me the biggest idiot around.� Right?"

��� Cypher winced.� "I shouldn't run the dozens in front of someone who knows the grosses.� Especially when they might pay me."

��� Jasmine smiled.� "It's possible."

��� "It had better be."� He shrugged.� "Okay.� Let me go inside and finish my shift.� I'm off in six minutes."

 

��� They wound up at his apartment, which he shared with three roommates, one of whom was out, and two of whom were passed out.� Pamela suffered an envy attack when she saw the computer system:� it was worth more than the apartment.

��� Cypher grinned.� "You like it?"� She nodded.� "Had to build most of it myself.� Computer science scholarships don't leave a lot of free money.� I work at the Link teaching people how to surf.� Occasionally, people get sent there looking for me.� No one ever approached it like that before."

��� Jasmine smiled.� "It worked, didn't it?"

��� "Yeah.� The boss couldn't believe it, though.� He thought I was just showing you out.� Wasn't too happy when he figured out I was admitting my reputation."� Two patrons had come outside to chide them for making Cypher blow his cover � and at the same time, had confirmed his abilities.� He turned on the system.� "But for three thousand, I'll go anywhere you need and get a new job." They had discussed terms during the walk over.� Jasmine had done the negotiations, an expert, almost vicious job:� three grand for everything they asked for � whatever that might be, less money for weaker results.

��� "You'll get it if you deliver," Pamela promised.� "We need you to break into the main system of a research firm in Montana called GenTree."

��� "We need you to look at their Email system," Jason told him, "and get into the database.� We're looking for information on one of their genetics projects.� We're also going to need blueprints, and security passwords for the buildings."

��� Cypher twitched, a surge of nervous energy that never managed to get anywhere.� "Genetics!"�� More softly, "No one ever asks for anything legal..."

��� "It's for a good cause," Pamela told him.

��� "How do I know that?� It might be some kind of medicine � but you could be stealing some bug that'll wipe out the country just as easy.� Most people just want me to change their work history, or get them on Welfare."� He turned and started at Pamela, conviction overriding the fear in his eyes.� "Pull any weapon you want to, but I'm not going to help you with that shit."

��� The trio spent some time looking at each other.� Cypher broke up the stare session.� "Look, I usually don't make judgement calls.� You three want to do a little industrial raid, fine by me.� You don't want to tell me that much about it, I can understand:� less I know, better off I am.� But this stuff can kill people, and I don't do that."

��� "And I always thought 'ethical hacker' was a contradiction in terms," Pamela said softly.� She looked at Jason.� "How much do you want to tell him, Mouse?"

��� Jason smiled wryly.� "How much would you believe?"

��� "Don't look at me," Jasmine said.� "I still don't believe any of it."

��� Cypher stared at them.� "You guys into cloning?� Like that sheep thing?� That I'd be willing to do."

��� "No, thanks," Jasmine answered.� "I've already got a twin."

���� More looks.� All three had experience with computers � and knew the nature of the Information Age:� knowledge was a virus.� It spread.� What one person knew, everyone else could find out, because it all got posted eventually.

��� Pamela had run him through a few technical questions outside the diner, based on what she knew of her own system, and Jason had presented some dimly-recalled problems his roommate had dealt with.� Cypher had solved the problems before they had finished detailing them.� They had all been so excited about finding an expert, they'd forgotten that he would have to be trusted � and for all three, it had become hard to think of trusting anyone.

��� Cypher wouldn't be able to recreate the work � but if he really wanted the money, he could contact someone who could.� Or call Nigilo and tell him someone was making inquires.� They would have the same problem with every hacker but Jason's former roommate, who was working somewhere in Tokyo.

��� They had to trust someone.� They couldn't afford to trust anyone.� But Sadira needed them...

��� "Oh, hell," Pamela said.� "You're not going to believe a word of it, anyway."� She left the room � then came back dragging a chair behind her.� She sat down.� "Want to hear a really weird story?"

 

��� Pamela originally thought it would take five minutes to work through the details.� It took almost half an hour.� Cypher was dubious at first, then outright disbelieving, which wavered into skeptical, and finally, convinced.� There was something in the starkness of her voice...

��� "No shit?" he said at the end of the story, the last shreds of doubt emerging with the words.

��� "Only the people running this thing," Pamela said.� "Will you help?"

��� Cypher nodded once and turned to the computer.� "Got a main number?"� Jason gave it to him.� "I'll take out every file in the system and gift-wrap it for you.� Any back doors I should know about, worked once and needs to be avoided?"� Jason didn't know of any.� "How about key words, things to search for in the text documents?� Archer, breast, enlargement..." He turned, waiting for suggestions.

��� "Enhancement," Jasmine said quickly, showing off her recently acquired knowledge.� "Metabolism, metabolic, ATP carriers."� Her brow furrowed.� "CTGX27..." Jason and Pamela looked at her.� She shrugged.

��� "The science files would be from Sunday on if Sadira was working on them," Pamela said,� "But there might be memos in the system about the plot, things we can use as evidence."

��� "Kind of hard to do that if you steal them," Cypher pointed out as he began tapping keys.� "Windows, Unix, other?"

��� "Windows," Jason replied.

��� "Who said it has to be legal confrontation?" Pamela asked rhetorically.

��� "All right.� Let me send out a scout."� Cypher frowned.� "Let's see how paranoid these guys really are..."� His fingers seemed to blur as he began typing, occasionally switching to a little mouse control that looked like a pencil eraser embedded in the keyboard.

��� Letters, numbers, and symbols flashed across the screen, too fast for any of the three to make out, but Cypher could read them:� he processed the information and used it, inventing new avenues of attack and defense.� He said nothing as he typed, and the increasing chatter of the keyboard was the only sound in the room.

��� The border of the screen began to pulse through colors, black, then up through the spectrum, a fresh hue every five seconds, then went past violet to white �

��� � and stayed there for a second before the screen went black �

��� � a single word with prompt appeared on the monitor:� Ready>

��� Jasmine saw the reflection of Cypher's smile in the glass.� "Security Clearance Ultraviolet," he said proudly.� Pamela's spine straightened in surprise.� "And we are in."� A quick shrug.� "Tough stuff.� Might keep out the casual visitor, but I had a need.� So what's first?"

��� "First," Pamela said slowly, "if I ever put another Paranoia gaming group together, you've got a standing invitation."

��� "Second," Jasmine said, "let's search those files."

 

��� Good news and bad news.� Mostly bad.

��� They were able to quickly confirm that GenTree still had control of Sadira � not that they'd had much doubt.� Sadira was never mentioned by name, but it was easy enough to read between the lines.� All of the memos were signed with an initial:� they all read the ones signed N very, very closely.� No one saw Pamela's fists clench.

��� There were blueprints available for every GenTree installation � security maps, really.� There were also security override codes, some of which could be used at the handprint terminals, and a few that had to be entered through direct system access.� Each building had its own codes � but they were all kept on the central system for backup.

��� Jasmine looked at Cypher.� "We'll buy you a beeper � no, a really good cell phone, one of those systems that can get anywhere.� When we get to the site, we'll keep you updated, and you turn everything off and on when we need it."

��� Cypher nodded.� "It's a plan," he said.� "But first we have to figure out which site it is."

��� GenTree was a lot bigger than Jason had ever seen or imagined.

��� There were three buildings in Montana, the state for which the corporation held citizenship.� One each in Mexico, Kansas, Michigan, Hawaii, and Nevada.� Two apiece for Texas and Canada.� Not all of them were called GenTree, and some of them weren't visibly connected with the company � but they all worked for the same people.

��� One of the sites had Sadira under close guard.� It was not mentioned by name anywhere on the system.� They got the addresses and phone numbers of the sites through a central address directory � but in all memos, the sites were referred to as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and so on.� No direct links, and there weren't enough Greek letters to account for the number of sites on the master list.� Someone was keeping things quiet.

��� "I can't match the computer addresses to real places."� Cypher groaned.� "No active communications, and the phone lines are shielded.� Everything is computer to computer, and it passes through about a hundred links on the way.� It's a new kind of program, using a modified phone phreak system to keep their bills down, can't run a trace through that..."� He clenched his teeth.� "I can't tell where she is!"

��� Pamela was equally frustrated, but for once, was hiding it better.� "We've got the gateway in," she said.� "We can keep looking at the memos as they go up:� they're sharing information with us now, and someone might let the location slip.� We've got the maps and codes.� And put those numbers together with the memos, and that's some powerful evidence."

��� The financial picture was on the system:� GenTree made money hand over fist � but they were small hands and tightly closed fists.� The company was surviving, but needed a major financial boost soon if they wanted to expand again.� Thus, the interest in what Nigilo had at first termed the Broken Arrow project.

��� Pamela had seen a movie where Broken Arrow had been the code for a stolen nuclear bomb.� She thought the term was a little ironic.

��� The current project was called Esteem, and the next one was Sixth Gear � Jasmine guessed they were going to work on the accelerator � and both of them were going to make the company millions of dollars.� The accelerator was by far the more lucrative project, according to the profit projections, but they were going to solve the breast enlargement problems first anyway.� Several sequences were mentioned by name.� Jason automatically wrote down everything that had been eliminated.

��� The search word "enhancement" led them into another project � and Jason and Pamela found out what GenTree really was.

��� They asked Cypher to leave the screen up for a while,� and they all read through it, until Jason covered his eyes in pain, and Pamela simply focused on a single word.� "Expendable," she said clearly.� "They were testing things on poor people, pregnant women, drug addicts because Nigilo thought they were expendable."

��� Jasmine's eyes closed, and Cypher stared at the screen in fury.� "Free," he said.� "You get this for free.� Anything I can do �"

��� "No," Pamela told him.� "You did the work, you get paid for it."

��� "You can't keep me out of this.� I want them taken down."

��� "Welcome to the club," Jason said, the pain reaching his voice.� "Look at the building plans again.� What's secure?� Where could they hide someone without people asking questions?"

��� "Anywhere," Jasmine said softly.� "They're all corrupt minus two."

��� Jason shook his head.� "There's some good people at Helena to go with the scum.� So she's not there:� they all know her. �Someone might ask questions."

��� Pamela glanced at him.� "With that 'purchased bond and left' memo Nigilo distributed?� He could just stick her in the basement."

��� "They still can't take a risk on having one of them see her.� Eliminate the Helena site.� Which of the buildings is good for hiding someone?"

��� The group looked at the blueprints, and reluctantly concluded that all of them could be used as a prison with varying degrees of success.� The memo post times were no real clue:� the time between "Retrieval begun" and the first new piece of data on the system was sufficient to allow air travel to any of the sites.

��� "Those four � Mexico, Texas, the second Montana site, and Nevada � are mostly underground," Cypher pointed out.� "That would make things easier.� Nobody jumps out a window."

��� "A lot of genetics labs don't even have windows," Jason told him, "but you're right.� Montana makes some sense:� keep her close to Nigilo."

��� "Who would relocate to keep an eye on her," Jasmine argued.

��� "We only get one shot at this," Pamela reluctantly agreed.� "We need to be sure."

��� More searching, and files were saved.� And then they found Sadira.�����

��� Jason knew Sadira always initialed her work, written and typed, just to make sure the feedback came to the right person.� Pamela knew she'd almost had a project stolen by the Tri-Delts in her junior year, and that was when the practice had started, special ink that soaked in like a watermark.

��� There was a series of notes in the computer, calculations and eliminations, and at the end of all of them was S.S.A.� No one had deleted it.

��� They didn't know where she was.� But at 12:30 p.m. Thursday, she had been alive.

��� "I'll keep running the tap," Cypher said.� "I'll look at the new stuff as it comes through, send it over to your system, hope for locations, and ask my friends about running phone traces through that kind of system.� I'll kept it general and quiet."� He turned to Pamela.� "Too much risk for her if too many people know about this shit."� She nodded.� "You've got yourself a hacker."

   

29

86:� Further developments

 

��� Sadira woke up to find the tubes removed, her back in somewhat better repair, her breasts larger and again pushing against the straps, and her bladder uncomfortably full.� She carefully eased herself into a sitting position and looked at the new wheelchair sitting next to the bed, accompanied by a very large board for her lap, to rest her breasts on.� There was a folded note on the nightstand, and a large bottle of pills.

��� She considered the amount of damage she would do to herself if she gave in to her impulse and ran for the toilet � then suppressed the urge and picked up the note.� The handwriting was smooth, even and easily legible.

 

��� Sadira,

 

��� I attempted to contact Mr. Nigilo at his hotel, but was unable to reach him directly.� He has not returned my calls.� I have taken some measures which did not require his permission.

��� I was able to procure this wheelchair.� I will understand if you are reluctant to use it, but your back will heal faster if you put less strain on it.� It is motorized, and the chair lifts up two feet from the base so you can reach shelves.� It may inconvenience your work, but it will reduce your pain.

��� The pill bottle contains procaine.� It is a prescription drug that interacts well with over-the-counter medications.� It does not influence or inhibit thought.� Your body should have no resistance to it.

��� While you are out of your rooms, technicians will be installing rails in the bathroom, similar to those in handicapped stalls.� You are a very sound sleeper.� My replacement of the needles did not disturb you.� However, even with the drugs, I felt the noise of construction would have woken you up, and you needed your rest.� You will find temporary measures in the bathroom to aid in its use.

��� I have also bought an exercise machine that will allow you to gradually build up your strength once the growth ceases.� This will also be installed in your rooms while you are on shift.

��� I will continue my efforts to contact Mr. Nigilo and obtain permission to purchase bras.

��� My extension number is 832.� Call me if you have further needs.

 

Carmody

 

��� The wheelchair could be adjusted for width, and had drop-down armrests for easy access:� Sadira carefully worked her way into it, spent a cross-legged minute becoming familiar with the controls, then rolled for the bathroom.� There was just enough room inside to drive and rotate the wheelchair.� She boosted herself with the temporary grips Carmody had glued to the walls and used the facilities, for once too desperate to notice the cameras.

��� The tricky part came when she took her bath � but her back injury actually aided in the deception.� She couldn't use a normal range of motion:� anything that looked unusual would be attributed to her pain.

��� She ran the bath first and dumped in a liberal helping of bubble solution, letting it run until the white foam reached the top of the tub, then turned off the water and removed all her clothing but the belts.

��� Sadira pushed her breasts inwards a bit, deepening her cleavage and centering the mass � then removed the belts from the bottom up, working slowly, fingers slightly hesitant as they worked the last strap.� She stepped into the tub as it started to come loose, using the handles to slowly lower herself towards the bubbles, arching her back slightly, trying to ignore the pain, dropping the strap on the floor as her ribs reached the water �

��� � she was in, and while the bubbles weren't high enough to conceal the apex of her breasts, the bases were hidden when she leaned back.� Sadira stroked them, a little deception for the cameras (and she could still reach her nipples (barely):� the momentary contact felt good), then moved her hands towards the bases, sliding them between breasts and torso, right at the contact point.

��� Slowly, hands out of sight beneath the white foam, she removed the vials and slid them down her body to the base of the tub.� Her breasts had pinned them to her torso without crushing them.� The straps had kept her breasts from swinging forward and releasing them � decidedly dangerous, considering the chemicals she had grabbed.

��� However, the vials were leakproof and waterproof:� they would be safe enough in the bathtub while she washed.� She'd just have to keep renewing the bubbles, and if the vials rolled to another part of the tub, she could drop the soap and feel for them.� It might look a little odd when she tried to put them back, but another caress should take care of it.

��� Sadira smiled, and began to wash her breasts � then had an idea. �There's no reason to wait for tomorrow to start arm workouts.� I've got something heavy right here.� She lifted her left breast, did some cleaning � lowered it, rested, lifted again �

 

��� This time, Nigilo was in the presentation area.� The people he was talking to knew better than to shine lights in his eyes.� However, he had learned from Archer's performance:� there was a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket.

��� "Most of you have been willing to come here based on my reputation, without asking for many details." he began.� No one had been told anything solid in those calls, and he'd borrowed the funds for the bond from them:� good faith money.� Most had simply been told to prepare for a pleasant surprise, and, knowing him, they'd come to the San Francisco hotel for the conference � but he'd used up all his good faith in doing so.

��� Still, while the project wasn't finished, he had to start laying the groundwork for the next stage.

�� "I'd like to thank you for that before we begin."� He turned on the computer and screen.� "This is Sadira Archer, our youngest geneticist.� The photograph is from our company newsletter, taken in June of last year, on the day she joined us." It was full length:� she was smiling, leaning against the sign in front of the Helena building.� "This photo was taken March 16th."� From the building security cameras, which that fool Stan had been too busy blowing his nose to watch.� The first photo moved to the side as the second image went on its right.

��� One of those who had initially refused to provide funds immediately said, "So she had an enlargement.� Big deal."

��� He was the exception in the room:� a man who held his position through family ties and nothing else.� Most of the others were starting to see it:� Nigilo wouldn't call them to view plastic surgery...

��� Nigilo smiled.� "I regret that I have no photos of the intermediary stages � but this one is quite convincing.� It was taken March 27th."� The second photo vanished, and the third was placed in direct comparison with the first.

��� Dead silence.

��� "This is also from the 27th."� A surveillance photo of Archer in the bathtub.

��� "Morphed," one of his regulars said, too fast, trying to make himself believe it � but he wanted to believe it was real, Nigilo could hear it in his voice.� "A computer enhancement.� Tons of those photos on the Internet."

��� Nigilo shook his head.� "The amount of memory required to produce quality computer animation is considerable � even if the image doesn't look realistic.� Any change of a human body that requires maintenance throughout the film needs a thousand-fold increase in memory and processing power � especially considering the flexibility of breasts."� He inserted the videotape:� the bathtub footage played out in full color.� Archer was washing, lifting, moving, shifting...� "Thirty seconds of full human motion, and I have another two hours for you to view if you wish.� How many gigabytes does that take?� This is real, gentlemen.� A virus that produces a controllable increase in breast size."

��� He looked at all twelve men in turn, and found fetishes in the expressions of two.� "Ms Archer has a small mental problem," he said, interrupting the tape.� A few more key taps, and a nude picture of the dancer was up.

��� "While she can stop her growth," he lied � maybe, who knew with that crazy woman, she was probably delaying finishing the second virus on purpose "� she wishes to surpass her sister to an insurmountable degree.� She doesn't feel she's there yet."� He smiled.� He'd felt a need to explain her dimensions:� it wouldn't do for the men to think that her size was mandatory.� "A perhaps regrettable flaw in an otherwise brilliant scientist."

��� The faces of the Japanese and Spanish men said they found that quirk to be an admirable trait.

��� "I have the inventor.� I have the viruses, one to start, one to stop.� I will soon be ready to begin testing.� Ms Archer worked out the initial formula on her own genetic code," he lied, "and we are about to move from the specific to the general."

��� He looked around the room.� None of the people there were geneticists, none of them had any in their employ.� They mostly distributed drugs.� They might have access to geneticists, but they wouldn't bother.� Nigilo had discovered that criminals were often lazy:� they wouldn't try on their own what they could buy from others.

��� These men might have a touch of laziness, but there was also an unquestionable ability to gather and delegate authority.� They were so powerful that the law enforcement agencies didn't suspect their existence:� they could gather in safety.� Twelve years before, Nigilo had met one, partially through research, mostly by accident, and today was the cumulation of all his efforts.

��� "I'm selling distribution rights, gentlemen," he said.� "What do you think an initial payment should be for the right to keep one-third of the profits from your local sales in perpetuity?"

� ��And the oldest, an Italian man, stood up.� "Nothing."

��� Nigilo kept his reaction internal.� "The floor is open at zero," he said, inexpertly trying to turn it into a joke.� "Do I hear ten million?"

��� "Nothing," the man said firmly.� "You see, while it is very difficult to make a woman appear so buxom with a computer, it is easy to make your extremely busty scientist look more normal for a brief photo."

��� Nigilo stared at him.� He felt his hands begin to clench, fought it back.

��� "While it is rare for a woman to be so well-endowed," the man continued, "it is certainly possible.� You have shown us no real proof that your virus works.� Always in the past, you have come to us with a completed project.� I can see no proof of your success here, only possible deception."� He stared back at Nigilo.� "What is your plan, Kyle?� To collect millions from each of us in advance, then use the money to hide from all of us?� Even your ten million multiplied by us all could not let you run that far."� He pointed around the table.� "Your game with us is always fragile, and you have only what powers we wish to give you.� Are you so tired of this life that you choose such a means to leave it?"

��� Another man stood up, the Russian distributor.� "He is right," came the heavy voice.� "This is not proof.� Bring me a girl, let me watch her grow.� That will be proof.� This young woman is nothing to pay for �" he smiled "� though I suspect Carlos would pay your ten million for a night with her."

��� Carlos laughed.� "My wife would extract that and more from my hide," he said.� "And she is beautiful enough for me."� The others laughed:� one of the central crime figures of the world was known to be terminally henpecked.

��� "Mikhail is right," the old Italian said.� "If you had brought us a test subject, with your � "generic" virus, let us see the process from beginning to end, we would have believed you, and invested.� Now..."� Nods around the table.� "Perhaps this is real � but you know better than to approach us without truth." He turned his back on Nigilo and slowly walked to the door.

��� He turned back just before he put his hand on the knob.� "You all know me," he said, taking a long look around the table.� "You all survive on my tolerance.� I say that Kyle has lost our trust today � and for that, he pays a price."� He examined Nigilo's unblinking eyes.� "We will no longer associate with you, Kyle Nigilo.� Nor will anyone else, for they know that price well.� This plot has failed � and there will be no further plots from you."� He met the eyes of the other eleven in turn.� "Do any of you wish to challenge my authority?"� He opened the door and stood aside.

��� It seemed to happen very slowly to Nigilo, each frame of the film flickering, freezing in his vision, all of them but the old man walking out, their backs turned, never looking at him, their minds already dismissing his existence from their world.� He had lost it.� Everything was gone, and it was Archer's fault, Archer had done it to him, the damn woman had brought him down, the fucking bitch had �

��� Only the old man was left in the room, and he turned to look at Nigilo.� "You may have your viruses, if they are real, and time to pay the money back," he said.� "You have lost more than that today.

��� "But tell me, Kyle," he added softly.� "If she is so insane, so happy to conquer her sister, why does she look so sad?"

��� He left.

��� Nigilo never heard the last words.� He was listening to his own inner voice, and he finally gave it free rein.

��� "DAMN YOU!� I'LL DO IT MYSELF!"� The scream echoed through the room as he drove his fists into the keyboard, shattering it.� "I'LL HAVE ALL THE MONEY!"� Somehow, there was a chair in his hands, and then it was in the screen as sparks hissed around him.� "I'LL �"

��� He felt the eyes, and turned to see the bellhop staring at him.� "I'll pay for all the damages," he hissed.� "Send the bill to my room."� He stalked out past the stunned young man, full-length, straight-legged strides, anger driving his limbs, fury blinding his vision, rage drowning his thoughts.� Only one thought penetrated the storm, drove the winds faster and whipped the waves against the fractured shore.

��� Her fault.� Her fault.� Her fault...

 

��� It was a wonderfully cloudy day, so Pamela got to enjoy the walk through the parking lot at Newark Airport.� She was even able to ignore the looks focused on her breasts, and the other stares, the ones directed at her face...

��� Sometimes Pamela thought of it as a successful paradigm shift, the ability to enjoy the grey clouds as much as other people loved to see blue sky.� Albinism extremis:� she could take the rays of the sun, at least for a few hours at low strength, but then the burns would begin, and the sun poisoning soon after that.� Generally, she gave herself no more than the minimal exposure needed for health, and took Vitamin D supplements.� She had adjusted.

��� And there were other times, mostly in the summer, when she looked towards the beach, at the laughing people frolicking in the waves, and wondered what would happen if she applied every sunblock known to man, went out there with them, stopped hiding in the air conditioning, her layers too hot to wear, dashing from shadow to shadow when she needed to venture outside, just put chemicals all over her body and joined them, at least for a few hours...

��� She had never tried it.� She knew she probably never would.� She knew how people would react.� Her strength had a limit.� The realization had hurt.� She couldn't fight the whole world at once, not like that, not alone.� Pamela went to the beach, and basked on cooling sand in the moonlight.� That was her life.

��� One day, perhaps, with all the luck in the world, Sadira would rub those lotions across her skin, and they'd run into the water, laughing and splashing each other and not caring about the eyes...

��� She looked up at the sky, and the thick grey blanket that shrouded her from the sun.� There was a strong chance of rain.� It was going to be a beautiful day.

 

��� He saw the sign, saw her � and his face immediately lit up.� He hurried up to her, dragging his bags behind him.� "Ms Shaw!� A name highly honored in my field!"� Douglas Pollota put out his hand, and she found herself taking it.� The handshake was warm and firm.� "I must say, my chance meeting with Sadira has led me to more beauty than I had ever thought possible!"

��� Pamela knew how Sadira had felt on the train:� the man was positively infectious.� His words might be as florid as his ruddy face � but there was the sense that he meant every word of it.� He was looking at her without shock or ridicule, but with frank admiration:� his face was that of a Van Gogh lover discovering a lost painting.� "Thank you," she said, a little overwhelmed by sheer force of personality.� "Are you ready to go?"

��� "I am ready, eager, and woefully unworthy of my subject."� They began to make their way out of the terminal.� "When you called and told me Sadira was prepared to pose, it was one of the most pleasant shocks I have received in years.� Quite frankly," he said, sotto voce, "even with my persuasions and beggings, I had not expected to hear from her again."

��� Pamela stopped moving.� Douglas immediately froze.� "Has she changed her mind?"� Pamela remained quiet, trying to find the right words to explain the unwanted action.� "Ah, the fickleness of fortune!� Even Lady Luck must be prepared to compensate for such a cruel blow..."

��� "I'll tell you the details in the car," Pamela said, wondering how much she could say without driving him away � but if she said nothing, he might leave.� "Sadira does need you, but not to pose."

��� He smiled, but part of the heartiness was forced:� something of Pamela's tone had gotten through.� "I wasn't aware that I had made such a connection to inspire romance.� Not that I would be unhappy with that situation �"

��� "Outside," Pamela said more softly, and started moving.

��� Douglas followed.

 

��� She told him in the car, all the way through the traffic jam around the airport, onto the Turnpike and its own delays, and finished as they reached the line leading to the Holland Tunnel.� He quietly listened without interruption until she ended with their session at Cypher's.

��� "Why me?" he asked quietly, all bluster gone.

��� "Sadira told me about you," Pamela replied.� "I recognized your name.� She liked you.� She really liked you � and I trust her judgement.� I found your card in her jacket pocket:� she carries everything around...� You already know her, a little.� I thought you might care enough to help."

��� "But what can I do?"� Even softer:� he almost seemed to shrink.

��� "You didn't always photograph nude women," she reminded him.� "You used to be a war correspondent, one of the best.� I've got a book of your work at home."� And some magazines with your other work...� "We need someone who can record what's going to happen � news quality photographs, and protect himself at the same time.� We'll be too busy to do it � but you have the experience, and �" I hope "� the motivation."

��� "I quit because I was tired of looking at dead bodies," Douglas said softly.� "There's only so much blood a man can see.� And who would have thought that the children had so much in them?"� A long pause.� "And now I look at live ones, and it's all I could have wanted.� To record life instead of death."

��� "So �"

��� "Wait."� He met her eyes.� "I want to preserve life, and beauty.� That is my work now.� And I will not allow beauty to vanish from the face of this poor Earth."� A slow nod.� "I will go back into harness for her, and return to the battlegrounds.� You have my support." Pamela started to turn towards him, and he raised a hand.� "But media exposure is not the best thing for her, even afterwards.� If the knowledge of creation was to escape �"

��� "I know," Pamela said quietly.� "I was thinking of faking it."� Her smile leapt back eighty million years.� "To have them think there was the possibility of revelation, the connections to expose GenTree..."

��� "And how do you propose to keep it from turning on you?"� Pamela told him.� Douglas smiled.� "Ambitious," he said.� "If we can find the site where they had done their testing on the project �" the anger came through in the word:� Pamela had told him about the "expandable" memo "� it would go better.� And I can do one other thing.

��� "You are in a war.� I have some expertise in warfare, if only from proximity.� I can advise you."

��� "I'm a gamer �"

��� "I know the term.� It will be helpful.� But imagination and practice seldom bear resemblance, unless your dreams turn to disaster as a matter of course.� I can teach you how to minimize that possibility."

��� Traffic started moving again, and Pamela gently pressed the gas pedal.� "Thank you."

��� "Oh, I am motivated by extreme self interest," Douglas assured her, his normal joviality returning.� "I still wish for her to pose, and this is the only way I can assure that she will be available.� The tradition of the Archer family must be maintained."

� ��"Tradition?"

��� "I cannot reach my bags at the moment.� I will show you when we reach our destination."� He smiled widely.� "I wonder how the Princess will feel about my presence?"

��� "She accepts it," Pamela said.

��� "I am glad to hear that."� They moved forward another ten feet.� "Tell me; should I ask you �"

��� "� you can ask.� But I'm going to say no.� I can believe a Net newsgroup for an albino fetish, but I wouldn't go there unless I was telling them to get a life."� Which sounded a little weird to her:� she could sympathize with some of the breast fetishists, but not with skin tone interest?� "And there can't be a magazine."

��� "What albino fetish?� You are lovely on your own merits."

��� Pamela internally groaned.� There was something about the man that made it impossible to get mad at him.� "I may have to roll down a window to let some of this stuff out �"

��� "� ah, you taught Sadira that trick."

��� "No, she taught it to me."� Another few feet.� "I modified it a little, though.� I usually throw the source with the window closed."� He laughed, merry and booming, and Pamela allowed herself a single mental sigh.� She'd found someone else she couldn't intimidate.

   

30

91-92:� Construction work (column #6)

 

��� "Shit!"� The file went flying across the room and nailed Temperi in the side:� the weight was negligible, but the impact carried more force than it had been thrown with.� He jerked upright as if he'd been shot �� and there was suddenly a guard in the room.� Their response time had been improving.

��� Sadira turned to him as if pleading to the only sane authority available.� "This idiot finds an avenue that we spend four days running down before we find out it won't work!� MORON!"� She pushed the wheelchair four feet towards him.� The guard pulled his trank pistol.� Sadira ignored it.� "Think, ya fuckin' idiot, or we're gonna be stuck in the same room until I can touch ya from dis distance!"� Temperi recoiled, fear taking over his face, and Menken showed an emotion for the first time:� amusement.� She spun the wheelchair around and fumed her way back to the computer.

��� The guard stayed in the room for a few minutes until he was convinced it had been a momentary outburst, then left.� Sadira furiously typed.� Only part of the outburst had been faked.� Four days, she thought, looking at the clock in the lower right of the screen:� 11:00 a.m. Saturday, March 30th.� Sixteen inches.� She looked down.� The board was still helping, but she was going to overlap it in a few days.� At which point, Carmody would bring her a larger board.

��� There had been no word from Nigilo on the bras.� According to Carmody, there had been no words from him at all:� he had been out of contact since reaching California.� Sadira wished him a plane crash from which he was the only fatality, with everyone else landing softly in an unclaimed gold mine � but she knew her luck wasn't that good.� If it was anywhere near that level, she never would have wound up here in the first place...

��� Carmody had kept his other promises, though:� her cell now had handicapped adaptations, and the exercise machine had been put on Thursday, during her work time.� She'd made immediate use of it.� The exercise increased her energy needs � and didn't seem to divert calories from the growth � but she had plenty of Powerbars.� Joy.

��� Another line of pursuit:� she had to find something else to track down.� Her partners were useless, worse than useless, they were in the way...� Sadira wanted the metabolism data:� she'd happily switch to four inches a year if she could find the brakes by themselves � but she wouldn't be allowed to have it until BE-2 was finished �

��� � and what happened if she stopped the breast growth without slowing her metabolism?

��� Why hadn't that occurred to her before?

��� The thought was laced with sarcasm.� Right:� focused effort is so easy right now.� I have so little to worry about...

��� The acceleration had been a side effect from the combination of the macromastia gene and leukemia damage (disease and treatment).� She'd discovered a way to produce it without those factors.� She'd thought that disabling the growth would slow her back to normal � but it wasn't a guarantee.� 'think things through...'� Where would all the energy go, if it wasn't being used for growth?

��� The realization hit her. �More testing.� Shutting down the growth on my body might bring my metabolism back to normal � but might leave me as a portable fireball, and eventually, I'd crash and burn.� Stopping the metabolism without the growth buys me time.� I need the metabolic data, and they won't let me have it.� My only hope is another brainstorm � �But they never came at her command:� she beat mental fists against the barrier between levels, trying to get through � and nothing happened.

��� Maybe there is no solution.� Maybe I'll just grow until I die.

��� She stared at the screen. �Don't be an idiot, Sadira.� Teenage girls don't grow forever.� Jasmine didn't, even if it looked like it for a while.� There's a solution.� It just has to be found.� If I stopped now, I could live like this �

��� The thought was startling.� She couldn't have surgery, she'd need extensive physical therapy, expensive clothes, all the stares � but it beat the alternative.� If only for one second, she'd accepted it.

��� And maybe there was that good side, the feelings from her nipples, that stupid petty part of her brain that was happy to be bigger than Jasmine, the way she was intimidating Temperi �

��� Wait. �She looked across at him.� He sensed it and scurried away.� That's probably how Jasmine got started.� Remember what Pamela said. How you look is part of who you are.

��� I have to be Sadira Archer.� With very, very, very big breasts.

��� She glanced at the phone, and got her thoughts back under control.� Breast size isn't going to solve this.� Brains are.� Maybe if I tell Carmody the metabolic data ties directly into the breast data � he'd believe that, the proof is right in front of him � �She wheeled over to the phone and placed the call.

 

��� Pamela absently listened to the grunts as Jason did push-ups in the hallway.� His leg was completely healed, and all the energy had to go somewhere.� She had held a tiny hope that his metabolism would automatically drop back to normal once the healing was over, but that had been dashed against the sit-ups he had done the previous night, repeating the motions until he collapsed in near exhaustion, just awake enough to eat two Powerbars before falling asleep � and doing it all again four hours later when the alarm rang.� After those sessions, he was calm, focused � but without them, hyperactivity sped in, and then shaking, as his body tried to expend the energy.� They were careful not to let him get past that stage.

��� If he didn't keep burning the calories, his cells would accumulate more energy then they could process or store, and then that energy would be released � consuming the cells.

��� She never should have given him the virus �

��� � but had she been shot, she would demanded it.� And he would have given it to her, for the same reasons she had given it to him.� For love.� Crazy, wonderful, insane, stupid, unreasoning love.

��� Pamela wondered what would happen if no, when, believe when they got Sadira back and told her the truth...

��� The grunts stopped:� she heard Jason get up and start walking, coming towards her.� She looked up from the Mutator to see him toweling the sweat from his forehead.� "Any luck?"

��� "Some."� She glanced at the screen.� "This looks like the right area, and this looks like it might affect it.� I'll be doing the test runs soon.� You might have guessed right on the location."

��� "You found a possible way to reach it," he pointed out.� "We'll see.� If this doesn't work out, at least I'll be in great shape."

��� You'll be the best-conditioned corpse in the morgue �� Some of the thought had made it to her face.� Jason looked at her, about to say something �

��� � Douglas and Jasmine came around the corner.

��� "'Girls of the science labs?'" Jasmine quoted.� "How many people were you planning to find for that one?"

��� "A minimum of three," Douglas smiled.� He was carrying a rolled-up magazine under his arm.� "Ah, Pamela!� I promised to show you that Archer tradition once I dug through my bags.� I was recently in Britain, speaking to one of my occasional paycheck distributors.� It seems �" he glanced at Jasmine "� that another member of your family has joined the ranks."

��� Jasmine perked up.� "Another Archer?� Coincidence.� I've got one sister � England?"

��� Douglas nodded.� "This is the magazine," he said, taking it out from under his arm.� "Humungous.� Published in Britain, but it's only distributed in the States.� Makes things easier on the local girls, I imagine."

��� "Kay."� Jasmine, quietly, as if she hadn't used the word in some time.

��� Pamela concentrated.� Shortly after she and Sadira had cemented their relationship, Sadira had started writing a cousin �

��� "Kay Archer," Douglas confirmed.� "Here, take a look."� One swift movement unrolled, opened, and marked the proper place in the magazine.

��� All of them automatically, in spite of themselves, and in honest curiosity, any one or combination, looked, at least for a moment.

��� Jason's eyes flickered away almost immediately.

��� Jasmine and Pamela kept looking.

��� Pamela, attention focused on the third picture � the one where Kay was sitting and leaning over, legs apart, breasts dangling between � softly murmured "I suddenly feel very small..."

��� Jasmine glanced at her.� "No fair."� Pamela looked up.� "I called first dose back at Al's Barn.� When this thing is perfected, it's mine �" she paused, considering the physical consequences of matching Sadira "� for thirteen inches, enough to put me ahead of the other dancers.� Why go artificial when natural is available?"

��� "I like my size," Pamela protested.� "All my clothing is for this size."� She looked at the picture again.

��� Yeah, that's a breast fetish.� Wonderful.� Actually, two fetishes.� Either nothing at all, or plenty and to spare. �Pamela was comfortable with her body, it had taken years to reach that state, and it wasn't constant � but looking at the picture, she still wondered.� What would it be like to be that large, or larger � or, like Sadira, still growing, reaching for triple digits, becoming bigger than anyone had ever been...

��� She pictured it.

��� Several desperate breaths later, she managed to stop laughing.

��� Everyone was looking at her, confusion and concern in equal doses.� "Nothing," she gasped.� "A funny thought, that's all."� She straightened up.� "I've got to get back to work.� Thanks for the comic relief."

��� They kept looking at her, but dispersed.

��� Once they were gone, Pamela allowed herself a few last giggles.� Larger...� Still...� She looked at the screen and went back to work.

��� Forty minutes later, the new sequences were grafted to the proto-virus.� Three hours later, she'd replicated enough to test with.

��� An hour after that, the simulations were finished, and completely inconclusive.� It might work.� It might not.� It seemed to depend on how bright the monitor was.� Coin toss.

��� "Cell samples," she muttered, heading for the refrigerator.� Test it on them, see what happened.� She gathered them up and took them to the microscope.

��� Jason's samples were holding up well, drawing their nutrients from the container � but the food supply was being used quickly.� Pamela guessed that the three-year tin would be drained in two months or less.� Instead of burning out, they were using the energy to fight the slow-down effects of the extreme cold.� (She'd had the freezer section upgraded so that it could reach -70� Celsius.� The stall tactic wasn't practical for the Mouse)� She took off a bit of food with the samples:� no point in having them die of starvation while she looked at them.� They would stay chilled long enough.

��� Okay, Pamela thought.� Test the muscle tissue first.� Get in close focus.� She could almost see the energy transfer taking place.� Information is flowing:� the computer knows what the calorie burn rate is.� Add the virus.� Just a drop, just enough to affect the sample � and there it was, coming in from the right.� Cell wall contact.� Invasion.� Interaction.� Reprogramming.� Watch it.� One eye on the data.� The dial is at ten.

��� Nine.� Eight.

��� Pamela realized she was holding her breath, let it out, took another one and held that.� Seven.� Six.� It paused.

��� It's not an arithmetic progression.� There's a hell of a jump between nine and ten.� If it stops here, Sadira's down to an inch a day.� We'll have bought her time.� The Mouse gets the first dose, and we go get her, she'll work out the rest �

��� Five.� Four.� Three, human-normal rate.

��� Stop.� Stop right there.� Please...

��� Two, and she pulled back from the screen.� One, and she didn't want to watch, but she had to, she couldn't stop �

��� � zero.

��� "MOUSE!"

��� He was there, standing at her left, looking at the screen, reading the data flow...

��� "Oh my God," he breathed softly, and then Jasmine was there.

��� "Did you find it?� Is that the cure �" she saw their faces.

��� Douglas came up, spotted their reactions, and didn't say a word.

��� "Three minutes," Pamela whispered.� "Three minutes from infection to total metabolic shutdown.� The cells weren't programed to slow down, they completely stopped processing energy.� The dial went from ten to zero."

��� "Fatal," Jasmine said, her voice even softer.

��� "It's progress," Jason rallied.� "It's a matter of degree now.� We can move the dial, now we learn to set it."

��� Pamela sterilized the sample area, then made sure the virus tin was sealed shut.� "Blood agent," she told them.� "I don't screw around with airbornes unless I have to.� Non-contagious:� sends message and dies.� We're all safe.� And if we got a dose by accident, we'd use the accelerator to counter it."� She knew that, they all knew that.� It still needed to be said.� "The Mouse is right.� We can move the dial in either direction.� We've got to figure out how to stop it where we want it."

��� But she looked at the screen, and suppressed the need to shudder...

 

��� Carmody almost didn't recognize his superior:� Nigilo was wandering through the corridor, clothes disheveled, unshaven, posture off-line, almost staggering along.� "Sir?"

��� Nigilo focused tired eyes on Carmody.� "The good news, Carmody, is that we get to keep all the money.� The bad news is that we have to spend all of it, too."� His gaze drifted.� "They turned me down.� They said it was being faked, that I'd doctored the photos downwards.� I went around the waterfront trying to find new connections, but no one would listen to me.� Isn't that funny?� They thought I had made her small."� He laughed, one sharp bark of false mirth.� "I find that very funny."

��� "Sir �"

��� "I'm going to my office to pick up the budget reports and find a way to pay back that bond," Nigilo said absently.� "Then I'll go home.� Maybe I'll work on it at home.� You work on it, too.� Find projects to cut, find a way we can do this on our own.� They won't interfere either, you see.� We have it all to ourselves."

��� Carmody said the only thing he could say.� "Yes, sir."

��� "Good."� He began to walk down the hall, then stopped and said, "Is there anything else to report?� Anything urgent?� Progress?� Requests?"

��� "Ms Archer severely injured her back on Thursday.� She is currently in a wheelchair, recovering.� She is still working."

��� "Oh."� The tone was as neutral as his own.� "Is she."� A statement.

��� "Yes, sir.� However, unless we procure appropriate garments, this sort of injury will occur again, perhaps at a completely disabling level.� She cannot continue working with her current materials."

��� And the voice was cold, arctic wind over glaciers.� "You want to buy the fucking bitch bras."

��� Carmody saw the fingers curling, the eyes snap to dangerous awareness, and somehow stood his ground.� "She needs them, sir."

��� Silence.

��� Nigilo took several slow breaths.� "Then go buy them.� Get her every fucking bra she could ever need.� Blow the budget.� Fill the room.� See to her goddamn pain.� Make sure she's perfectly comfortable for as long as she's with us.� Got it?"

��� "Yes, sir."

��� "Good."� And Nigilo walked away.

 

��� Carmody looked at the computer screen.� It had taken some amount of hunting, but he was beginning to run down possibilities.� The task wasn't hopeless:� there was a supply for every demand.� He had found several expert corsetieres, but they all needed to do custom fitting.� He could neither bring them to Sadira, or Sadira to them.� Somewhere in the world...

��� He didn't take a deep breath.� He wanted to, but he repressed the instinct.

��� Nor did he look at the files he had carefully compiled on Sadira's companions, research on their lives, skills, loves, and families, information that only he had seen while working in Helena.� There were cameras in his office, and someone might glance at his screen and wonder why he was consulting that data.� He was Mr. Nigilo's second, above reproach and blameless � to all but Nigilo.� He could never be sure...

��� He noted with some wonder that somewhere in the last thought, he had lost the "Mister."

��� Carmody leaned in close to the computer screen, blocking it from the camera's view, and typed.

��� His memory was correct.� And the information on the screen was everything he could have hoped for.� Everyone had a web site these days...

��� A phone number for direct access, although Email orders were accepted, and he had credit cards under different names for supply purchase � but he couldn't wait for someone to check their mail.� He looked at the clock:� one p.m. Montana time, which meant it was eight p.m. at the main branch, and he had to speak to the owner.� Would the shop still be open?� Did he have a chance to make the connection?

��� He left the Web page, wiped his link record, picked up the phone, and dialed.

��� The phone rang, once, twice � and was picked up.

��� He put a false cheer in his voice, creating the character and the lie as he spoke � and he spoke quickly, wishing for more skill at deception, because the call might be recorded, and the cameras had audio pickups.� The woman on the other end couldn't be allowed to fully introduce herself.

��� "Susan?" he asked with badly-faked heartiness.� Confirmation.� "I'm happy to find you still open!� I've got an order to place for overnight shipment, and I'm told you're the only one who might be able to help."

 

 

31

95:� TransAtlantic DataFlow

 

��� Pamela looked at the blinking answering machine light with annoyance.� They'd gotten back to the apartment at nine p.m, after going to Cypher's for fresh data.� The phone company still hadn't fixed the line at the lab, and her Email account hadn't been large enough to hold all the information he'd tried to send.� (They'd had to buy a new system so he'd have a place to send it to:� her home computer was still in the lab)� She'd run in at six, intending to grab the latest files, checked her overflowing mailbox, and run out again without checking her messages.� It had been two a.m. London time when she'd finally heard the recording.� Pamela had decided to wait until morning to return the aggravating call.

��� The message had been short and sweet:� "Pamela: �call me immediately."� Aunt Susan liked her money, almost as much as the Princess, but she'd been given a month to make the first payment.� She wasn't even close to the deadline.� Aunt Susan could be mad because Pamela had sent the three bras back...

��� Pamela glanced at the boxes that had been shoved between her bed and the window.� If that was the case, she was about to get a lot angrier:� even if Sadira materialized in the room while she was dialing, she'd be too big to wear anything in the original shipment, and the remaining unworn bras were too large for the Princess to plausibly sell.

��� Eight in the morning here, one in the afternoon there.� Pamela dialed.� The phone was grabbed in the middle of the first ring.

��� "Hi, Aunt Susan.� Returning your call.� What's �?"

��� Pamela listened.� Then she listened carefully.� Then she asked her aunt to wait, grabbed paper and pencil, and asked her to begin again.� They went over the details until Pamela was sure she had everything.� "All right.� Hang on a few seconds."� Pamela got up, grabbed one of the Princess' discarded bras and her measuring tape, then recovered the phone.� "You've still got my complete measurements on file, right?� I've got an idea, but I'm going to need it for two people, and it has to fit really well.� I've got the bra here.� Underbust 33, overbust 57, five-five � get the interior dimensions of the cup?"

 

��� "Mouse.� Hey, Mouse!"

��� Jason rolled over and looked up at Pamela.� "What?� Time to work out again?"� But Pamela had already moved away, and was busy rousing Jasmine.� After being offered the limited remaining floor space, Douglas had chosen to stay in a hotel five blocks away.

��� Jasmine sat up and rubbed weary eyes.� "What's going on...?"

��� "Aunt Susan found Sadira."

��� Jason and Jasmine completely woke up.

��� There was a quick triple-knock on the door.� Pamela checked the security port, then let a panting Douglas in:� She'd called him a few minutes before waking the others, having decided things would go faster if they were all together.� He leaned against the television, recovering from the run as the floor occupants got to their feet.

��� "Your aunt?" Jason asked.� "How did she find out where �"

��� "� the bras," Jasmine broke in.� "They needed bras for her."

��� Pamela nodded and sat down on the bed.� "She got a call late last night:� she'd been working on some new designs � and she was using Sadira's underbust size.� I had been due to call soon when Sadira was taken, if the growth hadn't stopped.� When I didn't call, she figured all was well � but kept working on the patterns, solving some of the structural problems, and then made the bras.� Intellectual challenge. Maybe she was going to put them on display..."

��� She shook her head.� "The customer placed almost the same order I did:� he asked for forty-four bras, all with a 32 underbust, climbing an inch at a time.� He said they were making an adult movie, and they needed the bras for special effects."

��� "Some movie," Douglas said, getting his breath back.

��� Pamela nodded.� "He wanted the shipment as soon as possible.� She told him she had some prototypes around, and got him to pay extra.� Figures.� They went out last night, from ninety on up." �She's been braless for a week, with all that weight... Bastards!

��� "Where?" Jasmine asked.� "Where is she?"

��� "The bras got shipped to Cascade, Montana."� A glance at Jason.� "It's one of the underground ones.� The mailing address isn't the lab, but it's probably close.� I tried calling Cypher, but his roommate said he had an early class.� We'll have to wait to check on those codes, make sure they haven't changed..."

��� "Trap," Douglas said.� They all looked at him.� "Pamela, why would they order bras from a Shaw?� It's not the most common name, but given any selection, would they take a chance?"

��� Pamela frowned.� "There's more to it.� Even given the limited number of people to order from � and have any chance of delivery without a visit to customize that size � he said some odd things.� Aunt Susan said the man seemed to want to talk, but it was like he kept catching himself, making sure he didn't say too much.� He mentioned the name of the female lead."� She took a deep breath.� "Robin Yeoman."

��� "Archer," Jason breathed, "Twice �" then frowned.� "Isn't that a little too obvious, though?� I want to believe that someone could slip up like that � but Douglas is right:� They could be trying to lure us in."

��� "After paying me off?� It's possible � but I haven't even gotten to the best part.� He also mentioned the name of her co-star:� a Mr. Argos.� He's late for the filming.� The man who placed the order �" she glanced at her notes "� Thomas Cintia? �"� Jason shook his head:� no recognition "� hopes that everything is all right."

��� "So there might be a fifth column," Douglas admitted, finally straightening up.� "Or maybe even a sixth.� Jason, does Sadira have any good friends at your little hellhole?� If this is a lure, then they're sending the bras to Cascade and forwarding them somewhere else � and then we go to Cascade, and snap!, done.� This is a war, and that is a battle tactic.� But if she has an ally..."

��� Jason shook his head.� "Acquaintances within the leukemia project.� No one close that I know of.� What's a sixth column?"

��� Jasmine, who had read Heinlein, answered for Douglas.� "Any active ally that you don't know you have.� Someone could be feeling sorry for her, but that person would have to be able to call out the order...� It's either the boss calling, or someone that the boss trusts to make the call � and it can't be the first, because Nigilo wouldn't call someone named Shaw, unless he was trying to rub it in.� But that's stupid."

��� "I wouldn't put it past him," Jason decided.� "Emotion or intelligence.� And being cute like that � Robin Yeoman �"� He thought it over.� I want to believe it, but... �"It would have to be a lure."� A glance at Pamela.� "He's dismissed you:� you're paid off, and nothing's happened since then.� Why throw it back in your face?."

��� "You told me about him," Jasmine reminded him.� "He doesn't trust many people, does he?"� Jason nodded.� "And this is a high security project.� Who would make the call?� He wouldn't, he doesn't trust many other people not to mess it up, so it has to be someone pretty high up."

��� "But the name is so obvious..."

��� Pamela thought it over.� "But they named the accelerator project Sixth Gear.� These are not subtle people."� She glanced at the notepad.� "And Aunt Susan said that the man kept interrupting her when she tried to mention her brand name � and her last name:� same thing."

��� "What was his tone?"� The journalist investigating.

��� "Too happy, like he was forcing himself into it."

��� A long moment of thought, and then Jasmine said, "She's there."

��� Douglas shook his head.� "It's possible, but �"

��� "She's there."� Solid, defiant.� "I know she's there.� She's found a friend, and he's trying to help."

��� "How do you know?" Douglas gently asked.

��� Jasmine focused on his eyes, opened her mouth, tried to find the words, force them into existence, explain the feeling that had taken residence in her gut � and couldn't.

��� Pamela did it for her.� "She knows because she's an Archer, and the bra size isn't the only thing that runs in the family."� Surprise washed over Jasmine's face.� "The Princess says Sadira's at the Cascade site.� The guy who called says she's there.� She's there."

��� "And if she's live bait?"

��� Pamela looked at Douglas, her eyes blue steel.� "Then we get her off the hook."� She nodded. �"It could be a trap, and we're going to prepare as if it was a trap � but we're going to prepare."

 

��� Sadira let go of the Goldentone's pull bar and reached back, setting the weight to its maximum, nearly double her estimated mass.� She then used the suddenly-unmovable bar to pull herself into a sitting position before shifting back to the wheelchair, back aching all the way.� It didn't hurt as much as it had, though:� the forced sitting was allowing her to heal.

��� Based on her last pre-infection workout, she was about thirty percent stronger in the affected areas � but only her legs had been available for full testing.� Her back exercises had been gentle, trying to build strength without causing further damage.� Her first real attempt at an arm workout had been awkward:� the machine was adaptable, and could be used for almost any exercise � but it wasn't designed for her build.� The pull-down bar couldn't be pulled down too far before reaching her breasts, and doing curls meant working around the side bulges.

��� I have to keep trying.� If I'm stronger, it might help me escape � or just help me walk �

��� Someone knocked.� Sadira looked at the door.� Well, that's new.� "Come in."� The door opened, and Carmody stepped through.� "Is the lunch break over already?"� She'd told the guards she wanted to eat in her cell, scarfed three Powerbars upon arrival, and headed for the machine.

��� "You have some extra time."� Carmody gestured towards the hallway, and the guards carried a long folding table in, set it up, left � then returned with boxes in their arms, and started stacking them on the table.� "Your bras have arrived."

��� "Bras."� The word rolled from her tongue, sounding for all the world like a drug addict staring at an open warehouse of white powder.� "I have bras."

��� Carmody nodded.� The boxes continued to pile up.� "This should be good for a week or more � less if you finish the second virus, of course."

��� "How did you get them to ship so fast?� I thought you'd have to take me out to a customizer."

��� "I was able to locate a manufacturer who handled unusual sizes and had a large selection in stock.� They shipped last night."

��� She didn't notice the neutrality in his tone:� she'd gotten used to that.� Sadira did notice the side of the nearest box:� there was an uneven patch on the cardboard, as if a label had been peeled off.� Carmody reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a huge measuring tape.� "You'll be taken back to the lab when you're done."� He gave it to her, then left, signalling for the guards to follow.� A few seconds later, it was again down to Sadira and the cameras.

��� She looked at the boxes.� None of them had labels:� from, to, or contents.� No inventory list attached to the exterior, no bills.� The boxes were stacked and spaced on the table so that she could handle them from the wheelchair without stressing her back � and the chair lifted, which would make it easier to sort through boxes.

��� It's possible.� It's just barely possible that someone screwed up and called England.� But how could they make that kind of mistake?� Pamela and her aunt have the same last name...� And why take off the labels?

��� The bras would have a brand label.� She opened a box �

��� � the tape was uneven, as if the box had been opened and resealed.� Sadira internalized the reaction, reached in, and pulled out a bra.

� ��What the hell?

��� The huge garment looked like a cross between a swimsuit, a workout leotard, a suspension bridge, and a straightjacket.� Instead of extra-wide shoulder and back straps, it had expanded to cover the entire torso and a portion of the legs, drawing on the strength of the entire body for support.� There were visible brace points, reinforced plastics, hooks, straps, zippers, snaps, and velcro.

��� The cups seemed to have a limited adjustment range:� they expanded slightly when she put her arms inside and pushed, as if they were breathing.� The back was like flexible armor:� bands of tough material separated by slightly softer buffer zones.� It allowed a normal range of motion (even though that range was now impossible) while strengthening the area.� There were force lines running to the buttocks, and miniature embedded cables to bring in the power of her thighs.� Most of the measures were inside the material (and what was this thing made of?), and could be felt from the exterior � but not from the cushioned interior.

��� Even with all the features installed, the fabric was cool, and breathed well.� But the bra was heavy:� Sadira guessed ten pounds, with most of that weight in the back.

��� The label read 32 LII X.� Forget the 32:� the muscle adds another inch or two to the underbust number...� Wryly, I'm getting to be quite a big girl.� Everything below the "X" had been cut away.� Sadira noticed it, but was distracted by the bra itself.

��� "By the time I figure out how to put this on," she muttered, "I'm going to outgrow it."� She put the bra down and dug through the box, looking for instructions.� There weren't any.� "April Fool's Day is tomorrow..." She picked up the bra again and looked at it closely, letting it lie on top of her breasts, turning it over in her arms, holding it out to her right and letting it dangle from her hand �

��� � her intellect rose, reached out to encompass the garment, surrounded it �

��� � and sank down, puzzle solved.

��� Okay, Sadira thought.� Now how do I put it on without the assistance of the 7th Fleet?

��� Silence.� She shook her head and went back to the boxes.� Which one? �Based on her original four-inches-a-day figure, she had a possible number, but she had to be sure.� Sadira shifted forward in the chair, trying to get some room between her back and the seat without tipping it over �

��� � thought better of it, wheeled over to the bed, then got out of the chair.� She sat down on the edge of the bed and stripped.� The straps were reluctantly undone, with constant worries about vial slippage � but they stayed nicely in place.� Forget a pencil.� A typewriter wouldn't slip.

��� Sadira looked down at her breasts and couldn't find her lap.� They were overflowing in all possible directions, including forward, going off her knees.� She could no longer reach her nipples in a sitting position:�� she had to lie down and pull her breasts up towards her � a complicated operation, to put it mildly.� Her washing was now being done with the help of an extension brush.

��� She unrolled the measuring tape (which went to 150"), and wondered how she was supposed to use it. �And I really don't want to ask for help �� The image appeared, and she regarded it with some amusement.� Nothing better materialized.

��� Sadira took hold of the ends and swung the length behind her.� Okay.� Think of something arousing.

��� Right.� Find a sexual thought and hold it in this environment.� That was more of a challenge than building BE-2.

��� Sadira closed her eyes and saw Pamela standing in front of her, completely nude.� She'd just gotten out of one of her own ultra-hot showers, and steam was rising off her body from the contact with the colder air.� Ivory smiled and stepped towards her, reaching to provide what Sadira could no longer give to herself �

��� � but she couldn't hold the image, she didn't even know if Pamela was still alive �

��� � and in her mind, another set of hands began kneading her shoulders, and she could almost feel the pressure on her real body, easing the pains, taking away the worries, but Pamela was still in front of her, approaching with a smile, and the ghostly hands were too large �

��� � she knew, and that completed the need.

��� Sadira breathed deeply, and forced herself out of the dream.� She couldn't see her nipples � certainly not with her head tilted back, gazing at the ceiling � but she knew they were erect.� I can't even make a decision in my imagination...� Another, smaller breath.� All right.� This is just like skipping rope.

��� She whipped the measuring tape over her head, across her body, and whipped it back as it crossed her breasts, pulling the ends behind her back.� Too early:� the tape came in over her nipples and slid back up to her shoulders.� Missed.� Try again.

��� It took five tries, but she finally got the tape hooked under her nipples � which was where the fullest part of her breasts should be, if she remembered anything from Jasmine's "demonstrations."� It wasn't going to be the most accurate reading, not while sitting down � but she wasn't going to stand up just yet.� Careful, careful � allow a little extra for growth and mistakes � at four inches a day, I should be approaching ninety-six, maybe a little more with the muscle development.� This says � close enough.� Try two inches larger for room.

��� The really fun part began.� The bra could be assembled in halves, putting on the front and then attaching the back with the zippers and straps, but Sadira was having trouble reaching that far.� It was also possible to close it like a vise, opening one side and bringing it around, or she could try to step into it and work it on from underneath � but again, her arms weren't long enough.� And no matter what tactic were taken, there was the small matter of getting her legs in:� the lower portions weren't all that flexible.

��� The bra-maker had apparently decided that anyone who had reached Sadira's size was married or had a lot of friends, because getting it on alone while in a sitting position was impossible.

��� Her first try got one cup on, which left everything else out of reach.� After some thought, she lifted the contained right breast using both arms and tried to swing it against the naked one, figuring the momentum would swing the straps within reach � if she could drop her breast and grab for them before they moved back.

��� Sadira shifted, braced, swung �

��� � her right breast hit her left breast.

��� Several inconvenient laws of momentum kicked in.

��� Sadira found herself lying on the mattress for just a second before gravity exerted itself, and her breasts, now partially hanging over the edge, began to pull her down �

��� � the floor was cold.

��� She could hear the guards laughing outside

��� Slowly, she pulled herself back up to the bed, and resumed her sitting position.� Next plan.� Better plan.

��� After several more false starts, four other moments when she could hear laughter, and a few really frustrating almosts that got stopped by her own mass, Sadira wound up using the vise method.� She tied the measuring tape to the open end in a V-draw, and guided the bra around.� It was awkward, and took a lot of poking, prodding, and outright pushing (accompanied by hefting) to get everything arranged, and there were moments when she was convinced she was going to lose the vials � but it worked, it was just going to be much harder to get to them �

��� � and the bra didn't fit.� It was much too small.

��� Sadira tried the next few bras,� moving up several inches � and they still didn't fit.� She didn't get comfort until well after she reached triple digits.� The bras seemed to be designed for someone more dangly than she was:� her breasts were still holding firm.� A lot of the "size" in the label was simply distance towards the ground instead of inches out front, and it made a difference.

��� For breasts and bras of this size, Sadira decided, inches are bunk.� Someone else at this level might just be down to their knees.� I guess these are the best I can ask for off the shelf...

��� No label.

��� Could they have?� Would Pamela's aunt figure it out?� Would she tell them?� And who removed the labels?� And why?� To keep me feeling isolated, or because they didn't want Nigilo to know where they were ordered from?

��� Who had the authority to order the bras?

��� Sadira sat, and wondered at the thought.� No, I can't get my hopes up yet.� He could have made a mistake and tried to keep from getting caught.� But still...� She looked at the boxes.� I'll watch him.� At least I'm set for a while.

��� She got in the chair and wheeled over to the full-length mirror that had been installed on the side of her wardrobe.� The bra wasn't designed for her exact shape:� she was pushing it around a bit more than it was adjusting her.� Overall, she was out to the front a little more, to the sides a little less.� Working with her arms in front of her body had just become more difficult � but everything was done sidesaddle now.� Even so, the bra felt good.� Her breasts still rested in her lap, but they had more support.� Instead of seeming to overflow, they simply formed an awning.� The counterweights had seemed to vanish once she'd gotten the bra properly fitted:� they would probably kick in if she stood up.� With her current size and position, her breast weight was taken by her lap.

�� �Viewing herself straight-on in the mirror, she saw her face, shot through with tired relief, then a slim neck, and then a huge, garish mostly-orange muu-muu that swelled out rapidly from her shoulders to the point where it shrouded her knees � and then dark-blue jeans covering increasingly-muscular legs.

��� Sadira had weighed about a hundred pounds before the infection.� She still didn't have a scale, but she guessed she might be up to 170 � and a little of that increase was muscle, but virtually all of it was breasts.� Nothing visible but breasts and the face of the person who made them.� And getting bigger...

��� It had taken over an hour of struggling to find the right bra.� Sadira laid out the next three and went to the door, ready to return to the lab.

   

32

98:� Alterations on a theme

 

�� �Pamela and Jason walked into the apartment carrying several large grocery bags apiece.� Pamela headed for the counter and spotted Douglas on a stool, applying blush to Sadira's face.� She nodded at them �

��� � Sadira? �

��� � and collided with the counter.

��� Behind her, she heard bags crash to the floor.� I'm glad I had the eggs.� Ow...

��� Douglas looked at her.� "Are you all right?"� She nodded.� "It works, then."

��� It did.� Jasmine's features, so close to Sadira's to begin with, had been subtly altered into an exact match.� Her hair had been dyed a deep black, and darkening makeup applied to her face and hands.� Douglas had Pamela and Sadira's graduation picture on the counter, and was using it as a guide.

��� "My makeup skills are well if intermittently developed," Douglas explained.� "I am occasionally alone but for the model on a shoot, and the new ones sometimes require assistance."

��� "Damn," Pamela breathed.� "So when you went out with her �"

��� "� we were getting makeup supplies," Jasmine answered.� "His idea.� They won't want Sadira hurt, not when she can still do work for them � and if they get confused..."

��� "Confusion to our enemies," Douglas added, "as well as despair and failure.� This may help somewhat.� Even a split-second doubt will aid us."

��� Pamela wasn't sure how she felt about it.� It reminded her of the Princess trying to pass herself off as Sadira during the raid �

��� � but the look in the Princess' eyes said she was aware of that, and this was something different, something that might help.� Pamela nodded at her.� "Do we use padding and really confuse the issue?"

��� "We could, but even as filler material, the amount would impede movement.� It would be a further aid to confusion, but a possible deterrent to Jasmine's survival."

��� Jason recovered the bags.� "They don't know you at all, Douglas.� You don't need anything done."� The photographer nodded.� "They might not be expecting me alive..."

��� They were all looking at Pamela.

��� "What?" she asked � then figured it out.

��� Silently, she put down her bags, then headed for the door.

��� "Pamela �"

��� She didn't look back at Douglas.� "The shops close soon."� She left.

 

��� Jonas glanced at the clock.� "Archer, it's ten," he pleaded.� "Time to knock off for the day."

��� "You go home when I say you go home," Sadira told him.� "Dose of us fortunate enough to have a home can dam well wait for dem."� She was deliberately slipping into Brooklynese when speaking to him.� She'd noticed he didn't like it.� "Get yer skinny ass back to de computer."

��� He meekly turned and resumed typing.� Sadira kept the grin internal.� Great.� Jonas is uncomfortable when I speak and Temperi can't stand my being around, period.� Now if I had a handle for Menken, I could put it all together and distract three at once �

��� Sadira reached up and fiddled with the brightness controls on the monitor, adjusting it back and forth before settling on the original settings � and brushing her hand against the keyboard as she pulled away.

��� "Menken, could you turn on the modem?� I need a link to Bethesda."� The bald man strode over, unhurried � it looked like he was sliming his way across the floor.� She wheeled away from the computer and let him link in, glancing across at Temperi, who now took the position in the lab farthest away from her.� His back was turned � which took some contortions:� working normally within his station would have meant having a side view of her.

��� "What did you want to get?"

��� "Journal of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.� Let's see if anyone did tissue analysis on virginal hypertrophy cases."

��� "But Paul is already looking at that data �"

��� "� from last week.� The new issue should be indexed in the database by now.� Just check, okay?"

��� A nod, light reflecting from his scalp, and he waited for Sadira to turn so he could enter the password.� She wheeled away, gazing at the blank metal of the Mutator �

��� � the blank, clean, perfectly reflective metal, and tried to look impatient.� The angles are wrong for the cameras:� they can't see this.� Easy, don't look eager...

��� Menken tapped the password into the keyboard, working carefully:� any mistake would set off the alarms.� The new angle and her memory of the Dvorak setup were enough to let her figure out what he was typing.� R-7-Q-2-L-R-6-Q.� Get it fixed.� R-7...� She mentally repeated the sequence all the way back to the computer.� All I need is two minutes and I can get a message out.� But what should it say?� I don't even know where I am.

��� The door to the lab opened, and Nigilo walked in.� "Team," he said curtly.� "Sadira."

��� 'Asshole.'� She ignored him and looked at the keyboard.

��� He walked over to her and loomed on her left.

��� Sadira was typing sidesaddle again, working with her right arm, staring at the screen.� Nigilo's reflection took up most of the glass.� She ignored him for four minutes, until it became clear that he wasn't going away until acknowledged, and then wheeled around, almost catching his legs.� "Mr. Nigilo."

��� "Sadira," he said again.

��� She nodded.� "I have to get back to work."� She tightened her grip on the chair control �

��� � Nigilo's right hand came down and covered hers.

��� Their eyes tore into each other, driving through the layers, reaching the souls.

��� Sadira saw the truth.� Nigilo saw only what he wanted to see.

��� "Let go of me."

��� Nigilo's hand shot back, and he stared at it, unwilling to believe that it had been removed from his control � then dismissed it.� "What work?" he said conversationally.� "You've been here a week, and we don't have a second virus."

��� "We're running down possibilities," Sadira answered, keeping the tension out of her voice � which let some of the anger leak through.� "None of them are working out.� When we find the one that works, we'll have it.� It might help if you could stick me with smarter people."

��� "I have many flunkies," Nigilo said, "but very few available grafters.� These are the best you can get.� And it doesn't matter anyway, does it?"

�� Sadira waited.

�� "It took you three weeks to complete both viruses," he continued.� "Assume ten days for one, eleven to be generous.� Two-thirds of your time has passed.� Even if you had somehow acquired total amnesia regarding your work, you should be close to finishing it.� So why do I get the feeling that something's wrong?"

��� The anger was swelling, moving closer to the surface, she could feel the energy surging, and the power was overwhelming her controls...� "I don't know.� Maybe because there never was a second virus?"

��� And she saw him dismiss the words.� "You're stalling," came the low hiss,� "because you're insane.� You had to live with your sister, and your freak roommate, and it was just too much for you.� You don't want to stop growing.� Ever.� You'll give out false leads, distort data, waste time, anything to keep going until you fill this lab."

��� She stared up at him.� "I am working on this virus."� Stay under control, damn it, if I hit him, I lose all the privileges, including the bras, and what if they remove this one and find the vials?� "I can't work while I'm talking to you."� Sadira spun the chair back into position and resumed typing.

��� She heard him grip the armrest, felt the edge of his hand just above her elbow, and forced herself to keep typing.

��� Seconds later, he released his grip, and left.

��� Now I want to quit for the night...

��� But she worked for two more hours, just to drive the other three nuts.� And there was always the chance that they would come up with something, or that she would.� She had to hope for that, and hope for it soon, because it felt like time was running out...

 

��� Carmody looked up from his portable screen and automatically tuned it to another location.� He couldn't switch his internal viewer so easily.

��� The first time he'd seen Sadira, after the infection, he hadn't known what to think.� He'd looked over her profile for Nigilo.� Nothing had indicated a person crazy enough to test a virus on herself � although she might build it for the sheer love of problem solving.� And then Stan had alerted Nigilo while he was reviewing the previous day's security tapes, looking for the moment Sadira left her lab.

��� He'd found it, seen the numbness, the shock in her face, realized that the infection had been accidental � and it had been too late.� There was only so much I could do, he argued to himself.� Anything overt would be caught.� Nigilo got me once.� Stay in the shadows, feed false information or sometimes 'forget' things, buy them time, throw him off the trail.� I would have been caught, I would have been killed.� I did what I could.� Shaw must have her location, she has to believe the information is real.� No one's questioned me on the call.� I picked up the boxes, I removed all the identification.� All I can do...

 

��� "Pamela!"� Jason was hopping mad, almost literally:� he was starting to verge into furious, and he was reaching the limits of his bladder control, which meant he was about to start hopping.� "If you're still alive in there, get out of the bathroom!"� She'd returned to the apartment with an assortment of brown bags and vanished into the bathroom.� Nearly an hour had passed.� Douglas had gone back to his hotel room.� He'd heard running water from behind the door:� nothing else.� He was hearing it now.� His teeth ground together.� "And if you're dead, I'll step over your body.� Just give me a minute �"

�� �The door opened, and Pamela stepped out.

��� The Donatello sketch had been colored in.

��� He heard Jasmine's jaw drop.

��� "Go in," the blonde said.� "I'm done for now."

��� Jason stared.

��� Her skin was a light pink, an echo of England and a long-ago meeting with Norway.� There was color in her cheeks, and highlights in the light blond hair.� Her eyelashes shared in the yellow tint, the red lips were drawn into a thin line, and she was absolutely beautiful.

��� You were cheated, his mind said � no, it wasn't quite true, because �

��� He was staring, and they both knew it.

��� "Well?" Pamela said.� "Do you have to go or don't you?"

��� He said the words that were hovering in his head.� "I like you better the other way."� She blinked, and looked up at him.� "I could see the colors on my own..."

��� Another blink.� "Go in."

��� Jason finished in record time and emerged to find Jasmine checking Pamela's makeup.� "The shading is pretty even on your face," she said, "but you have to be more careful with your hands.� They're blotchy."

��� "It's still pretty cold in Montana," Pamela argued.� "I can wear gloves."

��� "Just in case," Jasmine pointed out.

��� Pamela reluctantly nodded.� "I haven't done this in six years.� I was bound to forget something."� A quick glance at Jason.� "'See the colors...'� Never figured you for LSD.� But if you were stunned for a second, maybe they won't know how to react either."

��� "Why did you do it the first time?"� Honest curiosity:� both of them could hear it.

��� Pamela sighed.� "Only time," she said simply.� "Because I was tired.� Because high school is a nightmare, and I wanted to spend one day where if people were going to stare at me, all their attention would be on my chest.� I was never going to be normal, but just once, I wanted to be a little closer.� So I studied books on makeup, blew my allowance on theatrical supplies, and practiced at home.� When I went to visit Aunt Susan that summer � well, she had a new shop, profits from some big event. �No one in town knew me.� I applied everything in the shop's bathroom on my first day in and tried to go for a walk.

��� "Tried being the operative word.� She caught me on the way out and made me wash it off."

��� "Why?" Jason asked.� "You were experimenting."

��� "She said I was lying to myself," Pamela answered, "and that if I started then, I'd be doing it the rest of my life."� She turned towards him.� "I tried to tell her that it was just an experiment, to see what it felt like to walk outside without � but she didn't listen."

��� "I think she was wrong," Jasmine said.� "You weren't going to do it every day �"

��� "� wasn't I?" Pamela said quietly.� "Maybe every day that summer.� I never found out."� A shrug.� "Sometimes I like me better this way, too.� But if I found a sequence that would let my body produce melanin � I really don't know." �I am who I am because I grew up like this...� She brought her left hand up to her face and whispered, "Who is this?"

��� She looked at Jasmine.� Softly, "There's your ammunition, Princess.� Want to fire the gun?"

��� Jasmine shook her head and went back to examining Pamela's hands.

��� "You're learning."

��� "I've learned that you'll hit me."

��� Pamela grinned.� "That too."

 

��� Pamela washed off the last of the makeup � she'd picked simple bases that came free with cold cream � and rinsed the last bit of color from her hair.� The mirror reflected her own face back to her again.

��� She looked into her eyes, so falsely blue.� Pamela needed the contacts:� without correction, her vision was 20/80, and she wore lenses because she'd learned that glasses always got knocked off in a fight.� But they didn't have to be colored lenses.

��� Ordinary contacts were clear.� If she dropped one while trying to put it in, she'd never find it again.� Therefore, colored lenses.� It had always been a good enough excuse before.

��� "I'm allowed one exception," she told the mirror, then left the bathroom, stepping over the sleeping bodies on her way to the door.

��� The drive over was surprisingly quiet, and there was immediate parking available.� She didn't take it as a sign.

��� Pamela walked in and found herself alone.� As far as she was concerned, she was alone on every level.

��� "Just this once," she muttered, and strode to the cross.� Pamela looked up at the figure, and met its sculpted eyes.

��� "I want her back," she ordered.� "No arguments, no deals.� You owe me:� I'm collecting.� And if you fuck this up, or decide to work for them, I'll get an expansion joint, stick it through those holes in your hands, and open it all the way."� And if he does exist, I just insulted an omnipotent being...� She stared at the painted pupils.� Neither party backed down.

��� "One wish, lifetime," she said, more quietly.� "Fair enough?� Alive and whole, physically and mentally.� Hear me?"

��� She didn't expect an answer.� She got one anyway.� "He hears you."� Pamela turned to see the old priest walking across the front of the church, coming towards her.� "And I thought I heard someone.� Do you need to talk?"

��� "I just did."� She pointed at the sculpture.� "Let's see if he listens."� And she left.

   

33

100-102:� Quiet truths

 

��� Sadira woke up with a wonderful sense of anticipation ringing in her bones.� There was a feeling that a milestone had been reached, some sort of special occasion � and then she'd glanced at the date on her clock.� The first of April, the day where pranks were mandatory, expected, and still fallen for.� Her favorite day of the year.

��� She'd been a little behind in her practical joking lately � she counted the trick with the American Express card as one of the better moves � but this was the day to catch up.

��� Except that if they catch me, they'll strip away everything I've acquired, and then they'll strip me.� Her spirits collapsed.

��� "Great," she said, using the overhead bar Carmody had installed to pull herself up.� "First time in years I can't do honor."� Which probably confused the hell out of the guards.� Sadira started getting dressed, using her tape-pull to good effect.� The practice was helping.� There's got to be something I can do.� I can't just let this go � okay, if it means my life, I can.� But �

��� She smiled, tight and vicious.

 

��� "Hi, Fred.� Whatcha doin'?"

��� Temperi jumped:� the wheelchair was fairly silent, and he'd gotten very involved in his work.� It was the best way to avoid dealing with the � thing � in the room.� And now it was right next to him...� "I'm working with those new hormone samples," he said, forcing control into the words until it leaked out of the letters.� "Just like you ordered me to.� I'll give you the results when I'm done."� Which was several more words than his ideal speech to her:� Go Away.

��� "Oh," Archer said, voice soft and �

��� � No.

��� "You know," she continued, running a finger across her lower lip, "that intense look you have when you're working � it's really something.� Almost �" oh God, she was licking her lips, wetting the finger, out of her mind "� sexy."� He was going pale, he knew it, why didn't she see it, why wouldn't she stop...

��� "I've been putting in a lot of hours lately," the demon said, low tones and a small smile.� "I bet Mr. Nigilo would be willing to let me have a visitor..."� And she reached out and drew the wet tip across the back of his hand.

��� His senses shattered, and he threw himself backwards, away from the touch, almost falling, air emerging as a series of tiny squeaks.� His balance came back, enough to scramble for the door, to find a place where he could throw up and scream...

 

��� It had been years since Carmody had laughed.� The image on the screen almost did it.� He watched Temperi's frantic run past the guards, down the hall towards the big bathroom, so distressed he nearly ran into the ladies' area, and the guards were confused, all they had seen was a come-on by someone they knew to be changeable, crazy...

��� He felt the left corner of his mouth start to quirk up, and stifled it.� It wouldn't do to have someone see him smile.� He practically never smiled.� They would wonder what he was taking.

��� Carmody retuned his portable screen to the interior of the lab and went for a walk.� It was about time for him to eat, and then he'd check on Sadira.� He wasn't quite in the mood for the cafeteria, though:� maybe a quick run into Cascade for a steak.� Perhaps he should check with Sadira before he left �

��� "Carmody."

��� "Sir," he said automatically, looking up at Nigilo.

��� "I just got in," Nigilo told him.� "I stayed up very late last night, thinking about our current situation, and I overslept."

��� Which meant he hadn't seen Sadira's prank.� "Did you come up with any ideas, sir?"

��� "I did."� Nigilo gestured for Carmody to walk with him.� They fell into step.� "Today is the first of April."

��� Carmody waited, then said, "Yes, sir."

��� "When we started this project, you told me that Archer's parents were on vacation in Europe."

��� Carmody's temperature dropped twelve degrees.� He'd shown Nigilo the travel arrangements to keep him from using Sadira's parents as hostages.� "They still should be, sir."

��� "But they'll be back soon."� Nigilo picked up his pace.� Carmody accelerated.� "I was thinking about the long-term problems associated with keeping Archer here.� She hasn't exactly been cooperative.� The more I see of her, the more I'm convinced that her dementia has overwhelmed her intellect."� Nigilo looked at him, and Carmody could see the faintest hint of confusion in the angry face.� "She doesn't want to stop growing, Carmody.� I don't think there's a point at which she'll ever be happy with her size.� I've been watching the cameras:� she enjoys her breasts too much, and more every day � in several senses."

��� What cameras have you been watching?� The ones hooked into your head?� "I think there's a point at which she would be content, sir."

��� "You do?"� Nigilo stopped.� Carmody halted.� "I don't." He snatched the screen from Carmody's hands.� "Look at her," he hissed.� "Is she at triple digits yet?� Does she want to go for the next power of ten?� Where is she content?� Is this building big enough to hold her when she is?"

��� "She would die before that," Carmody pointed out.� "There's a limit to the mass the body can support..."

��� The screen was thrust at his face.� "Do you think she cares?"

��� Carmody said nothing.

��� Nigilo looked at him, looked at the screen, then handed it back to him.� "She's not cooperating.� She's stalling, trying to buy time to get larger.� Her parents will be back in the States soon.� Even a insane genius probably calls her family every so often.� Do you think we can trust her to phone them under supervision, keep them from getting worried?� Or are we lucky, and her dementia has estranged her from her family?

��� "The alternative is to kill her parents �"

��� Carmody fought back the reaction.� He won.

��� "� or kidnap them.� But if we bring them here, it's two more people to keep hidden forever, and the perfect murder is more difficult than I like to think about.� Perhaps we can scare Archer into placing a proper call, assuming she's still sane enough to care � she didn't react enough when I told her that all her friends were dead, instead of just Pterros �"

��� Because she doesn't want to believe you.� You bastard...� He thinks Pterros is dead, without proof of it.� Is he?

��� "� but eventually, she might be asked to visit home.� We can, with the proper effort, keep up the pretense for a long time � but it will be something short of forever."

��� Carmody had figured it out long before they'd brought Sadira to the Cascade site.� He knew the logistics of keeping someone under control for a lifetime were formidable � and he also knew Nigilo was capable of being more short-sighted than Sadira, who at least had the intellect to recognize the problem and try to correct it.� He'd been hoping Nigilo wouldn't think of this.� He'd almost been praying.

��� If Sadira had enough time in the lab, with the better equipment, she could find her cure, and then Carmody would � do something to start the dominos falling which would knock down her walls.� That had been the plan.� When he'd asked for the bras, heard Nigilo's tone, he'd risked his most direct action, because just for a second, he'd been afraid for Sadira's life.� He'd been forced �

��� � and now those hopes were being dashed, as Nigilo followed the chain to the last link.� The terminal point.

��� "I don't think she'll ever really cooperate, Carmody.� She's too crazy to see the benefits.� But I want the money from the viruses.� So I'll give her a little more time to work.� I'm not sure how much yet," he said seriously.� "A few days, at least.� But it might be more practical to just hire other geneticists, people corrupt enough to have common sense, and ask them to finish this, and complete Sixth Gear.� It's a pity to lose a mind like that � but the cost of keeping her is growing �" he smiled at the word "� much more expensive than the benefits."� Nigilo shrugged.� "Who knows?� She could have cured leukemia some day, but..."� Another shrug, and he started walking again with another gesture to Carmody, who followed.

��� "So a few more days," Nigilo casually remarked, "and if I don't see any results, she's dead.� It should look like a sexual killing with mutilation:� we'll have to cut off the breasts.� No small job.� Of course, since people know she was flat-chested to begin with, some damage should be done to other parts of her body.� Do some research and find out what kind of injuries are normally inflicted.� We'll try to duplicate someone else's style, make it look like a copycat killing.

��� "And I think I'd like my money back from Shaw, if there's any left.� General principles, really, since you found a way to pay it back.� Perhaps she could die in a robbery � successful, not botched.� Take a few days, plan it out, and have some proposals on my desk Thursday morning."

��� And then he stopped in front of his office door and looked at Carmody's eyes, and the look said For years, I've held the deed to your soul, and I've twisted it, little by little, until you're a mirror of me.� I just told you to kill someone for me, and you will.� I own you.

��� And Carmody's look said the same thing his voice had for all those years.� "Yes, sir."

��� Nigilo nodded and went into his office.

��� But this time, there was a difference.

��� This time, Carmody had been lying.

 

��� He went back to his office and began the research on sex killings, writing notes, comparing and contrasting methods, in full view of the cameras.� He did this for eight hours.

��� Carmody then went to Sadira's lab and checked on her progress and needs.� There was nothing to report on either end.� There was no way to tell her anything without getting them both killed.

��� And then, since he'd missed lunch, he left the building and went to dinner.

��� Carmody rarely took very long to eat:� his place was at work.� On the rare occasions when he went out to eat, it was somewhere close, and he ate at a speed just barely below that which would give him indigestion.� Everyone at GenTree knew that.

��� But he was also a slow, cautious driver who took forever to get anywhere:� they knew that as well.� He'd gotten the time to remove the labels by driving quickly for a short stretch, arriving at the employees' house just ahead of the delivery.� Carmody had disposed of the evidence in a roadside trash can, and sped back until he was within five miles � then crept up, the same as always.

��� This time, Carmody thought every car was following him, and he didn't know if he could risk accelerating, if he would be reported, killed, and what good would that do Sadira?� There were very few cars on the Montana roads to worry about.� It was still enough to descend into paranoia.

��� He drove until he found a roadside dinner where he'd never eaten before � none of the Cascade employes went there:� it was out of the way, and the food was bad.� They openly disparaged it.� Carmody still checked the parking lot, and found no cars he recognized.� There was a pay phone at the edge of the lot, at the proper height for use from the car.� It would help.� Unless his car was bugged...

��� Why would it be?

��� Can I take that chance?

��� He parked the car far away from the lights, got out, found a dark patch of the cold Montana night, and patted himself down, trying to find listening devices.� Nothing.� The ones he bought for GenTree use were large enough to detect when proceeding very carefully, and he knew what to feel for.� He didn't think anyone had purchased new supplies without his authorization.� And if they had, then he and Sadira were dead anyway.

��� And at the very least, he'd die trying to do something good.� He didn't know if it mattered anymore, in the larger scheme � but the attempt would have been made.� He would die with one clear spot on his soul.

��� Carmody had plenty of change.� He dialed the number from memory, and prayed someone was home.

 

��� They were looking at a printout of the Cascade site.� The apartment had reached maximum crowding:� Cypher had come by to drop off the information and pick up his phone.� They were arrayed around the bed (box-free for the moment:� they were next to the counter), examining Jason's copy.� He was still recovering from his last twenty times around the block.

��� "One story up, four down," Cypher said.� "There's one major entrance here, and fire exits here and here, controlled by heat sensors.� They go off seconds before they're burned out � in theory, anyway.� Government regs.� There's also a computer control:� I can override that and let you in there � but you'll still have to get to it."

��� "It's just a standard fence," Douglas noted.� "No electricity, no barbed wire.� They don't want anyone to think that anything odd might be going on.� Security guards here at the gate, possibly others wandering the parking lot.� All of us but this old body can get over the fence without trouble, and then we move quickly."

��� Pamela and Jasmine looked at each other and winced.� Their respective sizes made climbing a fun experience.� "I'm better with poles," Jasmine said.

��� Douglas smiled.� "We'll boost you over.� It might be best to enter here, for a straight-line dash."

��� Jasmine nodded and looked at the interior diagrams.� "What are those double lines with the center breaks in the corridors?"

��� Jason knew the answer to that one.� "Hazard breaks.� If something gets loose, the air vents are sealed, and the barriers drop.� The contaminated area is contained �"� He sighed.� "And anyone who's in the red zone gets to stay there with it.� Cypher, if you can raise and lower them at the right times, it'll be a great way to cut off pursuit."

��� The hacker nodded.� "They're individually controllable, to cut off an area of any size.� Just let me know where you are."

��� Pamela looked at the third floor blueprints.� "That looks like a kitchen.� If anyone's living on site, that's the place."

��� Douglas sorrowfully shook his head.� "And that's also a kitchen," he said, pointing at another area, "and so are those," indicating one on the second level, and two on the fourth.� "They're apartments, but they might be for anyone.� Sadira is probably in one of them, but there's no way to tell which one.� Do we stay together, or split up and check them, then try to regroup?� According to the printout, the normal security assignment is nine � but they have someone to guard.� There may be more."

��� "If we stay together, we can be taken out together," Pamela said.� "If we separate, we get picked off..."� She looked at Douglas.� "You're right.� It's different when it's real."

��� Douglas nodded.� "At least you've learned that beforehand," he told her.� "Some have to die for that lesson."

��� "I'm still getting deja vu every ten seconds.� All we need are some dice."

��� Douglas stroked his cheek.� "Fixed, please.� I don't like the honest odds.� The money you have is enough to hire a mercenary or two for assistance � but I know of none I could trust with this knowledge."

��� The phone rang.� They all looked at it.� Jason was closest.� Pamela's normal diving route was blocked.� She reluctantly nodded to him.� He picked up the phone and passed it across.� "Shaw," she said, too tired to come up with anything better.

��� The voice was neutral, focused, with the faintest hint of desperation lurking at the back.� "Ms Shaw, listen carefully.� I don't know how much time I have, and Sadira's life depends on this."

��� Pamela's fist slammed against the top-level map, creasing it.� The others jumped back.� "Who is this?"

��� "My name is Carmody.� I called out the bra order."

��� "Carmody?"� Jason went rigid.� "Why didn't you call us directly, if you can do it now?"

��� "The need wasn't great enough."

��� "Like hell it wasn't! �" and she realized she was speaking to a potential ally.� And, quite possibly, an even deadlier enemy.� "Why should I trust you?"

��� She could hear him take a measured breath, then, "I can't give you a reason.� But if you don't believe me, then Sadira will die.� She has until Thursday morning, but possibly no longer."

��� "Is it medical?"

��� "No."� Stark, matter-of-fact.� "Nigilo has decided that keeping her alive and hidden is too great a risk.� He will have her murdered, mutilate the body to look like a sexual killing, and leave her in a ditch to rot.� And then he is going to send someone to kill you.� Ms Shaw, I have had this number all along.� I took Sadira's phone bills and made sure Nigilo didn't see them.� I have been trying to keep you all safe, as best I could."

��� "You've done a lousy job."

��� Another breath.� "I know."� And a pause.� "I'm a coward, Ms Shaw.� But I'm a coward who is acting, and I don't have much time.� Will you listen?"

��� Pamela gestured for Jason to come around the bed.� He scrambled to her side and put his head close to the earpiece.� "Talk."

��� "I have access to Sadira, but there are guards, and Nigilo has the ultimate authority.� I am the only ally she has inside the building.� I cannot get her out on my own."

��� "Where is she?"

��� "On the lowest level.� The elevators are handprinted.� The fire doors only open for emergencies.� It will be difficult to reach her.� If you can cause a distraction, then I can try to bring her up, or you can work down to meet us.� I'll keep her safe."

��� "How do you propose we do that?"

��� "I don't know.� I do not have access to all systems.� I can't fully control the security measures.� I can override nearly any door with my handprint, but I can't open them via remote.� That function is controlled from the third underground level.� If I'm guarding Sadira, I cannot reach that � and even if there is a distraction, they will eventually think to come for her.� We can't hide in her rooms or hold them off for very long."

��� Jason was frantically writing on the back of a map with one hand, waving for her attention with the other.� She glanced over as he held up the sign �

��� � which read Don't tell him about the computer!

��� Carmody didn't have full access.� They did.� If he was lying and they kept quiet, it was their ace in the hole.� Lying, they told him, the access would be lost:� he'd scramble everything as they went in.� But if he was telling the truth, it was a pleasant surprise.

��� Jason and Pamela looked at each other.

��� I wish this was a speaker phone.� I can't read this voice, it's like looking for music in a dial tone.� Maybe Douglas could pull the truth from him...

��� Could she trust him?� How could she trust him?� If he'd had her phone number, then he'd had access to her all along �

��� � and with the number, a region of the city from the exchange numbers.� From the region, a narrowing search.� And it hadn't happened.

��� A coward for an ally.

��� "The authorities will need warrants.� By the time they get them, Sadira will be dead.� The media can't get in.� The only thing that stands a chance of succeeding is a raid."

��� "Like you did to us."

��� "Exactly," and now she could pick out a tone:� irony.� "But I did not direct the attack.� I have tried to control as much as I could.� I mentioned your existence and profession to Nigilo because he allows me to direct what I discover.� He would have found out about you on his own and pursued.� I believed that by revealing, I could later mislead.

��� "But he directed his own forces without my knowledge, and the final discovery �"� She could almost hear him looking around, checking his safety.� "Ms Shaw, she has two full days remaining to her.� If she can produce the second virus, she will gain more time � but eventually, Nigilo will kill her.� You must try �"

��� In the silence, she heard a car pulling up � and the connection was broken.� Pamela put the phone down on the bed.

��� "Shit," she said evenly, and looked around the bed.� Slowly, she repeated the conversation while Jason hung up the phone.� Douglas started scribbling notes, getting down the few facts that had emerged.� And they all listened, and thought.

��� Cypher finally gave the question voice.� "Is it a trap?"

��� Jasmine answered for all of them.� "Does it matter?"

��� "No," Jason said starkly.� "Because he's right.� Eventually, they're going to kill her."

��� Douglas put X marks in the two kitchens on the fourth level.� "We still don't know how many guards there are," he observed, "or what weapons they're carrying.� We have no idea if any of us will survive."� A faint smile, no more than a ghost imposed on the flesh.� "And we're going in anyway, aren't we?"

��� "I can't be there with you," Cypher suddenly said.� "I have to be with the system.� If I could just �"

��� "You're there in electric spirit," Jason assured him.� "You're the key.� Without you, we can't get into the building, or get that far in."

��� "Two days," Pamela said.� "One to get ready, and one to go."� She looked at the maps, then at the phone, then went back to the maps.

��� She kept glancing at the phone through the long night as they drew up plans, trying to find a path into the fort.� It never rang.

 

��� Carmody moved into the shadows near the phone, flattening himself against a thin tree trunk.� The car drove past him, the headlights sweeping within inches of his position.� He could see the driver.� Lisa Trevor, out for the evening.� All of her previous work had been at Helena, she didn't know about the bad food, and she wouldn't listen to someone else's opinion...

��� He stayed in his position for eight minutes, counting evenly to six hundred, trying not to become disrupted by the faster beat of his heart.� He watched her move through the diner, sitting down by the window.� And if she was visible from the phone, then �

��� Finally, he moved slowly through the shadows, stepping carefully despite himself � she would never hear any twigs snap inside the diner, but his feet wouldn't acknowledge that.� He got back to his car and drove to GenTree.

��� Carmody didn't think Trevor had spotted him by the phone, but she could have seen his car pull away from the diner.� There was an easy way to discover if she had reported any suspicions.� Carmody was sleeping at the Cascade site, in the lower second apartment.

��� If she had seen him, reported it, and led Nigilo down the proper path, he would never wake up.

   

34

104-106:� Two to get ready...

 

����� "But does it fit?"

��� "It fits."� Jasmine scratched the base of her neck, fingers sliding under her shirt.� "And it is the least comfortable thing I've ever worn."

��� "Consider the material," Pamela suggested.� "It's a pretty good job when you think of what she had to work with.� And we need it.� At least she had it on hand � she uses it for reinforcement.� And we got it fast."� A small grin.� "FedEx.� When it absolutely, positively has to be there..."

��� "I know."� Jasmine scratched again.� "It's still uncomfortable."

��� Pamela looked down at her left hand.� The fingers twitched.� She fought the itch, almost won � then scratched.� "I noticed.� But the sooner we get used to them, the better."

��� Douglas and Jason walked out of the Army-Navy shop carrying two huge bags each.� "Got nearly everything," Douglas declared.� "Walkie-talkies for all of us.� Batteries, flashlights, the works.� What's our next stop?"

��� "Ammunition," Pamela answered.� "I wish we had more than three guns..."

��� "I can use the taser," Douglas assured her.� "I will save my aim for the camera.� My current attachments should be up to recording the scene, however, and my body strongly desires to survive it.� I will dodge with great proficiency."

��� Jason hefted the bags, using the handles to create improvised weights:� more exercise.� "Can't we buy more weapons?� A taser's no good at long range."

��� "Sure," Pamela said casually.� "Anywhere on the street.� Presuming we don't get caught in a police sting operation, or walk into the middle of a gang war.� I bought my guns the legal way, waiting period for pickup and all.� We're a few days short."� She glanced over at the photographer.� "You?"

��� "If we were in Beirut, I could get you missiles," he replied.� "A side trip would not be advisable."

��� "The flight time would be a bitch � oh, shit!"

��� She felt their eyes focus on her as she expanded on the curse.� "We can't bring the guns on the plane, and we'll have some fun explaining the other things!� We don't have time to drive �"

��� Jason touched her shoulder.� "Douglas worked that out in the store.� We can't take the guns on a public plane.� And I think I know where to get some extras."

 

��� She'd had no chance at the modem.� The avenues of research were all dead ends.� Her conservative drawing time estimate for the vials was five minutes.� Her measuring tape/handle had finally frayed while pulling her latest bra around, leaving her stuck half-in, half-out, and completely pissed until a guard had responded, brought her a short length of rope, handed it to her as she huddled under the blanket � and then stood there, watching her.� (She finally finished by improvising a grappling hook with bound forks from the kitchen, being smirked at all the way)

��� Her morning bath had led to a horrible conclusion:� she was getting wider than the tub � and even when confined in the bra, her breasts touched the edges of the wheelchair:� it would open no further. �Most of the doorways were extra-wide, to allow equipment to move freely, but in another week...

��� And the Powerbars were, unbelievably, starting to taste worse.

��� On the bright side, her back felt better, her exercise program seemed to be working, and Temperi made little whimpering sounds whenever she got within ten feet.� But overall, the scales were balanced into the negative.� If she even had a scale...

��� Sadira sighed, and tried to put on her shoes.

��� If her back had been whole, it would have been relatively simple:� extend foot out to side, contort so that arms are reaching down said side, slide shoe onto foot.� And avoid laces, since the position wouldn't be comfortable to hold for long.� Or just place them on the floor well in front of her, try to remember their exact position because her breasts were going to hide them, and slip in.� But she couldn't stand to slip her feet into the loafers, and she couldn't bend sideways to reach her feet while in the wheelchair.� Forward was out of the question:� her breasts would only compress so much.� Which also might make sideways an issue...

��� Sadira had picked the shoes up with her toes, and was trying to use the wheelchair's foot rests as braces.� Every time she tried to push her foot in, she knocked the shoe off.

��� She wasn't sure why she was bothering.� She wasn't walking.� She couldn't see her feet.� Nobody was going to look at her feet.� She'd given up on socks.� And as long as she had the muu-muus, fashion wasn't a concern.

��� She still put them on.� It took six minutes.

��� The guards opened the door, and Sadira wheeled into the hallway.� Nigilo was standing against the opposite wall.� He wasn't leaning:� it didn't look like his body was capable of bending.� "Good morning, Sadira," he said pleasantly.� "Ready for another day of work?"

��� She nodded and steered the wheelchair down the now-familiar path to the lab.� The guards moved into position, one in front, one in back.� Nigilo took her right.

��� "You seem to be outgrowing that wheelchair," he noted.

��� Sadira shrugged and shifted the joystick to the left.

��� "Well, you're very close to being finished.� I can always donate this wheelchair to charity.� It won't be a concern for much longer."

��� The only way I'm going to get rid of him is to acknowledge him directly.� She turned to look at him �

��� � and he was walking away, back down the hall.� She returned to steering.� 'Almost finished,' she mockingly paraphrased.� It must be nice to be delusionally optimistic.� At least he was in a good mood.

��� Sadira had started worrying about motivating factors.� Nigilo hadn't threatened to remove privileges in an attempt to get her to work harder, but there was every chance that he'd think of it eventually.� Near-homicidal fury one moment, masked under a friendly demeanor the next.� If he decided that she needed additional motivation, then she could lose the wheelchair, her bras (and the vials � and wouldn't he be happy when he saw them?), the bed � or worse.

��� She hadn't wanted to think about worse.� Not thinking about it had kept her awake until two a.m.

��� The guards opened the door for her, and Sadira wheeled into the lab.� She was the only person there.

��� Sadira looked around.� Every time she'd been brought in, the other three had already been present and working.� She had the lab to herself �

��� � and the lab was subtly different.� There was a new electron microscope occupying the space where her workstation had been.� Sadira's computer had been shifted to the left �

��� � the cameras couldn't see it anymore.

��� She risked a longer glance, double-checking the angles.� The scan range stopped about a foot short of the keyboard, and had no chance of seeing the monitor.� No one could see what was on the screen.

��� One of the guards stepped into the room.� "They're late," he gruffly observed.� "Can you start without them?"

��� All three? �"No problem.� I'll just work with what I've already got."� The guard found a comfortable corner and settled in.� Sadira went up the computer and elevated the chair a little more than usual.� She was now reaching to the side and down to type � and she was blocking the guard's view of the monitor.

��� The computer took forever to boot up.

��� Sadira worked on the project for a minute, praying that the others didn't walk in, waiting for the guard's attention to wander a bit � and then she moved the mouse arrow to the modem icon and double-clicked.

�� �Enter password.

��� The computer could be monitored.� There might be a relay to another system that would mimic everything she did.� And any program tracked where mail was being sent...� I can tell them I'm in Montana.� I can knock the drive over and break the system.� If I send something out, it might have a really detailed Email address:� maybe they can track me.� Sadira'[email protected].� I've got to chance it.� Sadira typed the password.

��� The drive light flashed twice as the computer thought about it.

��� Password expired.� Enter password.

��� Sadira quietly closed the window and lowered the chair back to base level.� Of course.� Only an idiot would maintain the same password on a communications line.� She wheeled the chair over to the new microscope.� Nice.� I've never seen this model before.� The best of everything...

��� The door opened, and the Three Stooges walked in.� "� don't know why the system went crazy," Jonas said.� "They could have at least let you two go in while they checked for me."

��� "And why are you three late?" Sadira inquired, putting all of her anger into the words.

��� Temperi scurried to his workstation.� Menken glanced at her.� "The scanner didn't recognize Paul's handprint," he explained, nodding to Jonas.� "They held us all up while they looked at the system.� It cleared itself about three minutes ago."

��� It probably didn't want him touching it.� Sadira shook her head and turned back to the microscope.� "Did anyone remember to get the placenta sample?"

 

��� "As close as possible to Cascade, Montana, without using the Helena airport."� The pilot spread out the map.� "How about near Great Falls?� I can land you at one of the smaller airstrips, and you can drive from there.� There's a good little 'port at Fort Shaw."

��� Pamela looked at the map.� "Fort Shaw?"� There it was, about ten miles from Great Falls.� "I wonder if I'm entitled to royalties?"

��� "It's close enough," Jason said.� "We can rent a car and drive to Eden from there."

��� "A van," Jasmine corrected.

��� "Sound good to you folk?"� They all nodded.� "All right.� I'll go gas up the plane, file the flight plan, and we'll be on our way in under an hour.� Just make yourselves comfortable."� He left the office.

��� Pamela glanced at Douglas.� "Nice work."

��� The photographer smiled.� "Many Air Force pilots choose to continue flying after leaving the service.� And after following orders for so many years, they don't think to question requests.� We can trust Henry to fly us without complaint or metal detectors, but no more.� He has a fear of germ warfare."

��� Jasmine looked at him with new respect.� "I didn't realize you knew so many people."

��� "Some, here and there, and I keep track of them.� Politics makes strange bedfellows, but war creates stronger friendships.� But then, you were never interested in asking me anything � except when I would be leaving your presence."

��� Jasmine's eyes slowly rose to meet his as the blush spread across her face.� "I'm going to be spending a lot of time apologizing to people, aren't I?"

��� "Your reputation among your fellow performers is less than sterling," Douglas confirmed.� "It will take work to mend."

��� She turned and gazed out the window into the hanger, eyes drifting across the little plane that would fly them from New Haven, Connecticut to Fort Shaw, Montana. �Silence fell over the room.

��� "Any reason we need a van, Princess?" Pamela finally asked her.�����

��� "A cargo van," Jasmine expanded.� "With sliding doors."� She kept looking at the plane.� "Because Sadira won't be able to get into a car.� Give me the phone:� I'm going to call Cypher."

   

35

107-110:� Cascade failure

 

��� Pamela leaned back in her seat and tried to get comfortable, shifting the thin blanket into a new position.� She couldn't sleep, and she had to sleep.� Last chance for rest before the end of the world.� It was past midnight New York time:� the clock had moved to Wednesday, the third of April.� If they screwed up, it was Sadira's last full day alive.

��� She looked around the aisle.� Douglas was asleep.� His hands lay atop his blanket, clenched tight.� One more war zone, one more battle.� Had she meant to drag him into this, to this level?� She'd wanted someone with knowledge of how the media worked, who could tell her how to distort someone's perceptions and make them thank her for it afterwards.� She hadn't expected another combatant.� And yet here he was, ready to risk his life with them.� To preserve beauty � and when he said the word, Pamela heard "spirit," and "life."� She wondered how much blood he had seen.

��� The Princess was sleeping as well as she ever did, shifting and stirring.� It helped remind Pamela that she wasn't looking at Sadira.� Neither of them had their makeup on, but the resemblance had started to move beyond the physical.

��� Not all that far apart, her mind whispered.� She's finally trying to change.� I can see it, a little more each day.� The Princess was still the weakest link in the chain, the least effective fighter in the group.� She didn't care.� She was going to get her sister back.� But she'd broken once before, and if she snapped again �

��� At least when she was a total bitch, I knew what to expect.� Pamela didn't know what to make of the Princess anymore.� She might save her own skin, or she might save Sadira's life.� There was no way to tell until the opportunity arose.� But Pamela was hoping for the second option.

��� There was an overhead light on three seats in front of her.� Mouse had been doing push-ups and sit-ups every two hours, rapid sets that seemed to blur his body � and then, when his energy levels returned to normal, he studied the maps until it was time to work out again.� She wished he would sleep.� She was afraid of what would happen if he did.

��� Eventually, he's going to miss a session.� If he's knocked out during this, and we can't wake him up so he can shed the excess energy, he's going to die. They were all risking their lives on this run, but his had been hanging from a frayed thread since his leg finished healing � and it had healed perfectly:� no limp, and only the smallest of scars. �Sadira has to choose between this man and me.� The first good man I've seen in years.� She's known me longer: that's a point.� We've made love: two points �

��� She tried to push away the thought, but it clung to her.� If she picks him, we'll still be friends.� There's always that.� She could see so many scenarios where they pulled Sadira out of the pit, cured her, and she went into the Mouse's arms.� It was harder to focus the visions which ended with Sadira and Pamela flying off together, ready to resume what the bond had broken apart. �I want a happy ending.� I just can't make myself believe in one...

��� I have to sleep.

��� Pamela reached under the blanket, unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled down her pants, then slipped her left hand inside her panties � and then deeper still.

��� The action wouldn't send her to sleep, not immediately, it might even key her up � but it would impose an artificial relaxation as the afterglow settled in, and perhaps she could ride that into sleep.� Masturbation as tension release and knockout pill.� Nothing else was working, so it was worth a try.

��� It didn't work.� Done properly, it was a concert sung between mind and body, stimulation and images blending into smooth harmony, steadily escalating to a crashing crescendo with a chance for an encore.� Her nerves were doing their part, but the images kept breaking up as waves of pain and blood flooded her dreams �

��� Pamela quietly withdrew and put her pants back on, wiping her hand on the blanket.

��� A few minutes later, the Mouse came down the aisle.� "Still awake?"

��� "No kidding.� Why aren't you asleep?"

��� "I've been trying, but it just won't come."

��� "Neither can I," Pamela replied � caught herself � then realized that he didn't know what she was talking about.� One slip got past him.� She could die happy.� "Maybe you need another workout."

��� "The last one was thirty minutes ago.� I don't want to chance dropping too low.� It's just a question of relaxing."

��� Pamela patted the empty seat.� "Sit down."� He did.� "Just close your eyes and try to drift."

��� "No leg room," he said.� "I'm firmly anchored.� I'd sleep on the floor if I could keep from sliding around every time we changed altitude.� Maybe you should sing me a lullaby."

��� Pamela grinned.� "The last thing anyone needs is to hear me sing.� You'll have nightmares."

��� "Fair enough."� He shrugged.� "We're up for the same reason, anyway.� Want to go over the plan again?"

��� "Not now.� I'm too tired to think � and too tired to fall asleep.� Great combination.� Every time I try to picture the plan, it ends in disaster."

��� "Me too," came the soft reply.

��� There was a long pause as they both closed their eyes and tried to dismiss the inner visions.

��� "Try to make it a partial disaster," the Mouse suggested.� "Everyone gets out alive but me.� That way, two problems get solved."

��� Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up straight.� "I don't want to win by default �" she saw his face.� "Not funny, Mouse."

��� "Sorry.� Gallows humor."

��� Pamela lay back against the seat.� "You've been thinking about it too, huh?"

��� "Yes."� A small sigh.� "But the priorities are rescue, then cure, and then you can call off the truce."

��� "Out of one war and into another," Pamela said.� "Maybe we could just ask her to decide."

��� "Maybe."� It didn't feel like a serious option to either of them.

��� "Can you sing?"

��� The Mouse looked at her, startled.� "Pretty well."

��� "Fine.� Sing me a lullaby.� Maybe it'll help."

��� "You're kidding."

��� She sat up slightly and met his eyes.� "Do I look like I'm kidding?� Sing."

��� He sang.

��� There were no words to the song, just a pattern of notes and tones, gently drifting through the small airplane.� Time slowed, became tangibly warm, then vanished entirely.� Jasmine's movements stopped, while Douglas' hands slowly relaxed and opened.� Pamela let the music wash across her.� There was a tune there, something almost familiar, she would have it if she just listened more closely, so she paid attention, tried to look at the music...

��� Her eyes closed as she murmured, "Thanks, Jason..." and fell asleep.

��� He quietly stood up and looked down at her.� Pamela was free from her fears, if only for a few hours.� He still had to deal with his.

��� The plane was small and slow:� they weren't going to reach Montana for several hours.� He went back to his seat, recovered his maps, and returned to Pamela's side, reading in reflected light, guarding.

��� "Jason?" he softly asked her sleeping form.� "Who's Jason?� No one here but us mice."

�

��� Fort Shaw wasn't a one-horse town.� Someone had shot the horse.� It was small, still, and didn't have a car rental agency anywhere in sight.� Pamela disavowed her relationship within three seconds of arrival.� They called out a taxi from Great Falls, and rented the van there.� Pamela and Jasmine put on their makeup during the half-hour wait for the ride.

��� They still weren't sure what to do about Jason.� There were two schools of thought:� one said that the longer GenTree thought they had a more or less random assault (unlikely), the more time Sadira would have.� The second school thought that Jason might be presumed dead, and seeing him alive would generate a ton of extra chaos � which might also generate time.� They couldn't find a decent fake moustache, so they let him be.

��� The weather gave them a small break.� For an April morning in New York, it would have been an incredibly cold day.� In Montana, a high temperature in the teens was just slightly unseasonable.� Ski masks became sensible apparel instead of suspicious.� Pamela passed out the ones she'd brought from New York.� They hadn't been a serious consideration for the raid itself:� Pamela knew just how well they blocked sight and hearing � but if any GenTree employes were passing by, it gave them an extra margin of safety.� They still spent most of their time looking behind them.� Pamela found it ironic:� two macromastics who were too large to bind down trying to disguise themselves with skin tones and masks � but every bit helped.

��� Douglas called Cypher during the ride to Eden, double-checking their connection strength.� The relay occasionally faded and crackled as they moved through different zones, but they were in contact.� Cypher had skipped his classes, and was spending the day bracing his equipment for the assault.� His roommates had been given movie money and told not to come home until the theaters closed � which in Manhattan, translated to six in the morning if they avoided the X rating � and never if they sought it out.

��� The phone had a special feature:� a speaker and microphone pickup on the side.� "Good news and bad news.� Good first.� Jasmine, you were right.� Payroll files, with number of employees per section and work times.� I know how many guards you've got at any time, and when the shifts change."

��� "Bad news?" Jasmine asked.

��� "Fifteen of them at any damn second, and I can't tell you where they are in those seconds.� The computer doesn't track their movements.� Once they start shifting, The End.� Current assignments give you a few on each floor, and six down on the fourth.� Here's the shifts."� Jasmine took notes.

��� Douglas sighed.� "The moral state of this world gives the enemy the numerical edge."

��� "But our strength is like the strength of ten, because our hearts are pure," Jason semi-quoted.

��� "Speak for yourself," Pamela said.� "Your strength is like the strength of ten because your metabolism is nuts."

��� They could hear Cypher typing.� "I'll keep looking for edges up to and through the last second.� Call back."

��� "We will," Douglas assured him.� "Luck to us all."

��� "Luck to you four first.� I'm safe unless I get a killer surge.� Watch your asses, all of you."� The hacker hung up.

��� "Fifteen guards," Jason repeated.� "Let's get more firepower."

 

��� "Nobody home?" Jasmine asked.

��� Jason looked at the empty driveway, then at the fields.� "Looks like it.� Heracles is still at college, Mom is teaching, and the twins are at school.� Dad probably went into town."

��� Pamela was still looking around.� She'd been expecting red barns, rows of wheat (despite the cold), and a tractor parked on the lawn.� What she saw was large, modern buildings with heating vents, and several huge pastures.� "What kind of farm is this, anyway?"

��� "Cows and sheep, mostly.� Some pigs.� We grow a few vegetables on the side.� We had horses when I was a kid � until the day my dad wound up with a fractured kneecap.� Never since."� He looked at Pamela.� "And that's why I can't ride.� Mean critters.� I can take a fall pretty well, though."

��� Pamela smiled.� "Actually, I don't go riding too much anymore.� Vibrations."� She looked at the old house.� "This is still a Rockwell painting."

��� "Rockwell paintings don't show six year olds up to their ankles in muck trying to help their dad deal with a breech birth," Jason pointed out.� "The horse could have kicked me, too.� Dad slept on the couch for a week."� He smiled.� "A professor and a farmer.� Don't ask."� He got out of the van.� All of the heat left with him.

��� Jason climbed the steps onto the porch, reached under the swing, and removed a key.� He unlocked the door and went in.

��� He emerged twelve minutes later with a large duffel bag slung over his right shoulder, and got back in the van, undoing all of the heater's repair work.� "Got them," he said.� "Still in the attic.� I guess the twins finally learned not to go into my things."� He opened the bag.� "One extra .22, and my best rifle."� Jason looked at the Daisy's shoulder strap.� It needed oil.

��� "We are armed, if not ready,"� Douglas observed.� Jason passed him the gun.� "It will help to think of it as an especially vicious flash.� Pamela, you said that the men who attacked the lab were armed with both normal guns and tranquilizer pistols?"� Pamela nodded.� "If Sadira had rebelled before the kill order was given, they would have wanted to eliminate the immediate threat while keeping her alive.� There may be such weapons in the complex as well.� We should use them if we find them."

��� "Leave them alive?"� The words emerged through clenched teeth.� "I already made that mistake.� Dead people can't come after us again � and if we don't do this exactly right, they will chase us."� Pamela pulled out her gun. �"The darts are a temporary solution.� This is a permanent one."

��� Douglas leaned forward, locking his eyes into her reflection in the rear-view mirror.� "All too," he agreed.� "They won't wake up again, ever.� None in that building are blameless � but do they all deserve to die?"

��� Jasmine looked at Pamela.� "We can't go through the building on a death hunt," she said plainly.

��� "Let me guess.� Because then we'd be no better than them."� Softly, "Bullshit."� Pamela looked at the Magnum, then at her reflection.� They all saw her brow furrow in thought.� "I don't want to kill them all, Princess.� I'm not too clear on the idea of an afterlife.� It's nice to think that they're all going to burn in hell � but if they're going to suffer for this, they have to be alive.� So we'll kill only if we have to, but the option is open.� Agreed?"

��� Jason nodded.� "Agreed."

��� Douglas and Jasmine nodded.� Pamela started the engine, and they pulled out of the driveway.� "So now we've got the second-hardest part to deal with.� We wait."

��� Pamela checked the mirrors as she turned the van into the street, and quietly checked her face at the same time.� It showed nothing of the decision she had reached.

��� Jason had concentrated mightily to dredge up any details of Carmody's face � but his description of Nigilo had been solid.� Pamela had a very clear picture of the man.� It made a nice target.� She shot him ten times every mile.

 

��� Carmody walked over to Sadira.� The scientist was lost in her data.� "Any progress?"

��� "None," she answered, still looking at the screen.� Her attention was focused on the clock:� eight p.m.� "If you want to know what isn't working, I can give you a long list.� Anything else is going to take less time." She turned off the monitor.� "Got a few dozen aspirin?"

��� Carmody reached into his breast pocket.� "Your back is getting worse?"� She'd been in the chair for days.� It should have given her a chance to heal...

��� "My head."

��� Work, Carmody thought.� Come up with the answer, buy us both some time.� If your friends don't arrive soon �

��� What if they hadn't trusted him?� It was too easy to believe.� But they had to care about her, they had to come.� Despite what Nigilo believed, the entire world didn't walk along his paths.� Other people loved, and would try to save the one they loved.

��� He couldn't do it alone.� He wasn't sure it could be done at all.� If Pterros was still alive, and Jasmine came with him and Shaw, then he'd have staked his last hopes for Sadira's life on two geneticists and an exotic dancer.

��� It was almost funny.

��� Sadira dry-swallowed the pills.� "Maybe I should just try to sleep on it.� My waking mind is out of ideas."� She turned in the chair as much as she was able, her breasts jamming against the armrests, and looked at him.

��� Carmody had never believed in telepathy.� He had just received lack of proof.

��� "Perhaps that would be best," he heard himself say.� "The others will continue to work."� A side glance.� "I'll arrange for a new wheelchair in the morning."

��� "Check with your boss.� He may have already ordered one."� Sadira headed for the door.� "You're more efficient, though."

 

��� He met Nigilo on the way back to his office.

��� "Ah, Carmody."� Nigilo matched his pace.� "How goes the research?� Have you found someone we can sincerely flatter by imitating?"

��� "I'll have my recommendations on your desk tomorrow morning, sir," Carmody replied.� "I still have to sort through some data.� There are a surprisingly large number of sexual killings, with many varieties of mutilation."

��� "I'm sure you'll pick a good one."� Nigilo smiled, the face of a cobra seeing a place to strike.� "I've got to catch up on some work.� I've been putting in too many late mornings in my bed lately.� I'm not as tireless as you are."� Another smile.� "One day, you'll have to tell me how you do it so naturally."

��� Willpower. �"What sort of work, sir?"

��� "Hiring.� I have to find some geneticists to replace Archer.� I've got a pile of resumes, work records, and legal charges to sort through.� It's a matter of finding the right mindset and blackmail material.� And I've also got to locate a temporary � someone who would be willing to dispose of our little problem.� Murder for hire doesn't come cheap, and for this, I want to use an intermediary to draw up the contract.� Perhaps several.� This will not get back to us."� Nigilo stopped.� Carmody stopped.

"Ideally, I'd like to have her dead by Thursday night, but arranging this properly might take more time."

��� "It's not something you want to rush, sir," Carmody said.� "We can't be too careful in covering our tracks."

��� Nigilo nodded.� "Better to do it correctly than to do it fast.� We won't get a second chance at it.� Once she's dead, that's the end of it.� But I'd still like to get it done before the end of the day tomorrow.� It's a question of putting in the hours.� You're putting in yours, I'll put in mine."� He looked at Carmody, and there was a quiet satisfaction in his face.� "This is something I want to get involved with personally.� You go back to your data, and I'll start on my own files.� We will have this finished before the weekend."

��� Carmody nodded, and headed for his office.� Nigilo went towards his.

 

��� Eight-fifteen p.m.� They had driven past the site, then parked the van in the woods and walked back towards it, using the roadside lights to navigate.� Jason had eaten his last tank-up snacks on the way.� The group stopped fifty feet from the fence.

� ��"Last chance for review," Pamela said.� "Let's make sure we've got this straight."� They backed up a few dozen feet.� Douglas pulled out a small flashlight.� Pamela's gaming experience had made her try to put a fictional premise into operation:� the backpack filled with every piece of conceivably useful junk known to humanity.� Douglas had looked over her list and cut it down to a few pounds of equipment each, in pockets and small backpacks.

��� Jason pulled out his maps, and Jasmine dialed the phone.� "Cypher?"

��� The transmission was relatively clear.� "On line and scrolling."

��� Jason brought the ground floor map to the top of the thin stack.� "We run across the parking lot here, to this fire door.� Cypher unlocks it, and we work our way down."

��� "We head straight for the fourth floor," Pamela continued.� Jason pulled out the map.� "We've got two apartments where Sadira could be:� this one's closer to our entrance.� Check that one first, then head for the second if she isn't there."

��� "I keep people off your backs," Cypher said.� "Drop the breaks on them, screw up the systems.� If I get any indication that they're moving Sadira, I let you know.� Updates anytime I hear something new."

� ��"We get out as quickly as possible and head for the woods," Jason continued.� "It'll take a minute or two to reach the car.� We carry Sadira if we have to."

��� Jasmine looked at the dead branches on the ground, then at the trees which surrounded them.� They'd picked up a wheelchair in Great Falls.� It wasn't going to work:� they couldn't steer it through the woods.� "We stay together," she said.� "They might try to split us up:� if we move as a unit �" she looked at Pamela, who nodded "� we can cover more angles and watch each other's backs."

��� "And once back at the vehicle," Douglas finished, "we drive for our lives.� That assumes the most basic success:� recovering Sadira and departing.� We don't try for the contingency plans unless things are breaking our way.� But whenever I'm not firing the gun, I trigger the camera.� Both at once if possible."� The camera was hung around his neck.� He'd assured them the case was bulletproof.

��� "Don't count Carmody out one way or another," Jason said.� "We might stay unnoticed all the way through the stairwell, but once we're in the corridors, someone's going to notice us."

��� "I can turn the cameras on and off," Cypher added, "and I've been looking at nice empty corridors for a while now.� The camera images are fed into monitors, but they're also directly broadcast to mobile receivers from a central point before they go through the computer system.� I've got blank-space images saved for everywhere.� The monitoring stations will see what I want them to see if I move fast enough.� But anyone with a hand-held tuned to the right place can pick you up.� And once you run into someone, that's it:� on your own."

��� "Once they know, then Carmody knows," Pamela pointed out.� "He either springs his trap or tries to meet us halfway."� She looked around the group.� "We've also got fifteen guards to deal with.� Shift change is at ten:� this is late enough so that they'll be tired, early enough so that no fresh troops show up.� And don't forget the rest of the staff:� there won't be many around at this hour, but someone could always try something stupid.� We might have to fight our way out.� On the other hand, the secrecy works both ways:� we can't bring in the Armed Forces, they can't call the cops."

��� "We avoid the elevators unless absolutely necessary," Jason said.� "We can move in the stairwell, even if it's only in two directions.� We can't let them box us in.� The door opens, they shoot inside �"

��� Douglas nodded at the map.� "We don't have to worry about anything exotic," he noted.� "No gases, no pits, and no lasers.� Even no viruses, since they're hardly immune to their own agents.� It'll be toe-to-toe all the way, guns and fists."

��� "Best case," Jason concluded.� "We get Sadira, get all the information we need, head for Helena for the final confrontation, and win it.� We work on the viruses there, use whatever data Sadira's found while we were on the plane, and she's cured by morning."� Jason patted his right coat pocket.� He was carrying BE-1 in a shatterproof syringe � surrounded by a steel case � ready for modification.� He'd wanted to leave the viruses in the van, but Pamela had insisted on bringing them, and distributed the syringes.� (There was a small chance that Sadira's bluff would work twice.)� The syringe in his left pocket held a mixture of sugars, in case he or Sadira needed a fast boost.� They were all carrying one.

��� "Worst case," Pamela countered, "we're all dead."� She looked around the group.� "And no matter what happens, whoever's still standing heads for the goal line.� We don't get any second chances.� This is it."� The faintest of smiles drifted across her face.� "If anyone has to go to the bathroom, do it now."

��� They all looked at each other � and then a small blush tinted Douglas' face, and he walked into the shadows.

��� Jasmine took out her gun and looked it over.

��� Pamela moved closer to the fence.� Jason followed her.� "We are so unqualified," she told him.� "Photographer, stripper, and two lovesick scientists.� And maybe one flunky turned renegade."

��� "And it doesn't matter, because we're all she's got," Jason replied.� "How many cliches do you want me to toss out?"

��� "I'll throw the last one," Jasmine said, coming up behind them.� "One way or another, it ends tonight."� She stopped, then looked at them in turn.� "I'm scared," came the frank admission.� "But I'm going to use it for something good this time."

��� Pamela looked at the dancer.� "Want to know something, Princess?"� Jasmine nodded.� "If we live through this, you just might wind up human."

��� Douglas approached, zipping his pants.� Jasmine looked at the phone.� "Ready, Cypher?"

��� "Fingers on the home keys."

��� Pamela looked at the fence, and at the small white building in the middle of the parking lot.� The sign by the road had said GT Industries.� The vast bulk of the building was underground.� The portion that was visible could be anything.� It was an iceberg of corruption:� you saw the top and never suspected how much more might lie underneath.

��� One shot, she thought.� Sadira, if we live through this, we're going to have one hell of a story for our kids. �The smile was purely internal.� Sure.� Like we could have children.� Jasmine moved close to the fifteen-foot fence.� Pamela joined her.� Douglas and Jason got behind them.

��� "We're clear to run," Jasmine whispered.

��� "Computer's got the outside camera showing empty footage," Cypher replied.

��� "Boost on three," Pamela said, bracing herself for the contact.� "One, two, three �"

 

��� Sadira eased her way out of the wheelchair, her breasts rubbing against the armrests. �I'm not finished, but this chair is.� I hope Carmody talks Nigilo into getting a new one soon.� Maybe two chairs linked together.� I sit in one and my breasts sit in the other.� She piled the pillows behind her and sat up against the headboard, legs extended.� Her breasts rested on her legs, stretching out well past her knees.� Her best guess put her lower slopes at mid-thigh when out of the bra � there weren't many moments when she was anywhere near a standing position, and very few of those were braless.� She still wasn't sagging.

�� �If I get this stopped, I will work out until I'm lying in a puddle of my own sweat, and I'll wear a steel bra whenever my position heads for the vertical, but I will not let myself sag.� I just got my arms and legs back for the first time in over ten years.� If I can walk at all, I refuse to trip over my breasts.

��� And a little voice said A few more weeks and they'll be touching the floor without sagging �

��� � and she pushed it back.

��� Sadira reached for the remote and turned on the TV.� "Powerbars, power bras," she said to the cameras.� "You know why I really want to be cured?� So I'll be on my feet when I burn down the Powerbar factory.� Better view."� She looked at the TV screen.� "Something dumb," she said.� "A bad Voyager episode.� Throw my mind into neutral, and maybe it'll unlock the final sequences."

 

��� "Unlocked," Cypher said.� "Go."

��� Jason opened the door, and they headed in, Jasmine taking up the rear, everyone rubbing their hands, trying to get warm.� They headed down, moving as fast as they could without making noise �

��� � and the phone crackled, hissed, and went quiet.

��� Jasmine looked at it, then took two tentative steps back towards the surface.� More hissing, and, "� happening?� Are you guys okay?"

��� "We're fine," Jasmine whispered.� "But the local transmission isn't strong enough to carry underground."

��� Douglas, who was in front of her, sighed.� "Apparently this is going to be one of those operations where everything goes wrong from the beginning.� Saves us from having to wait for it..."

��� "I saw that movie," Pamela said.� "Can we leave the phone here, and put one of the walkie-talkies next to it?� Relay the transmission?"

��� "We can," Douglas answered, "I bought dual-band VOX transceivers so we could send and receive without having to manually switch modes.� But if we leave one here, it's vulnerable.� So is anyone we might leave behind to guard it."

��� They all looked at Pamela.

��� Since when am I the leader? part of her mind asked.� Since always, the rest replied.� "We can't split up.� We'll have to secure it."

��� Douglas reached into his jacket and handed Jason a roll of duct tape.� The tall man took phone, tape, and his own walkie-talkie, then secured them high on the wall.

��� They moved ten steps down.� Jasmine took out her transceiver and pressed the talk button.� "Can you hear me?"

��� "I'm getting you."� The voice was distorted by the double-link, an inch of space doing what two thousand miles hadn't been able to.� The distance between them was suddenly real.� "Hope the boy scout stuff holds out."

��� They kept moving, approaching the second landing.� There were only four levels to the underground portion, but they were descending eight:� the between spaces held the hazard walls.� Jason looked at the door.� Two levels deeper into the pit, and then they'd exit into Hell.� Pulling Sadira out of the underworld.� His mother would approve.� It was so Greek...

��� Another step, the .38 drawn and ready, rifle over his right shoulder, waiting.� And another, and another, and �

��� � the door opened.

��� "� told you I could rig the computers," a female voice said.� "We'll get some privacy in here, sweetheart �" and she looked up and saw Jason.�

��� His first thought was that he didn't recognize her.� The second said he didn't know the man behind her, either.� The third told him to stop the screaming.

��� "Oh, that's torn it," Douglas said through the screech.� "Jason!"

��� He was already moving, jumping over the last few steps.� The woman had run back into the corridor:� Jason reached the man and without hesitating, cracked the gun against his skull.� Pamela moved past him as the man dropped, moving into the corridor.� She wasn't fast.� She didn't have to be.� Most of the woman's energy was going into her vocalization.� Pamela hit her, twice, fast, and hard.� She went down.� No one missed that noise � began the thought �

��� � and she realized she was standing in the hallway, and there was a camera pointed at her, and no one had told Cypher what was going on, or where she'd run into.� The camera was working, turning, scanning, and looking at her.

��� If they hadn't heard the scream, they were enjoying an eyeful.

��� Two guards came around the corner as Jasmine reached the landing, and Jason ran into the hallway behind Pamela � and then he was in front of her, moving with incredible speed.� The taller guard had just enough time to yell "Intruder alert!" at something in his left hand before the first bullet shattered the device � and then proceeded through his hand.� The second one grazed his skull, and he fell over.

��� Pamela took a split-second to stare, amazed at his speed and marksmanship.� She heard Jasmine yell "Close the break door on the second level, the hallway in front of our fire escape!� Cut them off!"

��� The second guard had his gun out, and was taking aim �

 

��� Carmody heard the guard's yell relayed outside his door.� "Intruder alert!"� He dived for the computer, patched into the cameras, and saw �����

��� � he dismissed the insert screen, typed as fast as he could, snatched the zip disk from the drive, then headed for the door.� His office was only a few doors from Sadira's cell.

 

��� Nigilo was descending the right inner staircase with an armful of files.� He heard the alert and dropped the lot, then ran for his office.� He had to tap into the security center, find out what was happening �

��� � and if the source turned out to be the cause of all his recent problems, he was going to take care of it personally.

 

��� On the third level, in the security center, a flood of adrenaline was being channeled. �Orders were screamed to guards, cameras were focused, weapon closets unlocked, and buttons hit �

��� � including the one that scrambled the manual security override input codes according to a pre-determined pattern that wasn't in the computer.� Anyone who needed to know it had memorized the shifts.� Anyone who had stolen the codes was out of luck.� The scanners would respond to handprints and hidden keypads:� nothing else.

 

��� Cypher saw the motion in the corner window, spared an instant to look closer and found the codes changing, saw the remote operation lock-out commencing, and his hands blurred, trying to send a counter-command while bringing the hazard door down, saving Pamela and Jason, and somehow the commands got confused, merged, dived into the heart of GenTree's system, met the warping codes, the new creation veered off into the security system �

��� � and the whole thing went to Hell.

 

��� Pamela pulled the trigger, taking the second in the knee.� He fell, pitching forward, his gun flying from his hand towards Jason �

��� � who reached out and caught it.� "Tranks," he said, and shot both guards with the new pistol.� "Get the other one."

��� Pamela moved forward as Jasmine said "Cancel the break door."

��� A steel wall slammed down across the entrance to the stairwell.

��� Pamela and Jason turned, startled.� "What the hell �?" Pamela began �

��� They heard it at the same time, and looked up to see the ceiling open, and the wall start to descend, directly above Pamela �

��� � Jason reacted first.� He thrust, pushing body and arms forward, ramming her shoulders, knocking Pamela back a split-second before the wall came down.� Her transceiver came off her belt as she hit the floor.

��� The sound of the wall's impact reverberated through the hallway.

 

�� �Sadira heard the commotion outside and looked up towards the door, her visual field intercepting a camera just as it stopped moving.

��� "What's going on?" she breathed � and then, with the sharpening of senses that accompanied the adrenal flow, she heard the handprint scanner start up outside her door �

��� � and it beeped.� The door stayed closed.

��� In the middle of the surprise, she figured out exactly what Nigilo had meant by "close to being finished."

��� Another scan.� Another beep.� Still closed.

��� Sadira reached into her blouse, pushing past the bra to reach the right-side vial.� The acuity of her hearing seemed to be increasing:� cursing outside, a desperate jingle as long-neglected keys were examined.� The vial was coming free �

��� � and another sound, a softer one, compressed air escaping �

��� � silence �

��� � and then the sound of a body hitting the door.

��� More keys, and the door began to open as she got the vial out.� She pulled it back, ready to throw.

��� The guard's body slumped into the room.� Carmody stepped over it.

��� "Ready to go?" he asked neutrally, no expression on his face.

��� Sadira looked at him, looked at the tranquilizer gun in his right hand and the second one strung on his belt, then madly shifted for the wheelchair.� Carmody scrambled to help.

   

36

111:� Dungeon crawl

 

�� �Pamela sat stupefied for a moment, staring at the grey steel and the crushed remains of her walkie-talkie � then scrambled to her feet.� "Mouse?� Can you hear me?" She heard another wall slam into the floor.� It was the only response she received.

 

��� Jasmine yelled past the frenzied swearing coming through the transceiver.� "Cypher, what the hell is going on?"

��� "Computer crash!" he yelled back.� "They tried to scramble the codes, I tried to put them back, and the whole thing just blew!� All the security systems are going nuts!"

��� "Can you open the hazard doors?" Douglas said, somehow still calm. �Of course, he's seen worse...

��� "I'm trying!� Nothing's responding!"

��� "Keep trying."� Douglas looked at Jasmine.� "We keep going."

��� She stared, then nodded.

 

��� Jason beat his fists against the steel.� The wall didn't notice.� Calm down! his brain screamed.� You're burning energy, and you'll use too much, and you'll die �

��� Somehow, he pulled himself away from the wall, then withdrew a Powerbar and practically swallowed it whole.� He ate another, and noticed the cameras had stopped moving.� "System failure?" he queried empty air.� His walkie-talkie was taped up in the stairwell, and they hadn't thought to bring a spare.� Somewhere in the complex, another wall slammed down.

��� If they were all coming down, then eventually, every possible route was going to be cut off.� He had to get to Sadira.� That was the plan.� There was no way to get back to the others.� If they all headed down, they'd eventually meet �

��� � the maps, memorized from long hours of study, flashed into vision.� He followed them.

 

��� The blocked fire escape entrance formed the top of the T-intersection.� Pamela risked a glance at her map:� the last place they'd been seen was the second floor, so that was where most of the guards were going to go.� With ridiculous luck, they might even draw a few away from Sadira.� They were officially due for a break.�

��� The left.� There's an inner staircase about four turns away.� She moved down the hall, checking over her shoulder, trying to scan all sides at once �

��� � and found a third guard, coming down the hallway with weapon drawn, a real gun this time, running straight at her.� Pamela fired and missed badly, the bullet impacting by his feet.� The dark man jumped, his finger squeezing the trigger.

��� Pamela ducked.� The bullet flew over her head.� Way over her head:� it hit the ceiling.� She fired again, missed narrow left �

��� � the bullet slammed into her right breast, knocking her back, driving her to the floor �

 

��� The exit on the fourth level was blocked, and Cypher couldn't get it open.� They climbed back up.� The third level's door opened on the first try, and there was no barrier.

��� Douglas and Jasmine exchanged glances.� "The long way, then," the photographer said, and they moved into the hall.� Douglas kept his taser in one hand and his camera in the other, and took pictures as they moved.

��� Twenty-two feet below them, the hazard door blocking their gate retreated into the ceiling.

 

��� Carmody took a moment to drag the guard inside and close the door.� "We'll shoot them as they open it," he said.� "They'll need to use their keys � and only six of them have keys for this level.� Five now.� I can open it from this side with mine.� But we can't stall here forever."� He gave Sadira the second gun.� She had grabbed her notebook from the nightstand and tucked it into the wheelchair's side storage.� "Is there anything we need to save?"

��� "We should wipe the data from the computers if we have the time."

��� "We don't.� I'd set the place on fire, but the suppression system is too good � as I'm sure you know.� What's in the vial?"

��� She held it up and let him look at the contents.

��� Carmody nodded.� "Somewhat faster than an empty syringe.� Congratulations:� I never guessed."� He ran into the kitchen and came out with a handful of Powerbars and two knives.� "They're nicely balanced:� you might be able to throw them.� Start eating.� We can't risk a burnout."

��� Sadira took the knives and Powerbars, eating two and tucking the rest between breasts and lap, next to the vial, then removed the second vial and secured it, Carmody turning away while she worked.� "Why can't they use the scanners?"

��� "I fired them."� She looked up at him.� "I control the general personnel programs below the executive level.� When someone is fired, their handprints, codes and all emergency variants are wiped from the computer.� I tested it on Jonas yesterday.� The entire security staff was just let go for general incompetence."

��� Sadira fought the urge to laugh.� "So they can't move?"

��� Carmody jumped as they heard another slam.� "Only within their current sections � and from the sounds outside, those are changing by the moment.� Do your friends have computer control?"

��� The realization burst nova-bright across her mind, and a thousand emotions sang in her heart.� "They're here?� You're not doing all this?"

��� "I saw Pter � Jason and Pamela on the cameras before they went down.� I would guess that they're using the hazard doors as a distraction."� Another slam, this one close by:� the sound echoed through the room.� "If so, it's working to perfection.� I hope they have their route timed, because I don't know what their plan is."� He reached into a suit pocket and withdrew a thin syringe with a narrow needle �

��� � and before Sadira could react, he pushed up his left sleeve and injected the contents.� "Insulin," he explained.� "I'm a diabetic, Sadira.� I used to be other things.� I have a great deal of experience with needles, and I can't risk collapsing on the way out, either.� Ready to go?"

��� Sadira wheeled to the side of the door, and got the gun ready.� "Ready.� If you're sure there's no way we can wipe the data �"

��� "If your friends have computer access, they can take care of that problem later," Carmody pointed out.� There was an odd sound, a sort of reverse slam, accompanied by the whine of stressed gears.� "Although I'm starting to doubt that anyone has control right now.� We can return with a large quantity of dynamite." He opened the door.

��� There was a guard running up.� Carmody calmly shot him twice.� Sadira saw the man's eyes open in surprise � and then he staggered, swayed, and fell.� Carmody reloaded, pulling extra darts out from under his suit jacket.� He'd stopped at the armory on the way.

��� "Most of them will use darts to avoid hurting employees, and they have no orders to kill you yet.� There will be exceptions."� He looked at Sadira, emotionlessly gauging her size � and weight.� "I can't push the wheelchair up the stairs, and I can't carry you."� Carmody said.� "I can support you and aid in balance for a time, but we'll be slowed.� Can you walk?"

��� "I don't know.� I think my back is healed, but I'm carrying so much weight..."

��� "We'll have to risk the elevator.� Let's hope your friends take out most of the guards before we get there."

 

��� Nigilo found his progress blocked by a steel wall.� He quietly turned and went into one of the nearby labs.� It had doors on both sides of the barricade.

��� It didn't matter that the computer was down, or that the entire site was in chaos, or that he still didn't know who was attacking, with the link to the security center down.� He didn't know where she was, but none of it mattered.� The bitch couldn't run, couldn't use the elevators, couldn't even crawl up the stairs.� No matter how much time it took him to move, she was moving more slowly.� He would reach her.

 

��� Eric Boyle slowly moved towards the body.� The woman had fallen backwards and to the side:� he couldn't see where the bullet had hit.� She wasn't moving.� The mass of her chest was still.� Her eyes were half-lidded, staring at nothing.

��� He approached slowly, ready to kick over the body over and check the wound.� She'd taken a direct hit, she wasn't wearing any armor, she was dead, or close to it.� He stepped closer, looking at the puddle of blood beneath the wound �

��� � the place where the puddle should be:� her clothing couldn't be soaking up all the blood �

��� � her eyes snapped completely open, and her leg flew up, hitting him in the crotch.� His cup protected him from the worst of it, but it still staggered him back.� She was getting to her feet, and her left hand snatched at his belt �

��� � and came back with the tranquilizer gun.

�� �"So long, sucker," she said, and shot him three times in the face.

 

��� Pamela watched him slump, and affectionately scratched the base of the Kevlar bra.� You were worth all the discomfort.� All it had taken for the Mouse and Douglas was a quick trip to the Army/Navy shop to buy second-hand bulletproof vests, but Pamela and the Princess couldn't use them.� The vests wouldn't close.

��� Aunt Susan used Kevlar to reinforce some of the bigger bras:� the next step had been a completely-Kevlar, full torso-and-crotch garment, with some extra shielding on her thighs.� If the bulletproof material breathed, or was the least bit comfortable, it would be perfect.

��� That, and the fact that Kevlar distributed impact.� Too many bullets too quickly, and even the spread-out force could do major damage:� hydrostatic shock.� She hadn't been able to breathe for a few seconds, and her breast hurt.� One more thing to be paid for.

��� Pamela quickly searched the guard, found his screen, decided to take it with her in case the cameras started working again, and kept moving.

 

��� The man came through the door just behind Jason.� He never saw him.� He heard him, turned, grabbed, and threw him against the wall before his mind caught on to what he was doing.� He barely felt the effort, and marveled at the speed.� If it wasn't for the possible death, I could get used to this...� He looked at the man.� "Temperi?"

��� "Don't kill me!� Don't kill �"

��� The irony washed over him.� Then maybe he'll break. �"Don't tempt me," Jason growled, feeling the anger pulsing outwards, a thousand times more convincing than at the airport, a lifetime ago.� "Where's Sadira?"

��� "I don't know!� Nobody can get anywhere!� I was just using the bathroom before I left, sneaking out early, trying to get to the exit now, nothing is working, she's insane �" Mad eyes locked into his.� "You don't know what it's like, Jason, she's a demon, she spits and scratches and tries to lure me in, but no, I won't, I won't go under, I won't �"

��� Jason aimed the tranquilizer gun and shot him on general principles.

 

��� Jasmine's first bullet hit the guard dead-center in the stomach.� She'd been aiming for his gun arm, but she'd pulled the trigger too soon.� He was carrying two guns, and the one in his hand shot bullets.� Kill or be killed.

��� He staggered, teetered � then caught himself on the wall and straightened up �

��� � just in time to be tackled by Douglas, barreling in with taser in hand, his greater weight carrying the guard to the floor.� He pressed the taser against the man's neck until he stopped twitching, then grabbed the tranquilizer gun and shot the guard in the left leg.� "Handy thing to have around," he said, looking at the taser.� "Aim for the extremities, Jasmine.� The torso is armored."

��� She nodded.� "Why aren't we seeing more guards?"

��� "There are fifteen of them scattered over five floors.� A maximum of twelve, now, counting the two Jason and Pamela took down.� They'll have as much trouble reaching us as we're having reaching them.� And the ordinary citizens seem too scared to get involved."

��� This was a hiss overhead, and they both stepped quickly to the right, now alert to danger from above � but this wasn't a descending wall.

��� They watched the spray of foam fall to the ground.

��� "Cypher?" Jasmine asked.

��� "The systems are still going crazy," the relay crackled.� "I think the fire extinguishers just went nuts.� It's harmless stuff, but watch your eyes:� don't want to get clouded at a bad moment.� I'm still trying to get control of the doors.� So are the folks at the main computer.� We're having a race to see who can build a new program first.� Some of the staircases are open, but that'll help and hinder you guys, depending on who uses them."

��� "We're still on the third floor," Jasmine said.� "That's where the control center is.� Maybe we can do something."

 

��� The hallway was blocked � and then it wasn't.� Machinery whined, and the wall receded back into the ceiling.� Carmody sprinted across, and Sadira pushed the chair to its limits.� They got across with time to spare, and the steel slammed down behind them.

��� "Were these things in Helena?" Sadira gasped.� "Where were they?"

��� "In the side walls at strategic points," Carmody answered.� "There weren't as many crucial areas �"� Foam rained down from the ceiling in front of them.� "It would seem someone found the fire controls.� Let's hope no one plays with the elevator."

 

��� The spray caught Pamela in the face.� She fell back, coughing, wiping the foam off with her arms.� It cleared easily, and she recognized the slight odor. �Harmless.� Eyes are safe, lungs are fine � She stared at her sleeves.� They were heavily streaked in pink, with yellow patches.� � but it removes makeup and basic dyes.� Trivial, that's more important �

��� � because that was the staircase leading down, and it wasn't blocked.� She went in, and shot a very large guard on the way down.� She wasn't in the mood to wait for the drug to kick in:� it took four darts to make him drop fast enough to suit her.

 

��� Jason reached the fourth floor, and found the hallway blocked by barricades on both sides, with no labs to cut through.� He waited twenty seconds in case the walls decided to retreat, then ran back up the stairs, listening carefully for grinding gears.

 

��� Jasmine shot the scanner, shot the lock, and threw open the door.� The guard spun, and Douglas aimed.� They fired at the same time.

��� The guard slowly sank to the floor, feebly pulling at the two darts in his right arm.� Douglas moaned and rubbed his stomach.� "Kevlar and fat," he said, "and still not enough to protect."� He looked at the two stunned technicians and pointed the gun at them � then took a picture.� "Still, we're not doing badly for rank amateurs.� There doesn't seem to be that much difference between aiming a gun and a camera."� Another moan.� "Except that the camera is deadlier.� Cover them, will you, Sadira?� I'll watch the door."

��� One of the technicians � a woman � looked at Jasmine as she started to grin.� "Sadira?"

��� Intuition flashed across her thoughts, illuminating the con.� "Right."� Jasmine said, advancing.� "I've got the breast-shrinking virus right here."� She withdrew the syringe case with her free hand:� she was carrying the accelerator.� "I decided this is the size I want to stick with."� She expertly appraised the woman's figure (C verging on D), then quickly opened the case and displayed the needle.� "You � well, it would put you where I started.� Sound like fun?" The woman shook her head violently.� Her male companion kept staring.� "And did I mention the possibilities for the penis?� There seems to be an analog effect.� If I could just get a chance to test it..."

��� She watched his reaction and decided that Pamela had the right idea.� It was more fun being a bitch for a good cause.� "So you listen to my friend �" she held out the walkie-talkie "� and do everything we tell you to, or you're both going to go through puberty again � in the wrong direction.� Deal?"

 

��� Carmody punched in his code again.� "It's not working.� The controls are gone, and it's not responding to the key.� There's a chance that the other elevator bank is operational, but it won't take us directly out.� We'd have to climb to the top level."

��� "How do we get there?"� Sadira was spinning the wheelchair, trying to cover all sides while Carmody worked on the elevators:� they were in the middle of a large intersection, with corridors leading away from the elevator doors.� It was making her slightly dizzy.� All around them, there were the sounds of slamming and grinding.� They'd taken out two more guards on the way, and Sadira had been hit by a dart in the chest � then discovered that her bra was strong enough to block penetration.� Carmody had shot the second guard before he got to test the bullets.

��� "Follow me."� Carmody turned away from the elevator controls and ran towards the nearest hallway, turning left �

��� It was the first time she'd seen any real expression on his face.� It was surprise, and it lasted only a fraction of a second before the pain took over.

��� The bullet ripped through his body, and Carmody fell.

 

��� Jason was on the third floor, running through the corridors, cramming food into his mouth with his free hand, scanning for new targets � and saw Douglas standing in a doorway.� "Jason!� In here!"

��� He entered to see Jasmine holding the walkie-talkie between two rapidly typing people.� Her left hand had the transceiver.� The right held a syringe, and it was continually switching aim.

��� "Sadira," Douglas began, stressing the word, "is helping our friends hook the walls back up, with a lot of help from our other friend."

��� "Among other things," Jasmine said.� She glanced at the portable screen Douglas had taken from the fallen guard:� it had been left on the console.� "Hook them up.� And if I see that screen go on, your sex life goes to zero."

��� "What are we doing?" Jason asked.

��� "Finding Pamela, among other things." Douglas answered.� "Sadira's idea.� We'll get the cameras running in here, but the remaining guards won't see the results:� the transmitter has been disabled.� Once we know where everyone is, and get control of the walls, our task should be eased."

��� If they're still alive.� But Douglas was right.� They needed to be able to move:� it was random chance otherwise, and he'd already been blocked.� "Get them up, and I'll get there."

��� "They're coming back on line," the male typist said.� "I don't have all of them yet."

��� "Then show me the ones you do have, moron," Jasmine suggested.

��� Several monitors lit up.

��� Jason looked, analyzed, and ran for Sadira's life.

��� "Get the walls up!" he screamed as he accelerated down the hallway, his soul praying for chance to favor him, to save her �

 

��� Jasmine stared at the screen as Jason raced out.� She was too far away, no way to reach her or protect her, Sadira was going to die and there was nothing she could do �

��� � and a phrase flashed across her memory, something she'd heard Sadira say years ago.

��� "Divert the orcs out of the dungeon," Jasmine said, then, "Get the voice transmitters on line.� And say what I tell you to say."

��� The woman was confused.� "You're not Archer �"

��� Jasmine touched the needle to the back of her neck.� "I'm her meaner sister.� Turn the fucking thing on."

���

��� Nigilo stepped around the corner as Sadira got the gun up.

��� He shot it out of her hand.

��� "Sorry," he said calmly.� "I'm rather good with these things.� I've used them before."

��� His posture was calm and relaxed beneath the rumpled suit.� Sadira noticed that his necktie was perfectly straight, and there was only a little foam on him, at the corners of his mouth.

��� He kept the gun trained on her as he glanced at Carmody, who was still breathing slowly.� "I heard you from down the hallway," he told the dying man.� "Hard to make out over the noise, but I heard you."� Quiet madness.� "I guess you really can't find good help anymore," he softly added.� "Twelve years of loyalty, and now this."� He gazed curiously at Sadira.� "Tell me, how did you seduce a gay man?"� Nigilo seemed to be expecting surprise from her at the revelation, because when he didn't get it, he kept speaking as if he had.� "Yes, he's gay, and he used to be an addict, and all sorts of fascinating things.� A very interesting man, Carmody.� I thought I knew everything about him:� that's why he was so valuable to me.� His service kept me from telling other people."

��� He stepped towards her.� Sadira's right hand inched into her lap, pushing under her breasts.� Nigilo noticed.� She stopped.� "A final caress?" he said.� "Your madness amazes me, Sadira.� On the verge of death, and all you can think about is your breasts.� A freak mentally, and now physically as well."

��� Her hand started moving again:� he ignored it.� It had been incorporated into his view.� He didn't even bother with her left hand, heading for the chair controls.

��� "I was planning on making your death look like a sexual killing," he told her, taking another step, "and I was going to have your breasts cut off."� He smiled.� "But I suppose there must be some fiend out there who practices gunplay, then mutilation.� If not, I'll just have to make one up."

��� Taking his time, enjoying the moment, he began to level the gun, aiming at Sadira's head.

��� Wasting no time, Sadira grabbed the vial and whipped it at him, trying for his eyes � and her arm brushed against the curve of her right breast as it came forward, throwing off her aim.

��� But the force was there, Nigilo was a wide target, and the vial broke against his chest as Sadira pushed the chair backwards at top speed, trying to get out of the path of the bullet.

��� He didn't fire.� He just looked down, quietly, insanely curious, confident that it was nothing, she was nothing � and the chlorine fumes hit his eyes.

��� "YOU BITCH!" a howl as he clutched at his face � and it emptied his lungs, he needed to breathe � and took a lungful of the green gas.� "YOU �" and a spasm of violent coughing.

��� Sadira kept wheeling back, steering with one hand, reaching for the knife with the other.� She couldn't recover the gun while in the chair, her arms couldn't touch the floor.� She didn't have the time to try getting out.� She had no way of telling how strong the chlorine concentration was:� he could be blinded for hours or seconds.� Her second vial contained mercury, handy for ruining any circuitboards she ran into, but mercury poisoning took too long to work unless she somehow got it inside his mouth �

��� She turned right, cursing the limits of the chair.� She had to get to one of the fallen guards:� their prone bodies might be within her reach, and she could recover one of their weapons.� Faster, she urged the motor. �Go faster, damn it, I could move this slowly on foot...� All around her, she could hear the grinding of gears and the echoes of impact as the walls moved, a maze changing configuration every second, and the cameras were starting up again around her, she had an audience for the finale, life or death, everyone will be on the edge of their seats, and somewhere around her a repeated drumbeat of approaching footsteps, she couldn't tell where they were coming from left, turn left, and she pushed the joystick, pushed the chair, tried to lean into the turn �

��� � and she hit a patch of foam.� The chair skidded, tires losing contact with the floor, then a dry area, partial friction �

��� � and it went down.� Sadira was thrown partially out of the seat, and was left sprawled on the floor, her left arm pinned under her breasts.

��� "Get up," she whispered, trying to roll, push, anything.� But there was so much weight...� "Come on, move �"

��� Footsteps, coming closer, faster now, her senses were going wild, she couldn't isolate the direction with all the noise around her, and she couldn't move �

��� � and one word cut through the chaos.� "Sadira!"

��� Her gaze whipped up.

��� Sadira's first thought was that Pamela had found a virus that generated melanin in its host, and it was having an extremely uneven effect.� Her face was a patchwork of color, the normal white showing in streaks between runs of pink that covered every shade within the hue.� Her hair was mostly white at the front, mostly blond at the back.� Sadira had never seen her look so beautiful �

��� � she could still hear footsteps, heavy and fast.

��� "Pamela!� He's right behind me!"

��� She didn't ask who:� she simply leveled her gun.

 

��� Pamela saw Nigilo come around the corner, rubbing at his watering eyes, and fired.

��� She'd forgotten that she was holding the tranquilizer gun.� She'd never checked to see how many shots it held.

��� It held one less than she needed.

��� Nigilo fired four times.� Pamela fell.

��� A raw voice from burned lungs.� "And one left for you."

 

��� And Sadira screamed � but there was no fear in the cry.� It was sorrow and rage exploding in a primal outburst, an anger beyond reckoning, and Nigilo stepped back, staggered by the force, just for an instant �

��� � and in that instant, Sadira got her right hand under her breasts again, found the items that were still held in place, and grabbed one.

��� She had never thrown a knife before, and despite what Carmody had said, they weren't all that well balanced.

��� Inexperience and inferior equipment combined, and created a success.

��� The knife went into Nigilo's right arm, blade first.� He screamed, long and loud, the sweetest sound Sadira had ever heard, and the gun fell from his spasming fingers.� It went off as it hit the ground, the last bullet fired at the ceiling.

��� He staggered, not seeming to know whether to claw at his face or his arm, hands jerking about in pain, and Sadira pushed with her right arm, got the second knife with the left, positioned her legs and thrust �

��� � and somehow, she found the strength to stand.

��� "I can get up, asshole," she breathed heavily, muscles channeling the power, rage providing motive.� And using the wall as her brace, she took a step forward.� "I can walk."� Another step.� "And I can make you pay."� He turned to face her, and she threw the second knife.� His hand started to move up �

��� � the handle bounced off his cheek.

��� His head snapped back, then came forward again.� Nigilo pulled the first knife out of his arm, somehow focusing on her through the tears streaming down his face.

��� "And I can kill you," he rasped.

��� Sadira pushed off from the wall and let herself fall on him, her weight carrying them to the floor.� She got his left arm up, her breasts compressing between them, pushed against her body, and she kept her grip on him, rolling off to his left side as they went down, balance destroyed.� They both hit hard, Sadira impacting against floor and wall, and pain shot through her, but she kept her grip on his wrist, the hand with the knife, and she squeezed with all her strength.

��� The calories flowed.� The bones shattered.

��� Another scream, even louder, and his right arm flailed, cracked across Sadira's jaw, stunning her.� Her grip was broken, and he wrenched his arm free.

��� "You fucking bitch," and the voice belonged to another world, where nothing lived that was remotely human.� "Everything lost because of you.� Everything."� And he was standing, and his foot was rising over her face, and she had no strength left, and the lights were shifting, shadows moving across her vision �

��� � as Pamela threw herself into Nigilo, momentum and fury substituting for mass, knocking him down again, her right fist taking him in the stomach, blasting his lungs clear, and Sadira saw a glint of metal in her left hand.� "You haven't lost everything," Pamela gasped, her breaths short and hard.� "You're still alive.� Let's remedy that."� She rammed her left hand into his chest as her thumb closed on the plunger.� He howled again, a lesser thing compared to the previous two, and Pamela pushed herself away, taking the syringe with her, still gasping for air.� Pamela reached into her right jacket pocket and extracted a rectangular case, then removed a full syringe with a sterile needle wrapping.� She scrambled to Sadira's side.� "Calorie shot," she forced out.� "Pure sugars."� Her voice grew very slightly stronger.� "Thought you might need this."� She injected Sadira.

��� Nigilo was starting to move again, air returning to his damaged lungs.� "Freaks," he rasped.� "I'll kill both of you �"

��� "How?" Pamela asked, her voice faint, somehow more quiet than its volume, eerily peaceful.� "Get up.� I'll wait."

��� Nigilo started to push himself up with his one good arm �

��� � and fell to the floor.� His fingers spasmed, as if they were mocking him in sign language.� He slowly raised his head, breathing heavily � but working too hard for the tiny amount of air he was pulling in.

��� "You like completed projects?"� Serene, relaxed.� "We all worked on this one.� This is the second half of the metabolic accelerator.� Or maybe its evil twin."� Pamela put her arms around Sadira and tried to pull her into a sitting position.

��� Nigilo tried to rise, arm pushing, legs kicking � but slower, weaker.

��� "The first one goes from three to ten.� You're going from three to zero."� Pamela's voice dropped lower.� "It took three minutes to cross the extremes of the dial.� You should take a bit less.� I'm sure you'd like to tell me how it feels.� The same way you asked those women at the enhancement project."� Soft, almost teasing.� "It's all in the name of science."

��� And all of the energy Nigilo had left went into one final effort as he grabbed the knife, heaved himself off the floor, looming over the women, bloody blade raised, he would fall, Sadira couldn't move, Pamela couldn't move her fast enough, stabbing into them with his death �

��� � the large hand thrust out, took his wrist, and shattered it.

��� The knife clattered to the floor.

��� "No," Jason said.� "Never again."

��� Nigilo used his final bit of strength to look at him, and a bit of amazement crossed his eyes in that last moment, disbelief that his last attempt to kill had been stopped by a man he had believed dead.

��� And like everything else in Nigilo's life, belief had not created fact.

��� Jason released him, and he fell.

   

37

111-113:� Angels see thee to thy rest

 

���� "We've got to get out of here," Pamela said.� Sadira could hear the pain in her voice.� The bullets had punctured her jacket and blouse:� Sadira could see gray material underneath.� It looked so out of place...� "There's probably still a few guards around."� She took a deep breath and winced.� "Oh, that hurts...� Mouse, help me get her in the chair."

���� Jason stepped over Nigilo's body.� Sadira looked at the corpse, then at Pamela.� The injection was starting to work:� the lights were stabilizing.� "You killed him," she said plainly.

���� Pamela nodded.

���� "Good."� Jason picked up the chair.� "We've got to go back to the elevators.� Carmody was still breathing �"

���� "Carmody?"� Pamela got her arms around Sadira, sliding her grip under the breasts, trying to work up.� She took out the remaining stuck Powerbars, then tried again.� "Then he was trying to help?"

���� "Nigilo shot him," Jason said.� "If he's still alive, we've got to get him out �"

���� � and the air went silent as the sounds of crashing walls vanished.� There was one massive final grinding � and then a crackle of static before the intercom went on.� "No more guards," Jasmine announced.� "All clear."� They all looked up at the speaker.� "They're all sleeping or isolated, along with their friends.� And everything's working."

���� "Jasmine?" Sadira asked.� Surprise, shock, and a touch of something else.

���� "Upstairs," Pamela verified.� "Hang on..."

���� Jason took Sadira's legs, Pamela braced her upper body, and they lifted her back into the chair.� Her breasts came down on top of the armrests, refusing to completely slide down into her lap.� The chair began to spin �

��� � Sadira quickly shoved her left breast off the joystick, wedging it into the available space, and the chair stopped, facing Jason and Pamela.

���� They looked at Sadira as the heat of combat faded, seeing her size for the first time...

���� "No time," Sadira said, and wheeled down the hall.

���� A second later, Jason and Pamela caught up.� They each took one side of the chair and pushed.� The movement rate drastically accelerated.

 

���� They found him with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, not blinking, barely breathing.� A pool of blood had spread out from his body, and was quietly seeping across the floor.� He blinked as they came into view.

���� "We need a stretcher," Jason said.� "Jasmine, if you can hear us, send someone down �"

���� Carmody's lips moved, and his voice drifted past them, a ghost of breath.� "Don't bother.� I'm not in much pain, at least.� He hit my spine."

���� Jason knelt down next to Carmody, his pants soaking up the blood.� "Pamela, the accelerator �"

���� "Jasmine has it."� Surprise briefly flickered across her face as the dancer's name registered, then vanished.� She joined Jason on the floor and examined the wound �

���� � then looked away.� "It won't work fast enough, Jason.� It's completely through."

���� "I told you," Carmody whispered.� "Sadira?"

���� Sadira looked at the others, and they quietly came around and took her out of the chair, lowering her to the ground, positioning her in a legs-out sitting position so that she could look down to her right and see his face � and he could see her.� "I'm here."

���� "I'm sorry.� I shouldn't have been so scared."� A shallow breath as Pamela and Jason knelt down.� "He caught me, so many years ago, and then when I saw you, when I realized what had happened � I should have run.� The drug was gone.� But I was a coward..."

���� She took his left hand and gently squeezed it.

���� A long blink, and his eyes opened again, and tried to find her.� "I should have run.� I wanted you to run."� His hand trembled in her grip.� "I wasn't very good at lying on my own.� I tried to give him the beginning of information so he'd let me follow it, instead of finding it on his own and finding you �"� Another breath, softer "� but he kept moving on his own, and I couldn't stop him.� So scared �"

��� "It's okay," Sadira told him as she brought their linked hands to his cheek.� "He's dead now.� No one ever has to be afraid of him again."

��� "Good..."� His eyes moved across her face without seeing.� "I did some horrible things, Sadira.� I made one mistake, and it took over my life.� I didn't want you to be trapped by an accident..."

��� "I'm free."

��� He didn't seem to hear her.� "Disk in my jacket.� Took some files for later...� Go in my office.� Go...� in his, search every room.� There's... more evidence.� He hid things, but there's little mementos around.� It'll be enough... to bring the whole thing down."

��� And then his eyes became bright, and focused on her, and Sadira knew the look, because she'd felt it from the inside before she'd collapsed on the cold Minnesota ground.� It was the last spark.

��� "I keep thinking of a short story I read when I was a kid," he said.� "There was a street kid, sinned to stay alive.� But he died saving another kid off the subway tracks."� One more breath.� "He went to Heaven.� He led a sinner's life, but he died a hero."� A final blink.� "Do you think it's possible?"

��� "God forgives," Sadira whispered, "and so do I.� You were trying to save my life, Carmody.� You're a hero."

��� And the last breath, the last words emerged.� Sadira listened, the only one to hear.

��� He smiled, a beautiful expression, and closed his eyes.

��� She gently lowered his hand, then reached out and crossed his wrists on his chest.� "Good night, sweet prince," she said softly, then looked up at Jason and Pamela.

��� Jason's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped in prayer.� Pamela �

��� � she fiercely blinked the moisture away, tried to wrench her face back into neutrality, and failed.� "Ebony �" she began, then stopped and was at Sadira's side without seeming to move �

��� � and then she was hugging Sadira, somehow finding room and a position that fit, crying, and Jason was there too, they were all bound together by joy and sorrow �

��� "What did he say?" Jason whispered.

��� "He said his name was Angel."

 

��� They pushed her into the control center, and she saw a temporal mirror spin, her own face and the body of two weeks ago � and Jasmine ran to her.� "Sadira!" and she was at the center of another hug, Jasmine almost lying on top of her breasts, arms pushing down her back, squeezing � "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't �"

��� The thought dove through.� Who are you and what have you done with my sister � and then she saw Jasmine's tear-filled eyes, and managed to return the embrace.

��� "Hi, sis," Jasmine whispered as she finally pulled back.

��� "My heart rejoices to see you �" there couldn't be more than one of those voices in the world �

��� � Sadira spun the chair.� "Douglas?!� How...?"

��� "I was recruited."� He nodded at Pamela.� "I would have volunteered.� Welcome back."

��� "There's someone you have to meet," Jasmine said.� She stepped back and gestured towards the computers.� "Sadira, this is Cypher."

��� Sadira looked at the area and found two people tied to their chairs with their own clothing, still awake, with angry eyes �

��� � and a walkie-talkie sitting on the console.

��� She wheeled closer.� The bound prisoners watched her.

��� "Hi, Sadira," the transceiver said.� "Pleasure to finally meet you."

��� "The same," Sadira replied, slightly stunned, and spun the chair.� "A computer expert?� The walls �?"

��� "Hacker," Cypher corrected.� Sadira could hear the grin.� "Hey, don't talk about me like I'm not here."� A pause.� "Sorry about the walls, though.� Things got out of control for a while there."

��� Pamela came up next to Sadira, rubbing a finger against her color-streaked cheek.� "No kidding.� Was that trick with the fire extinguisher accidental or �" She took a breath, and a soft groan escaped.� Her arms went forward and she leaned against the console, eyes gazing blankly at the screens.

��� Douglas hurried over.� "You may have cracked ribs.� When we saw you shot � we thought you were dead.� Kevlar or no, that was too much impact."

��� "I noticed," Pamela said dryly.� "I wasn't lying there out of some misplaced sense of dramatics.� I couldn't move.� I couldn't even breathe for a minute."� She looked down at her breasts.� "Give them a target this big and they'll aim at it every time.� I'm going to have some colors:� black and blue..."

��� "We may have to bind your ribs.� We should have enough bandages in the first aid kits."

��� "Later."� Pamela straightened up.� "Just give me a few aspirin.� We've got to grab what we can and get out of here.� The new shift will be here in �"� She looked at her watch.� She kept looking.� "� about an hour..." �She glanced at Douglas.� "Ten minutes?" she asked rhetorically.� "That all happened in ten minutes?"

��� "Less," Douglas said.� "Combat time is on its own clock, separate from the rhythms of the world.� Since few people come to work any sooner than they absolutely must, we should have most of an hour."� He looked back at Jason.� "How are your energy levels?"

��� "I'm fine," Jason said.� "I was eating on the run.� Thank God I finally heard you �"� Sadira was looking at him, eyes narrowed.

��� "Energy levels?" she slowly repeated.� The wheelchair rolled a little closer.� "Why do you need to watch your energy levels?"� Her face said she already knew the answer.� "You took the accelerator.� What da hell made ya try a crazy stunt like dat!� Ya could haf died, ya �"

��� Pamela stepped in front of her, cutting her off.� "Then yell at me, because I gave it to him."� Sadira's face froze.� "We'll talk about it later."

���� Spontaneous defrost.� "Ya gave it ta him?� Are ya outta yer �"

���� "Later."

���� Sadira took a deep breath � then slowly nodded.

���� Pamela nodded back.� "Jasmine, where are the guards?"

��� "Trapped," Jasmine said.� "I got our friends �" she pointed at the bound technicians "� to bring the audio link back up and give them directions to the intruders � which meant everywhere but where you guys were:� we used the cameras to keep track.� They really wanted some orders to follow:� nobody questioned where they were going.� The outside ones even came in.� We had them chasing each other's tails until Cypher got the walls back under control � and then we locked them in."� A shrug at the computer operators.� "They'd be asleep, but we still might need them." She looked at Sadira.� "You always said orcs were stupid."� A glance at Pamela.� "We didn't get all the cameras up until the end, and I didn't spot your link � I was trying to misdirect traffic."

��� Sadira stared at Jasmine with undisguised amazement.

��� Pamela duplicated the expression.� "You had them running around after each other."� Jasmine nodded.� "Pretty good for a first try."� She patted the screen.� "I felt it vibrate a few times, but I thought it was just my trying to run...� How about the other people?"

���� "The rest of the staff is locked in their rooms," Cypher told them.� "The building's closed off:� no one's getting in until I let them in.� But you guys still have to get out."

��� Jasmine thoughtfully regarded the phone.� "I should start calling the next shift and see if I can get them to stay home."

��� "It might get their backs up," Cypher argued.� "Are they gonna believe a night off?� I can give you back the phones, but they might try to alert Helena.� No one got any alerts out when you guys went in, but they lost phone communications and computer links when the system went."

��� "Follow the original plan," Jason suggested.� "We could hole up here, but it doesn't feel like a good idea."

��� Pamela looked at the others.� "Then let's get out of here fast.� Jason, you and Douglas are the fastest:� go down to the fourth floor, find Car � Angel's office, and Nigilo's.� Grab what you can.� Take the hard drives from their personal computers.� Get the cell phone on your way back.� Cypher, copy out everything new, then wipe all their data:� you can send it back to us as we need it.� Open up an outside line.� Reconnect to Helena's computer and tell anyone who's asking that the problem is fixed.� We'll use our friends to call if they need confirmation.� Sadira, is there anything written down we need to go after?"

��� "If you give me a map, I can probably direct you to my lab.� If you break into all the filing cabinets, you should get everything."

��� Pamela nodded.� "We could turn off the fire extinguishers and burn the place down, but it would take an hour to get all the people out first.� And it won't be necessary if this works.� Still, don't miss anything.� Once Cypher's got the data, we should put virtual holes in the database.� Maybe real ones.� Grab all the disks, too.� I don't want anyone to bring this data back.� But we've got to leave the security systems up."� Another glance at the screen.� "Cypher, bring up the outside view.� Jasmine, keep an eye on the monitors:� let us know if anyone's coming.� We'll use the intercom and transceiver to keep in touch.� And go into Sadira's rooms and grab some bras.� And some other clothing.� And extra food.� Go!"

��� They went.

��� Pamela looked at Sadira.� "And now that they're on the way," she said, voice suddenly wracked with pain, "I can think about something else."� She moaned softly.� "I think my adrenaline just wore off.� Jasmine, pass the aspirin."

 

��� It went smoothly.� Jason and Douglas found both offices and Sadira's lab with only minor delays.� The filing cabinets were locked.� The bullets opened them.� They filled a heavy-duty garbage bag with the files they needed, then took a few more for evidence.� There wasn't time to search every office:� they simply removed whatever they encountered.

��� Jasmine kept an eye on the monitors.� Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty.� No one arrived.

��� Pamela went into the bathroom.� Careful, painful touch seemed to indicate intact bones, but the bruising was already starting to settle in.� She lined the bra with a thin layer of tissue paper � which didn't help � and went back to watching to the monitors.

��� As they waited, they updated each other.

��� "The doctor?"� Pamela had started to feel better as the aspirin began working, but the news sent her reeling again.� "From Minneapolis?� That's how they found us?"

��� Jasmine slumped as memory materialized.� "I saw a couple, but I never thought �"

��� "Who would?" Sadira said.� Pamela nodded.� "Married hunters?� I probably have thought they were lost tourists.� Considering what was happening when I first saw them, I don't think I would have recognized them."

��� Jasmine looked away, back at the screens.

��� Pamela stepped over to her.� "It's not your fault, Princess," she told her.� Slowly, "It wasn't mine, either.� Blind luck."

��� The transferred guilt was blocked by the truth � and dissipated.

��� Sadira glanced at the monitors.� Douglas was expertly rifling through a file cabinet.� "I don't believe how calm he is."

��� Jasmine grinned.� "We lost him for a few seconds once things settled down.� He finally got a good look at the cameras, and when he really saw you, his eyes..."� She stopped, and her own eyes tilted to the left and sought the floor.� "Sorry."

��� "I'm � actually getting used to it � a little," Sadira said.� "I can understand why he stared.� But by the time I got up here, he stopped, and didn't start again.� That's what I'll ask from people.� Take a look, but then adjust."

��� Pamela automatically looked.� It was hard to adjust.� Sadira had been considerably smaller when she'd been taken from the lab, and "considerably smaller" had still been very big...� "I saw you stand up."� She smiled.� "I couldn't move, but I had a pretty good view where I was."� Pamela didn't tell her the first part:� her initial glance at the wheelchair had terrified her, she'd thought Sadira had been crippled...� "I don't think he was expecting that."

��� "I wasn't sure I could do it, but I wasn't thinking about that.� I just got up.� It didn't last, though."� Dryly, "At least I didn't throw my back again."

��� Jasmine gave Sadira an appraising look.� "Mom can design an exercise program for you.� You'll be back on your feet full-time in a few months."

��� Sadira briefly smiled.� It felt so strange to talk to her sister.� She kept waiting for the punchline...� "Which means I have to tell her."� The smile collapsed.� "And it means that we have to stop this while I've still got something that I can theoretically carry..."� A small sigh, and she looked at Pamela.� "When you pulled out that needle, I was hoping..."

��� Pamela slowly shook her head.� "All we've got is the decelerator, and it goes too far.� And I'm not going to spare the time to take you back to New York.� We're going to get some local help."

��� "Helena?" Sadira guessed.

��� Pamela's face snapped into snow leopard mode.� "Whether they like it or not."� She reached into her left pocket.� "I did bring one other thing.� I figured you might have been deprived."� A golden rectangle was withdrawn, and presented with necessary flourish.� "Chocolate?"

 

��� Jason and Douglas passed out the bags, and Jasmine grabbed her transceiver.� Pamela casually tranquilized the computer operators before loosening their bonds, and they headed for the elevator.

��� They quickly reached the empty lobby.� Douglas looked around and took a picture.� It was well if simply designed, with a pleasant carpet, several nice chairs, and a fine reception desk that doubled as a security station.� "You'd never know it, would you?" he softly asked.

��� Sadira looked up at him.� "No," she answered.� "I never did." �Jason nodded.� "Let's go."

��� Jasmine looked at her watch:� 9:43 p.m � then at the doors and windows, blocked by steel.� They went up to the doors, put down the bags, and got in position.� "On five, Cypher.� Lift the wall and open the front door."

��� "Five," the hacker counted.� "Four..."

��� Jason took his rifle from his shoulder, aiming it forward and high.� Everyone else drew their tranquilizer guns.

��� "...one, go."

��� The wall dropped into the floor at something just under the speed of sound.� A scrap of ripped carpet fell from the ceiling as the computer-controlled door swung open.� Jason fired, the blast flying well over the newcomers' heads.

��� The five men outside, already on the edge of panic after seeing the locked-down complex, reacted.� Two automatically reached for their weapons �

��� � which were kept in the armory within the building.

��� The one standing in front of the door dropped to the ground.� The others froze.

��� The darts flew through the open door.� Four of the men fell.� The one who had hit the deck slowly looked up.

��� Jason was pointing the rifle at his head.� The others were aiming for their favorite targets.� Jason nodded at the rifle, then at Sadira's tranquilizer gun.

��� "Pick one," he ordered.

��� The man nodded at the trank pistol.

��� "Good idea," Sadira said, and shot him.

��� They hauled the unconscious guards inside the lobby as quickly as possible, then settled back to wait for the new shift to finish arriving.� Fortunately, no one had tried to call in sick and hit the blocked lines:� all of the remaining ten showed up, with six walking in at 9:54, and the last arriving twenty minutes late.� It was quiet, simple, and effective:� they came in, saw Douglas smiling behind the reception desk, and got picked off.� No fuss, no muss, and only a little bother, as they had to haul the newly-sleeping guards into the lobby bathroom after each round.

��� At ten-thirty, they walked out of the Cascade site.� Cypher locked down all the exits, and made sure the air vents were open.

��� Jason and Pamela pushed Sadira's wheelchair down the road to the van, with Douglas scouting ahead and Jasmine trailing behind.� One car passed them.� Sadira got a flash-vision of a gaping face staring out of the window, jaw dropped and eyes opened as far as they could go � and then it sped out of sight.

��� They loaded their files into the van, and lifted Sadira in.� Pamela made a few quick queries about the likelihood of radar guns, checked her directions, then headed for Highway 15, taking the direct route to Helena.

��� It took less than an hour to reach GenTree's headquarters.� They used the time to read some of the files, and finalize their plans.

 

��� Cascade had been a high-security site.� Helena, as Sadira had personally experienced, had somewhat lower standards.� Cypher pulled up the computer codes and used a few of them.� Less than eight minutes later, they had control of the Helena building.

��� They set up sleeping shifts, removed makeup, and ate.� Pamela waited until four a.m. to begin making her phone calls.� She had always thought of it as the single most annoying hour to wake up.

   

38

115:� Severe negotiations

 

��� Pamela smiled.� No one else at the table looked happy.

��� With Cypher's help, she had gotten the phone numbers for GenTree's owners, and called them all in for a little talk.� She'd phrased it as an order, then explained why they should regard it as one.� Cypher had cracked Nigilo's protection codes, and Pamela had done some reading.� They had driven, flown, and run in as needed, but all eight had arrived.

��� Sadira and Jason were back in her old lab, working on the virus.� Douglas had gone on to the next part of the plan:� Pamela had waited for his call before beginning, merrily stalling the ownership until seven p.m.� Jasmine was sitting in a large chair at the far left of the screen, flipping through GenTree's financial reports.� The dancer had a natural talent for breaking apart monetary statements that almost approached an accounting degree.

��� There was no one else in the building.� After a few subtle hints, the ownership had convinced the staff to take the day off.� Cascade was still locked down.� More than enough time had passed for everyone to wake up:� Pamela thought the most closed-off occupants were probably getting desperate to reach the bathroom, and the body odor had to be approaching fatal concentrations.

��� She glanced at the last images she'd placed on the screen:� Sadira's company newsletter photo on the left, a picture taken eight hours ago on the right.� It was the last image of the first part of their hastily constructed, extremely effective multimedia presentation.� Pamela had their attention.

��� "This is a very interesting company," Pamela said, beginning a slow walk around the table, "with interesting people working in it.� The unedited files make for a fun read."

��� Sadira had told her that Nigilo held blackmail information on most of the executives.� In this if nothing else, Nigilo had been fairly methodical.� He had some of his blackmail information on the computer, and it was done in hypertext.� He hadn't trusted the location of the physical backup materials to his company hard drive, so Pamela didn't have any of them.� The knowledge of their location had died with the bastard � but it didn't matter yet.� They didn't know that, and she had so much else.� "Criminals.� Ethics violations."� She picked out the majority stockholder, with his odd turkey neck, and focused on his eyes.� "Mass murder."� He shrank into his chair.

��� "Now I'm sure you can say that none of this is your fault," she said conversationally, continuing to walk as she spoke.� It's that evil Mr. Nigilo, he blackmailed all of you into silence, made you dance to his tune.� One or two of you might not know anything at all.� Just invested in this company on a lark." The next words hissed out between her teeth.� "Good luck proving it."

��� Several of the men looked down at the files in front of them.� They had been personalized.� Those who had information on the computer had been provided with a brief summary as a reminder.

��� "The enhancement project," Pamela jogged their memories, "was a very noble concept.� Re-engineer the immune system to produce super-strong white cells, capable of fighting off nearly any disease that infected the body, from the common cold to ebola.� I like that idea.� Use the body's own defenses, just equip them with bigger guns.� Wouldn't help much with bacteriophages, only with those diseases that the body could identify as such � but for those, it would have been a miracle.

��� "So you had what looked like the right sequences, but you didn't think initial cell sample testing was good enough � after all, so many diseases hit the body as a unit, and you really needed to see the white cells fighting them in an active bloodstream.� You didn't plan on talking the government into giving you a testing permit, because you thought there might be serious side effects, and if they turn up, even with a permit, there goes the reputation.� Fifty-fifty chance of their cropping up, remember?� Sometimes the computer just can't tell you enough.

��� "But you didn't bother trying to refine it, and you didn't bring in more people to help.� You just went ahead and tested it in Mexico.� Ten street kids.� Forty adults.� Ten of them were pregnant.� That was okay.� You had to see how it would affect the fetus."

��� She walked halfway around the table, coming back to the majority owner, then continued.� "You found out, didn't you?"

��� And she grabbed the man's throat and began to squeeze.

��� His arms flailed, trying to reach back, get at her, but Pamela was too strong, she was holding him down, the pain was too much, he couldn't stand, couldn't breathe �

��� Three of the men started to move � and stopped as they heard the click of a safety being turned off.� Jasmine pointed the gun at the one closest to Pamela.� They all took the hint and quickly settled down.

��� Pamela kept slowly squeezing as she calmly talked.� "The new white cells were very strong.� You gave them a ton of muscle power.� But they lost something along the way.� Kind of like cell steroids.� The price for the strength was their intelligence.� They couldn't tell a bacterium from a brain cell.� Everything was an invader."

��� She tightened her grip and leaned in to whisper, "They killed every single cell, until the body died."

��� And she let go of his turkey neck, then calmly stepped away.� Jasmine kept the gun out.� The man gasped for air, trying to find some purchase in the intangible atmosphere.

��� "And that's all they were to you.� Bodies.� You didn't even record their names.� They barely existed for you.� No families, no jobs, no homes, no one who would miss them.� So you just cremated the lot."

��� More walking.� She stopped at the embedded keyboard.

��� "Well, no."� She looked up at them.� "You didn't actually burn them.� That would have taken brains.� I was trying to figure out why no one thought of that, but then I saw who the project director was.� I think Nigilo just liked throwing dirt in people's faces."

��� She tapped a few keys.

��� The picture came up.

��� "Two years," she said placidly.� "Lots of decomposition."

��� Two men threw up.� Pamela waited for the retching to end.� No one else moved.

��� "I had a friend recruit a few people he knows, and he went to the gravesite, and they all did a little digging.� Remember that file I told you about?� If all of us don't check in with my other friend every day, with our prearranged codes, then he doesn't trigger his own codes, and that file gets sent to every newspaper, radio station, and TV news program with an Email address.� This went into it.� And that's in addition to all your personal little scandals, and everything else this company ever got away with.

��� "Of course, I don't feel like being within three seconds of a phone every day for the rest of my life, so he's also retained several lawyers and sent them hard copies.� We all have to write them every so often, or they release what they've got." She looked directly at the screen without flinching.� "You can tell someone else that you were afraid to act.� The penalty for having your secrets released was too terrifying.� You were scared."� A long pause.

��� "I knew a man who was scared, and a woman."� A quick nod to Jasmine.� "They stopped.� They acted.� They were both ready to give their lives, and one did.� You weighed your lives against those of everyone this company killed, and somehow, you wound up on the living end of the scale."� Slowly, softly, "And the rest of you just didn't care.

��� "We can show all this information to the legal system.� We'll give them the bodies, and then you'll be thrown in the ground with them."

��� Pamela waited.

��� "You can't," one of the men said.� "Archer constructed the virus of her own accord.� That's a violation of company policy.� If you take us to court, we turn her in.� She'll go to jail.� You broke into our facility, took hostages �"

��� Pamela looked at him.� Small, thin, and scared.� "Sorry," she said.� "You were clutching at a straw, and it just snapped under your weight.� I don't know what Nigilo told you, but I know what I've got."� She tilted her head slightly to the right, took a deep, painful breath, put her hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly.� "According to the files I've pulled, Nigilo ordered the virus built, then infected Sadira with it as a test run.� Want to see?"

��� "Those files are forged..."

��� Pamela straightened up, turned, tapped a few keys, then resumed her position.� "No, those files were written by Angel Carmody.� An employee of long standing and high security clearance.� Killed by your project director, I believe.� He also provided a nice selection of other memos, from other projects.� You'll have a lot of fun explaining every one of them.� Sadira broke a minor rule of her contract by building the virus without the proper paperwork.� Fine.� Fire her.� Break the bond.� It doesn't matter anyway, because you're going to tear it up, and Jason's.� You're never coming near us, not if you want to live free.� If you got the most sympathetic judge and jury in the world, Sadira might do some community service.� But this isn't California."

��� She stared at the small man.� "Our 'crimes' in rescuing her versus all the ones this company committed?� Are you really stupid enough to think you can win if we all go public?� Want me to read off the acts of the really stupid people on this blackmail list?� Just grunt when I get to your name."� She reached for one of the folders on the table.� "Assarto.� Collins.� DeSparin."� He flinched.� "Oh, right, you're the one who was cheating on his wife.� With his stepdaughter.� I bet she'd love to know about that.� Seeing as how her father is a judge..."

��� "Stop..." came the weak voice.

��� Pamela ignored it.� "I bet he could get you for statutory rape.� What's the maximum sentence on that?� Fifteen years?� More?� How long do you think you'd last in prison?"� Another brief group survey.� "Bring your money.� Maybe you can buy a good boyfriend."

��� A long look around the table.� "Maybe you think I don't want the public to know about the possibility of a breast-enlargement virus.� You're right there:� I'd prefer that they don't.� Eventually, someone else might think of it and do the research � when the political climate in this country permits it.� Years from now, minimum, and then if the viruses are refined and safe, we'll publish.

��� "But if we all go to court, then Sadira goes on the witness stand, and she tells the truth about everything.� Think about how people are going to react to her on the stand.

��� "It's the same old blackmail, but a brand new whitemailer."

��� Silence.� She brought up the burial site again.� "You're going to pay.� For what Nigilo did, for your own inactions, and for everything this company has done.� Jasmine, tell them how."

��� The dancer stood up.� Pamela sat down and listened as Jasmine laid out the details, staring at the picture all the while.

 

��� They walked into Sadira's re-commandeered lab four hours later.� "We got everything we wanted," Jasmine told them, patting the folder she was carrying under her right arm.

��� "Okay," Jason said, looking up from the computer.� "But what exactly did 'we' want?� You and Pamela worked it out without us."

��� Pamela grabbed a chair and sat down.� "As far as the legal stuff goes, we leave them alone, they leave us alone �"

��� Sadira rolled forward.� "But we've got evidence!� Computer files, print, pictures..."

��� "Not the deal.� Sorry, Ebony, but I promised I wouldn't call the cops on them."� Sadira started to protest.� Pamela cut her off.� "Our agreement is a little different.� Basically, GenTree no longer exists."

��� Sadira and Jason blinked in concert.

��� A nod of white hair, and Jasmine picked up the thread.� "Well, it does exist, but it's ours.� I think we'll want to rename it.� Rubble sounds good."

��� Jason fully straightened and looked down at Pamela.� "Details."

��� Pamela calmly looked up at him.� "As of this moment, the four of us �� plus Douglas and Cypher � control the company.� We own all the stock.� We can hire, fire, whatever we want to do.� We can take the assets and run.� It's all ours.� That, and the former owners threw in a little cash bonus to take it off their hands."

��� "How little?" Sadira suspiciously asked.

��� Jasmine grinned.� "Well, we've got to break it up between us, and give Douglas and Cypher their shares.� We could do extra money for extra work, but it might be easier to give half of it to you, and then go equal shares all around �"

��� "How much money?"

��� The grin got wider.� "About two million each for us.� Ten million for you.� They all liquidated some assets.� The bearer bonds are in transit � and they know that we'd better get them fast."

��� Jason slumped backwards against the computer.� Sadira's eyes glazed over.

��� "That's just a little incentive bonus," Pamela added.� "We can divide up the company profits any way we like.� There's more than enough money to pay all the outstanding bills and take a few more million apiece afterwards, especially if we sell the assets."� She looked around the room.� "I wanted to build up my own business.� I never wanted to inherit one � and I don't want this company.� There's too much corruption here, even with Nigilo gone and the owners out.� The atmosphere sucks.� I wanted to acquire it so we can destroy it.

��� "As one-sixth of the ownership, I vote we start selling it off immediately, piece by piece.� Equipment, buildings, whatever we can get for them."� Softly, "And Angel asked us to bring them down."

��� Sadira looked like she was trying to get past the numbers.� "But if we own the company, aren't we liable for �"

��� "Their crimes?� No.� Legally, everything is the fault of the previous administration.� And twenty minutes before we took over, all operations were suspended indefinitely, so there's nothing going on now.� You were the most illegal operation in progress.� They had a slow month.� All employees were sent home with pay.� We signalled Cypher from the presentation room, and he notified the sites.� Everyone's left the buildings � even at Cascade, and they know that if they say a word about what happened, they go to jail."

��� Jasmine pulled out the folder.� "I've got the bill of sale.� The only copy, for the moment.� It'll take a while to get it notarized and copied.� They weren't happy about that, but I didn't think they were qualified as neutral witnesses."� She winked.

��� "All right," Jason slowly said.� "At least for the moment, we own the place.� Let's use that.� There are one or two good people here:� we may be able to get some extra help with the viruses..."

��� Pamela reluctantly nodded.� "If there's anyone we can trust...� You and Sadira draw up a list, I'll cross-reference with the blackmail files, and we'll call them in � if we even get anyone."

��� "Forget the team they gave me," Sadira told them.� "They're worthless.� We can use some of the people from the leukemia project.� Alan, maybe."

��� Pamela thought it over.� "Find some people in accounting, too.� We'll get a good price for all the stuff while we're at it."

��� Sadira sighed.� The others looked at her.� "Just make sure the rest of the data finds a good home.� There were some good projects here, things that other companies could keep working with." Jason nodded.� "And not everyone deserves to lose their jobs."

��� "We'll try to build a few golden parachutes for the ones who deserve them."� Pamela tried a deep breath, and her face twitched with pain.� "But if I can manage it, some of these people are never working in genetics again."� She looked around the room.� "Well, let's see.� We've blackmailed all needed parties.� We're millionaires.� We're all tired, and none of us have showered in more than a day.� Any ideas on what to do next?"

   

39

116:� Sisters

 

��� "The honeymoon suite?"

��� Pamela looked around.� "You wanted an extra-large bathtub.� This was the only way."

��� "Sure.� Set in the floor."

��� The room was almost overwhelmingly red.� There were hearts everywhere, in the pattern of the wallpaper, the shape of the numerous pillows, and the little table next to the honor bar.� It was too tacky for Niagara Falls, and just short of Las Vegas.� Jasmine looked around the room.� "Who honeymoons in Helena?"� No one had a good answer.

��� Sadira looked at the door.� It seemed to be wide enough for the chair and the portion of her breasts that swelled out beyond it.� She wheeled in, and the others followed, carrying boxes.� "Okay," Jason said.� "This should be everything.� I'll go back and get our things, and then we'll go to our own rooms."

��� "And then you hit the hotel gym," Pamela corrected.� "We took the elevator, you took the stairs, and you still almost beat us.� Bribe them to open it up for you."

��� He nodded and put his stack of boxes down.� "Sadira, do you need anything else?"� Jasmine walked past him and started experimentally feeling the mattress.

��� "Help."� They all looked at her.� "I've been wearing this bra for over a day.� The cups stretch a bit, but I've got to get it off � and I can't get the new one on alone without a lot of problems.� Off isn't easy, either."� She sighed.� "I haven't even cut my toenails in over a week.� I can't find a good position.� And I'm jammed into this chair..."

��� Pamela and Jason looked at her, then at each other.� The silence stretched out �

��� "� enough!" Jasmine declared.� "Both of you, out.� I'll take care of her."� She glared at the two geneticists and began advancing on them.� Startled, they both backed up.� "That's it.� Both of you go get some sleep.� Away from here.� Leave.� Goodbye.� Don't forget to write �"

��� She slammed the door and turned back to her stunned sister.� "At least that's over with," she said.� "They would have stood there for a week trying to figure out what to do."� Jasmine walked past Sadira and knelt down for the Jacuzzi controls.� "You've never used one of these, have you?"

��� "Whirlpools after baseball games," Sadira answered, still in some shock.� Alone, long after everyone else had left.

��� "This is more fun.� It'll get going while we get you undressed."� She looked at the tub.� "This thing is huge.� You could have a party in here."� She straightened up.� "All right.� Let's get that damn muu-muu off."

��� Sadira stared at her.� "You're going to undress me."

��� "You said you needed help.� Would it help if I undressed first?"� Jasmine sat down on the bed and started taking off her pants.

��� "You're impossible �"

��� "I'm practical.� In order to do this by myself, I'm going to have to get into the tub with you.� This way, my clothes don't get wet."� She pulled the pants off.� "Maybe you couldn't touch me, but I'm a little more open about this stuff.� And with those two locking themselves down..."

��� There was a knock at the door.� Jasmine checked the security port, then opened it.� Jason was standing there, looking a little stunned himself.� "You forgot your room key," he said.� "And your bags �"

��� Jasmine reached out and took the items from him.� "Thanks.� Go sweat."� She closed the door on him.� "Solves that problem."� She took off her blouse and bra, then removed shoes and socks with nimble toes as she walked towards Sadira � who was impressed in spite of herself.� She didn't know how good Jasmine was at dancing, but as far as stripping went, she was an expert.� "Now let me get that ugly orange thing off you so I can see what we're up against."

��� Sadira, who on some level was still expecting Jasmine to turn the whole thing into an insult, checked her sister's eyes.� "We're going to get in that tub together."

��� "There's no one else available," Jasmine pointed out.

��� Sadira thought it over, then reluctantly nodded.

��� Jasmine started with her feet � "You weren't kidding about those toenails" � then worked up, carefully working the muu-muu loose �

���� � Jasmine stared at the bra.

��� Sadira closed her eyes.

��� "You know," Jasmine said softly, "there are a lot of men who would consider you to be the sexiest thing they'd ever seen."

��� Sadira's eyes snapped open.� "I knew it wouldn't last."

��� "What?"

��� "You're reverting.� That's one of the nastiest �"

��� � and Jasmine looked hurt.� "I'm telling the truth!� There are guys who love your kind of body!� They've never seen one, but they dream a lot!� Some women, too!"

���� "Bullshit!"� Sadira pushed the chair forward:� Jasmine stepped back.� "Look at me!� What you can even see of me!� Fine, some people like large breasts � your size, Pamela's � but this?"

��� "That."� Jasmine took a deep breath.� "You have to see some of the letters I get.� 'Dear Princess, while I love your body, have you ever considered what it would be like to �'"� She grinned.� "Some of them go pretty far."

��� "You're kidding."

��� "I keep my old letters with my agent:� I could have him mail us some. There's a fetish for everything.� I got this really disgusting letter from a woman who wanted me to piss on �"� Sadira's jaw dropped.� "She enclosed enough money for a ten-page reply.� What was I supposed to do?"

��� "So you wrote her back?"

��� "Sure.� It's her fantasy.� She paid for it."� Jasmine shrugged.� "On paper, it's harmless."

��� Sadira looked at her breasts.� "This is reality, Jasmine."

��� "I know.� They'd faint."� Jasmine met her eyes.� "But even without that fetish, you don't have to worry about being alone."� A long pause.� "Jason and Pamela are both � stop that."

��� "Stop what?"

��� "That look.� That 'I'm a nerd, I'm ugly, no one is ever going to love me' face.� I hate that look."� Softly, "I put it there."

��� The twins looked at each other, until Jasmine's eyes closed.� "You're sexy and I'm smart," she whispered.� "I wish I'd figured that out twenty-two years ago.� We've lost so damn much..."� She turned and looked at the churning water.� "Look, I've still got some vacation time.� I can get more.� We should spend some time together."

��� Sadira's voice was dry, disbelief visible at the edges.� "What would we talk about?"

��� "I don't know.� Read any good books lately?"� Jasmine turned to face her sister.� "Sadira, this isn't easy for me, either.� Being a nice person isn't easy, not when I've got a two-decade bitch habit to break.� I'm going to slip here and there.� Just � give me a chance to try, okay?"

��� Sadira gave her one long, slow nod.

��� Jasmine nodded back, then grinned.� "Now let's get in that Jacuzzi."

��� "We haven't been in the same tub since we were three."

��� "Then we're overdue.� Now try to move forward a little so I can get a look at the back."

��� "I've been closing it at the sides."

��� "The sides?"� Jasmine looked.� "New one on me..."� She kept examining the bra.� Confusion washed over her face.� "What is that supposed to � you'd better give me directions."

��� It was awkward.� Sadira was firmly wedged in the wheelchair:� in order to keep her breasts from hitting the controls, she'd pushed herself down and in as much as possible, and still had to use her left arm to prevent overflow when the motor was turned on.� It had resulted in an upward push and a great deal of discomfort.� It took a few minutes for the sisters to get the bra off, and then there was more fun getting out of the chair.� Jasmine was fairly strong for her size, and Sadira's strength was still on the rise as new muscle cells came in, but there was a lot of weight to deal with...

��� Somehow, Sadira wound up in the Jacuzzi.

��� She sighed deeply as they went into the water, feeling the warmth � and the partial buoyance of her weight.� "That's nice.� I forgot how good these felt."

��� "If you want it to feel really good, shift into one of the water jets."� Sadira blushed.� "You can afford one now," Jasmine pointed out.� "Customize something."� She picked up the discarded bra and looked it over.� "I wish I could sell this..."

��� "No, you don't."

��� Jasmine ran her fingers across the back.� "Brace..."

��� "What?"

��� "A back brace."� She turned and looked down at her sister.� "That's what you need.� We have to get you a new wheelchair, but if you had some sort of back brace, it might help you get on your feet sooner.� We'll go to a medical supply house tomorrow and check into it."

��� Sadira's eyes widened.� "That might help.� Why didn't I think of that?"

��� "Picking up on overlooked details seems to be my specialty," Jasmine said dryly, and walked over to the hotel's toiletry supplies.� She took expert inventory.� "These are crap.� I'll grab some soap, washcloths, shampoo, and brushes from my bags: we've got to do your hair."

��� "You brought your beauty supplies with you?"

��� Jasmine shrugged.� "We had to bring all that makeup, so �"

��� "I can reach my hair, thanks."

��� Jasmine went to her bags and began digging through them.� "But you can't reach your nipples.� Or bend to get to your feet."

��� Sadira closed her eyes.� "Not for a while now.� I was pushing a long brush between my breasts to wash my feet, but I couldn't cut my toenails that way.� I thought that if I tried to pull my legs up close, I'd hurt my back or overbalance..."

��� Jasmine continued searching.� "And we don't have any long brushes, so I'll wash you and do your nails."

��� "I feel like an invalid."

��� "You're not.� You just need special measures."

��� "You sound like Pamela."

��� Jasmine gathered her items, arrayed them around the edge of the Jacuzzi, and got in.� "Look, I'll make you a deal.� I'll cancel the enlargement surgery � if, when you get the viruses perfected, I get the first dose."

��� Sadira sat up as straight as she could.� "Are ya nuts?!� Ya wanna be dis big?� Dere's no way I'm gonna let ya get ta dis size �"

��� "No!� Just for thirteen inches!� If I can't be the largest Archer, then I want to be the largest dancer.� I'm bigger than all the other girls right now � but who knows how long that'll last?� Seventy even, and then I'll stop."

��� "So you're going to keep dancing?"� Jasmine nodded.� "But you can afford to retire �"

��� Jasmine shrugged, then met her eyes.� "Sadira, I'm an exhibitionist.� I like my body.� I like showing it off.� I like most of the reactions I get when I show it off, and I can live with the others.� Maybe that came out of this rivalry we had going � but it's not going to change.� I'll dance as long as people want to watch."� A wry grin.� "I might even start actually dancing.� And maybe I'll go back to my own hair color..."

��� Sadira calmed slightly.� "Then you'll have to fix your pubic hair."� Jasmine took a brief, slightly embarrassed glance down:� it was still blonde.� "And if another girl comes along who's bigger than you?"

��� Jasmine considered, then shrugged.� "I can carry seventy inches," she said.� "I've been working out, getting ready for the implants.� But I'd rather have them real."

��� "Jasmine, I might never get the permits �"

��� "So work everything out on the computer and give it to me when it's safe.� I won't tell � and I'll wait.� Just promise."

��� Sadira sighed.� "It's the only way to keep you out of the operating room, isn't it?"� Jasmine said nothing � and she realized that her sister, in a strange way, was trying to offer another apology.� "If it's completely, one-hundred percent no-doubt-about-it safe, fine.� First dose.� I'll test a million samples and run the data through the most powerful computer I can get.� Promise.� But what are you going to do if it isn't safe?"

��� "You'll perfect them."� Jasmine's tone suggested failure wasn't an issue she had considered.

��� Sadira gave her a wry head tilt.� "You've got a lot of faith."

��� Jasmine nodded, picked up the scissors, and reached underwater to cut Sadira's toenails.� "Never got control of your accent, huh?"

��� "No.� You?"

��� "Ruins da image wen I tawk Brooklyn," Jasmine replied.� "I dumped it."

��� They worked in silence for a while.

��� "I've got to do your breasts," Jasmine finally said.� "Help me lift � damn!� You're heavy."� The apology flashed across her face.

��� Sadira shook her head, forgiving.� "I noticed.� I still wish I had a scale."

��� "In a honeymoon suite?� Why ruin the wedding night?"� Jasmine began scrubbing.� "So who is it?"

��� "Sorry?"

��� "Jason or Pamela?"� She glanced up at Sadira's face.� "And no looks."� Sadira was quiet.� Jasmine sighed.� "Jason told me he's been trying to find the right moment to ask you out for months.� He's just not very good at that.� Confidence problem.� A lot like you �"� She stopped as the guilt rose again.� "You want honest?� You know I was trying to grab him.� He turned me away because of you.

�� �"And Pamela � you two fucked that day, right?"� Sadira stared at her.� "Okay, made love.� Did you or not?"� Sadira slowly nodded.� "Thought so.� First time?"� A head shake.� "Are you gay?"� Another negation accompanied by a shrug � and then Sadira, surprising herself, told Jasmine about the college days.

��� "So you're only half a virgin now," Jasmine finally observed.� "Not bad."� She lowered Sadira's right breast, arms aching.� "Wow.� That's one hell of a nipple."� Jasmine had a lot of practice at estimating the length of erect objects:� she guessed three inches long, two wide, and still swelling.

��� Sadira blushed.� "It's the thoughts, okay?� You got me started."

��� Jasmine grinned.� "If this was one of my movies..."

��� "What?"

��� "Nothing.� Really stupid thought.� Anyway, you're my sister.� There isn't enough money to get past that."� A quick, small, and somehow odd smile.� "Look, you've got two people in love with you.� Right?"

��� "I figured it out �"� She didn't want to tell Jasmine about the dream, not about the part with the blood.� "Yeah.� It's � hard to believe, but they are."� Her eyes closed as the revelation finally, completely, undeniably sunk in. �They're in love.� With me.� With me.� And the weight was gone as her spirit rose �

��� Jasmine nodded.� "From what I can see, they've got some sort of deal �"

��� "Figured that out, too."

��� Jasmine blinked.

��� "It's hard to keep believing that part."

��� A slow nod.� "They don't want to upset you, so they keep it all inside.� But I figured you had to know.� I thought it might help you to know."� Sadira didn't say anything:� she was lost in feeling that help.� "So what are you going to do?"

��� Sadira crashed back into her body.� "What do you mean?"� But she knew.

��� "Some genius," Jasmine backslid.� "Look, they're both in love with you.� You're not gay or straight, so that means you've got a choice to make.� Who is it?"

��� Sadira breathed deeply.� "This isn't something I've got a lot of experience with."

��� "Hold on.� Left breast."� They lifted.� "Not many people do."� The next words were tinged with envy.� "You're lucky.� You know, you were right.� I don't have relationships:� I have sex.� I'm on the road all the time:� I never really get to know anyone.� I grab guys off the street, out of the clubs, fast fuck, next town."� She began scrubbing the underside.

��� "How about your fans?� Don't you get any good letters?"� Sadira grinned.� "Besides the ones that want to see you super-size."

��� Jasmine blew a puff of air from her lower lip.� "You mean, people I'd want to meet from reading their letters?� There's been one or two really nice ones.� But they don't write regularly."� Jasmine's arms were still aching:� she decided to wash the front for a while.� Sadira felt her grip slacken and assisted in lowering.

��� "They probably can't afford it.� So stop charging them."

��� Jasmine sighed.� "But they pay it."

��� "Jasmine �"

��� "I'll think about it."� She smiled.� "I'll have some extra cash.� But I wish I had two people who cared enough to risk their lives for me.� Shit, Jason took that other virus so he'd be in shape to save you.� And Pamela took bullets for you."� Jasmine sighed and started working around Sadira's left nipple.

��� Sadira gasped.� Jasmine stopped.� "Tell me when you're going to do that!"

��� "Can't you see where my hands are?"

��� "No!"

��� "Sorry."� She pulled her hands back.� "You're that sensitive?"

��� "Nipple orgasm."� And her face flushed again.

��� "Just now?!"

��� "No.� With Pamela."

��� Arched eyebrows.� "Wow."� Jasmine moved back against her seat.� "So what are you going to do?"

��� "Pamela or Jason," Sadira said, fighting back the disbelief.� She turned it around.� "Jason or Pamela."� It didn't help.� "I don't know.� I've never had to make this kind of decision."

��� "I'm still jealous."

��� "You wouldn't be if you had to think about it."� The memories flowed.

��� Pamela:� that horribly wrong first impression, applying to the resident board for a room change and waiting, then being laughed at in the lab, planning revenge, offered an accomplice against her will � and finding the connection.� She'd canceled the change five minutes ahead of the paperwork.� Four years of study, pranks, laughter, and mutual sanity support.� Getting through it all together.� And those last days, making love for the first time, and then long months apart, connected by the phone lines, feeling the distance.

��� And Jason had taken away some of that loneliness.� A shy hello, personal delivery of new data instead of sending it via the modems, then finally cajoling her out of the lab one day when she'd forgotten to eat.� Meals in the cafeteria, talking, sharing the concerns of the day.� Always support when she needed it, putting extra time into researching her arguments without asking anything in return.� She'd played pranks on him, perhaps testing, and he'd laughed, made attempts at counter-attack that she'd foiled, never stopped trying.� An ally, a friend who helped her deal with her new home and job, who had tossed his life away without hesitation to try and save hers.

��� "I don't know," she repeated softly.

��� She saw something new in Jasmine's eyes:� sympathy.� "Take your time.� But don't let them know I told you, okay?"

��� "All right."

 

��� Jasmine helped Sadira onto the bed and stepped back.� Sadira lay back and stared at the ceiling.� Jasmine looked down.

��� "It's okay," Sadira told her.� "I'm looking, too."

��� Jasmine wondered, followed her sister's gaze up � and spotted the mirror over the bed.� "Oh."� Given permission, she looked.� In the Jacuzzi, there had been washing, conversation, and while she'd seen, she hadn't looked...

��� She had last seen Sadira naked just before she left for college:� her sister usually hid while getting dressed, avoiding direct comparisons.� While she'd seen Sadira's new endowments beneath her clothing, and watched them increase day to day, Jasmine's mental picture had remained that of a slim, athletic body:� a thin waist, nice legs and hips with what Jasmine had admitted to herself was a very nice ass � and then derided Sadira by calling it skinny at every opportunity.� Two little nubs for nipples, and that was all for the torso.� The image had persisted.� It was called denial.

��� It finally shattered back into memory.

��� Sadira's breasts began just below her collarbone, and then swelled out and up and to the sides � it seemed as if they were simply trying to take whatever space was available, and they'd overrun most of that.� They had swelled down past her waist, hips, and were well on their way down her thighs, proceeding with quiet determination towards her knees.� The visible portion of the legs had become very muscular.

��� There was another smooth flow out to the sides.� Each breast was wider than her torso, and they crowded each other off to the sides.� Out of the bra, they sloped down to the mattress and well outwards � but there was still cleavage, as Sadira's arms were just outside the edges, pushing in slightly.� They had compressed slightly under their own mass, but still swelled ever upwards as they proceeded down Sadira's body.� Jasmine guessed something over two feet of rise � and near the highest point, the nipple, dark against the deeply tanned skin.� The lengthening had increased since they'd left the tub, closer to four inches now, and a little thicker.� No stretch marks, no sagging, just size, the teardrops continuing to swell.� She pulled her eyes up, and met Sadira's smile.� "There's men who would find this sexy?"

��� "And women."

��� A quiet, sincere, "Wow."� And then, "Would Jason?� Or Pamela?"

��� "Jason loves you, period."� Jasmine smiled.� "For your mind, for your spirit.� If he didn't, then he'd adjust for you � but I don't think he minds.� And Pamela � well, she loved you flat, and when you were just short of me..." Jasmine had seen Pamela's reaction to Kay's pictures.� She carefully considered her next words.� "And she's pretty damn big herself.� I think if she didn't like that size, she would have had a reduction."

��� Sadira nodded.� "So that's no help either."

��� "No."� Sadira reached for the covers:� Jasmine started pulling them up for her.� Pillows were carefully arranged.

��� "There's something else that's gone," Sadira said quietly.� "I can't roll up in the sheets."

��� Jasmine shook her head.� "You'll have company to snuggle up against, as soon as you decide."� She shrugged.� "Are you sure you don't want the bra?"

��� "I'm too tired to try and get it on.� One night won't hurt.� Gravity can't hit me when I'm lying down.� I'll be more comfortable in the morning, too."

��� "I'm tired, too.� It's been a long couple of weeks."� Jasmine looked at her own discarded clothing.� "I don't even have the energy to get dressed."

��� "So run down the hall, exhibitionist."

��� "I'm three floors down.� I don't mind showing off.� I do mind getting thrown out."

��� Sadira patted the mattress.� Jasmine looked down.� "You're kidding."

��� "It's a pretty big bed.� Let me just move over a bit..."� Sadira shifted, pushed, lifted, hauled, and gradually wriggled her way to the right side.� Jasmine was frozen.� "Come on in."

��� "About those movies � I was kidding when I said �"

��� "I guessed.� It's the last thing I've got in mind.� So go to your own room."

��� Jasmine yawned, deep and long.� "Right, sure..."� Slowly, "Something else we haven't done since we were three."

��� Sadira grinned.� "Then we're overdue."

��� There were plenty of pillows, the mattress looked soft but supporting, and the sheets seemed so warm...

��� Jasmine yawned again, gave up, and crawled under the covers.

��� A few minutes later, Jasmine sleepily got out, "You're really warm..."

��� "Low fever," Sadira whispered.� "My metabolism."

��� "Oh.� Still nice..."

��� They fell asleep.

   

40

127:� Against the rocks

 

��� We went to a medical supply shop the next morning, but we couldn't get the back brace.� It turns out that they have to be custom-made for each person:� I have to be laser-scanned so they can get my measurements down to the millimeter, and then the brace is built from that.� It can take weeks.� And one of my measurements is constantly going up, and my muscles are still developing...

��� We settled for a sort of weight belt with extra back support:� those come in standard sizes.� The wheelchair wasn't a problem: we just got a model designed for very overweight people.� We got the width and then some, but lost the chair-lift feature.� At least it's motorized, and a lot faster than the other one.� We also got a big board for my lap, so my breasts could have a little more support � they're out way past my knees when I'm sitting � but it makes hard to turn in a small space.� We've had to rearrange most of the labs.� Thank God GenTree has wide doors.

��� The really fun part was going into the shop.� Pamela checked the Yellow Pages, and we went to the one that opened first, getting there just as they opened the doors.� (Double-doors.� Whew.)� Jason and Pamela pushed me in, and the jaws of everyone in the store just dropped.� I hope we don't have to go back there, because I think I made an impression.� The first clerk who came to us just kept looking at me, and � well, they weren't the nicest looks.� I felt like a steak being appraised by a barbecue.

��� He was staring so hard that he didn't notice Jason coming closer until it was too late.� Sometimes I forgot how tall he is.� This man got a reminder.

��� "You can leave now," he said, very calmly.� "Someone else can help us."

��� And he did.� And someone else did.

��� We picked up some clothing � or tried to, anyway.� Since we're staying in Helena for the duration, the others needed fresh outfits too.� After a thorough survey of the area clothing stores, we came to a horrible conclusion:� I'm stuck with the muu-muus.� We even found the store where they were bought.� I'm currently wearing a sort of pink and purple one with plums and persimmons in the alternate areas.� I don't know why designers believe they can stop thinking when it's time to design for large women.

��� We also got � because I insisted � a scale.� I've doubled my body weight.� Jasmine's been reading books on muscle development, and she keeps telling me I've got nothing to worry about:� fat people carry a lot more than I do.� I keep trying to tell her that their mass is a little more evenly distributed.� She insists that I'll be able to handle it with a lot of work.

��� Maybe she's right.� I hope so.� When no one's around, I've been taking out the board and trying to stand.� I have to wait for isolation:� Pamela caught me the first time, and chewed me out.� She was afraid that without supervision, I'd seriously hurt myself.� All the time in the wheelchair let my back finally heal, and I somehow avoided injury during that whole stand-and-deliver bit in Cascade � but I could strain it again all too easily, even with the bra and belt keeping it straight.� I'm taking a risk every time I try to get out of the chair � but I keep trying it.� With a lot of work, I can get up, and stay standing if I lock my knees and hold onto something.� If I've got something to balance against, I can walk stiff-legged � but not for long.� I'm going to need that back brace � but I will be mobile.� Somehow.

��� I keep wondering how.� All these bras I've been getting are designed to keep my mass above my hips, which makes sense:� it's harder to walk when you're constantly moving your legs against your breasts.� But these new bras aren't really trying to push me in from the sides:� I'm still getting wider � and even if they did, it would all go with the rest of it:� towards the front.� My bust measurement is over ten feet total:� in these bras, I can't even come remotely close to touching the ends of my breasts.� If I was standing, I'd always be pulled forward and down, whether I was wearing a bra or not � but worse in.

��� Right now, after I wrestle, struggle, and jam myself into that narrow bathroom in the hotel, I wind up sitting on the toilet and my breasts are in the shower.� And I have a board in my lap.� If I took off the bra, I might feel more comfortable in that position � but I'd be on the floor.� Which is tile, and cold.

��� So I need a more customized bra, maybe with counterweights � and no matter what we do, I have to be strong enough to carry all the weight.� Jason ordered the Goldentone machine recovered from Cascade, and we installed it in one of the labs.� We're both using it.

��� I'm scared for him.� I understand why he took the virus, but he could die from this.� We're all monitoring him, making sure he works out the energy regularly.� Pamela practically threw him onto the machine Saturday.� He insisted he had to work.� She insisted harder.

 

��� "That's not a formula, is it?"

��� Sadira looked up at Jasmine.� "Writing Kay.� I told you about that letter � the one I almost set on fire..."� Jasmine nodded.� "I got out, so I'm updating it.� It helps me focus."� Sadira had finally gotten the hang of writing sidesaddle:� the notebook was weighed down with little vials of mercury.

��� "Okay, I won't read over your shoulder."� Jasmine went back to her station:� several files were scattered around the desk.� "Do you think I should start writing her?"

��� "I don't know.� Do you think she can afford it?"

��� "I said I'd think about going to free replies,"� Jasmine protested.

��� "You didn't say what the decision was."

��� Jasmine looked at the thick envelopes stacked on top of the monitor.� The last group of bearer bonds from the former owners had arrived by express courier two hours earlier.� When they had claimed delayed transit, Pamela had sweetly inquired if they thought there would be as much trouble getting the police out on a Sunday as there was in getting mail.� "I will.� It's worth a try."

��� Sadira went back to writing.

 

��� ...We're both having trouble adjusting to the end of the feud.� I'd never really thought of Jasmine as a sister, and she has some difficulty staying on her new path.� We both slip now and then.� But Jasmine decided that she was the one who had to take care of me, with Jason and Pamela afraid to "hurt" me.� It means we've been spending a lot of time together.� She dresses me � I'm finally wearing socks again � washes me � we picked up long-handled brushes, but it's not easy to get the hang of � and does whatever she can to make things a little easier.� Getting into the bathroom usually winds up with both of us laughing.� I've moved far beyond her personal experience with size, so she extrapolates a lot when she tries to advise me � but she's good at that.

��� We're trying to learn how to love each other, and it's working.� Slowly.� We talk in the Jacuzzi � about everything � and we fall asleep in the same bed afterwards.� Jasmine is a little like a cat.� She curls up to warmth.� When I wake up, she's practically on top of me � which means she's been snuggling up in her sleep, and of course I never notice...� And she's hard to wake up.� Jasmine's always been a really restless sleeper � unless she's in bed with someone.� I seem to qualify.

��� We've arranged for Angel's funeral.� He left a file on his disk saying what he wanted done.� I don't believe he thought he was going to die:� he just always planned for everything he could.� He wanted to be cremated, and have his ashes scattered in the ocean � Atlantic or Pacific was okay.� We couldn't go to a crematorium without a death certificate, so we had to use the biggest disposal ovens at Cascade.� His request said he has no surviving family.� I'll personally go out to the beach on Long Island and fulfill his wishes.� We're taking the company apart for him, and for me, and for everyone who was ever hurt by it.

��� We had some trouble figuring out what to do with Nigilo's body until Jasmine remembered something from a mystery novel she'd read, and asked just what sort of chemicals we had in the labs.� Several acids were used, and he was dissolved.� Much like his company.� Angel's files said he has one surviving family member:� an older brother, a billionaire who lives in Australia.� They hate each other.� They haven't spoken in years, and James Nigilo doesn't care if his brother is alive or dead.� Without a body, no one can prove a murder.� Eventually, his landlord might report him missing, and in seven years, he'll be presumed dead.� Pamela thinks it's equally possible that his landlord might steal all his things, clean out his bank accounts, and no one would ever know.� Jason snuck into Nigilo's apartment at two in the morning on Saturday with his keys, copied out the hard drive, and searched the place.� He found some things that back up the blackmail files, and some possible clues to other locations of source material.

��� Angel had a little house on the outskirts of Helena.� It barely seemed lived-in.� He asked that all his things go to charity.� Jason and Pamela dropped everything off at the Salvation Army last night, with the printed form from his disk that made it legal.� It only took two trips in the van to deliver it all.

��� The dissolution of GenTree proceeds apace.� We paid all the bills first, made sure there were no problems with government funds, and then put the Accounting department to work selling things off.� Helena will go only after we get the cure, but everything else is being sold now.� The project data went to auction:� other companies with similar pursuits are bidding for it.� Our data � BE-1 and the metabolic viruses � stay with us.

��� The equipment has been easy to sell so far � Jason insisted on destroying most of the weapons:� I don't blame him.� We all kept a tranquilizer gun.� Souvenirs.� The buildings are good for real estate value:� the U.S. Army is interested in the Cascade site.

��� The hard part is the employees.� Alan Mitchell and Denise Rasa � the two best people from the leukemia project � are helping us with the viruses.� Jason and I believe we can trust them, and the "squeaky clean" entry for them in the blackmail files backs us up.� They're mostly going over old data to make sure we didn't overlook anything.� They've got their own lab.� Jasmine thinks they're falling for each other.

��� Everyone else is being let go.� Some of them are being "sold" with the data:� Alan and Denise will go to CorTech when this is over, as part of the deal for the leukemia files.� Pamela has been going through all of Nigilo's material, and sending out Email to a lot of companies:� she's trying to get some people blacklisted.� She wants all the original source material for Nigilo's blackmail notes, so she can back it up.� I don't know how well it's going to work.� Someone will always have a use for a corrupt scientist.

��� Some people were easy to fire.� I had the pleasure of signing the termination order for Temperi, Jonas, and Menken.� Douglas was thrilled to be the one who fired the Mexican staff.� It was a special treat for his visit Saturday.� He only stayed long enough to drop off some photos � he'll be back on Monday:� more legwork to do.� He's helping Pamela run down that source material.� He also tried to take a few photos.� He now wants Pamela, Jasmine, and me to be in a layout together.� Look in the dictionary under "incorrigible," and you'll find his picture.� Jasmine already posed for a few pictures in the Grafting room, starting out wearing a stereotyped "scientist" outfit with glasses, a lab coat, pocket protector, holding test tubes...� She said the floor was cold.

��� But we're using a lot of the money from the sales to give out financial packages equal to eighteen months of salary, keeping the good people on their feet until they find work, and buying out everyone's bonds once and for all.� As Jason said, there are good people here.� Just not very many.

��� I'm looking forward to one termination in particular.� But I'm keeping her around as long as possible first...

 

��� Lisa Trevor carefully put the paper down in front of Pamela.� "The opening bids for the addiction breaker."� Her voice was measured, barely controlled.� Most of the GenTree employees had no idea why the company was being dissolved.� Lisa knew.� She was doing a lot of the selling.� "Jenscript had the highest offer."

��� Sadira wheeled into the room.� "Pamela, ready for lunch?"

��� "In a second."� She looked over the figures.� "Jenscript says fourteen million for the breaker, and they'll take twelve of the good guys on as well.� Laroseni is offering eleven million, but they'll take eighteen people, and pay for relocation costs to France."� The addiction breaker project had been one of the few strongholds of morality in the company.� Pamela was trying to blackball six employees out of thirty-five.� Nigilo's notes suggested that the crack sample he'd shown Sadira at Cascade was there for Calvin Menken's personal use.� "What do you think?"

��� "Is anyone offering to take all twenty-nine people?"

��� "Eighteen's the best we're getting.� They'll offer more money if they have to hire less people.� All of them say they'll give us a lot more if we take it on installment, but I want this done now � and I think they're still trying to rook us on the cash."

��� "Find out.� Say no to all of them and try to push the money and employment up a little.� See how they react."

��� Pamela nodded and passed the paper back.� "You heard the boss, Trevor.� I want a new list of bids here in an hour.� And remember, I sign, send, and keep all the final paperwork myself.� Use the figures before it goes out, and I'll get you a copy later."

��� Lisa carefully picked up the paper and started to leave, her efforts at control visible in each step.

��� Sadira pushed the wheelchair forward just in time to run over her left foot.

��� The heavy-duty motorized wheelchair weighed a hundred pounds.� Sadira added another two hundred.

��� Sadira listened to the howl with quiet enjoyment, then backed up the chair and waved the accountant out, smiling as she watched her limp down the hallway.

��� "You did that on purpose," Pamela said behind her.

��� Sadira didn't turn around.� "No kidding."

��� "Can I do it next time?"

��� "If you get your own chair."

 

��� More pettiness, I suppose.� But it made my Saturday.� It's going to be impossible to keep Trevor from ever finding another job:� there's a lot more accounting positions available than there are genetics.� So as long as she's here, I'm going to make her very unhappy.� Pamela's been having fun with her as well:� she remembered her from my phone calls.� Lisa isn't getting a penny at dismissal, and Jasmine is double-checking her figures to make sure she isn't squirreling away money for herself.� Jasmine's got a real talent for accounting:� she picked up double-entry bookkeeping in about an hour.� I suggested that she take some courses by mail and work towards a degree.� She just looked at me.

��� I haven't really thought about the money.� It's too much to really believe in.� Ten million dollars to start, and more every time something gets sold.� I tried to change Pamela's "fifty percent for you, ten percent each for us" rule.� I was outvoted.� Pamela's very good at negotiating prices:� I saw that at the Brick S. House � and she's getting a better grasp on what the GenTree files are really worth on the open market.� God help the open market.

��� Cypher seems to have a grasp on his numbers.� He couldn't believe it at first when Pamela called him on that speaker-cellular and told him how much he was getting.� He was just quiet for a while, and then he said "Mighty white of you, Shaw."

��� Everyone got really quiet � and then Pamela started laughing.

��� He's going to upgrade his system, get an apartment of his own, then finish college and use the rest of the money to start his own company.� We all wished him luck.� He calls about three times a day to check on us.� He wants to fly out to join us.� Cypher's got the same class schedule I had in college:� Saturday courses, Sunday courses � but he says he can miss a few classes.

��� I honestly don't know what to do with the money.� Given a windfall while still working for GenTree, I would have bought out my bond, paid off my car, moved to New York, new apartment, new stereo, a little shopping spree � and then what do I do with the other nine million plus?� And the amount keeps growing.

��� But then again, I keep growing.

��� I'm going to face the rest of my life at a ninety-degree angle.� I can probably do some things above my breasts when I'm standing � when I'm sitting, they can't drop any farther than the board, and that means they're sort of slowly humping up towards my shoulders.� But no matter what position I'm in, I lose nearly all my ability to work with my arms in front of me.� I might be able to do some things standing, with the bra off � but that doesn't seem very likely.� Even out of the bra, they stick out so far that I can't get close to things.

��� I've made some attempts at getting Pamela's expertise again...

 

��� "Aren't the Band-Aids doing any good?"

��� "No."� Sadira looked up at Pamela.� "It's like trying to plug a black hole with a cornflake.� They don't cover anything.� And it's uncomfortable.� I have to wear a larger bra just to give them room."

��� Sadira had brought up the complaint to Pamela � which meant she had to answer it.� At least Jason wasn't around.� It couldn't hurt to talk about it...� "I don't think Aunt Susan was planning on this sort of thing.� I'm thinking of flying her out here eventually to take her own series of base measurements on you that we can scale up �" quickly "� if we have to.� Maybe some kind of secondary cup at the end."

��� "Or just a softer end...� Would she come?"

��� "For money?� Are you kidding?� Besides, she said she wanted to see you when I called out the order yesterday.� I gave her your 'inches are bunk' line.� She wasn't offended � she just said that everyone's development is unique, and you'd have to be custom-fitted.� She's improvising right now with those numbers Jasmine got � but it would help more if she did it directly.� As is, we're going to get them a day at a time, unless she puts some more people onto it.� She's actually got some shops in the States, and spends some time working in them.� Keeps everyone on their toes.� But England is her home."� Pamela sighed.� "She said she was finally going to get to test some of the Level III designs and hung up."

��� Slowly, "A bust measurement over twice my height..."

��� "That's what Level III means?"� The surprise was mixed with frustration:� why hadn't she guessed that?� The inch measurement had been right on the label, and she knew how tall Sadira was...

��� Slightly bemused, "And Level II is 66 to 130.� I'm not at III yet, but � you mean you never figured that out?"

��� A sigh verging into groan territory.� "I know now.� I just wish I'd thought of that secondary cup earlier.� Who would take a nipple measurement?"� She took a deep breath, and hoped Sadira didn't notice the effort at control.� But she'd taken the questions this far � "How big are they now?"

��� "Jasmine says over four inches long."

��� "Oh."� Pamela managed to force out, "And they're still sensitive?"

��� "Now more than ever.� Maybe if I used gauze pads?"

��� "Sounds good.� I'll go look for some."� Pamela hurried out.� There was probably a first aid kit in the lab, but there might also be one in the bathroom.� Any excuse to get to the bathroom.� Gauze for Sadira and some paper towels for her.� And water in the face, to wash away the guilt.

 

��� ...nipple cups.� Now there's a weird thought.� But I need them.� Or the softer tips.

��� Jasmine has a very dirty mind at times.� Last night, she started to suggest a new use for my nipples � and caught herself.� I wasn't offended.� I almost wished she'd finished, but I couldn't figure out how to ask her.� She has these ideas out of nowhere.� She gets my flashes � but with less intensity and greater frequency.

��� I spent part of the morning trying to figure it out.� I'm her sister, all right:� I got it.� It was a very weird picture.� But it got them erect again...� And I couldn't mention that to Pamela.

��� I'd like to think it's the truce that makes her so uncomfortable.� I don't want to believe she's repulsed by my body.� Jasmine got some of those letters FedExed in, and I've been reading them.� So as weird as it sounded � and still does � some people fantasize about this sort of thing.� (Of course, it isn't happening to them.)� But I already have two people who love me, and I can believe that they'll love me, no matter what I look like...

��� But I'm no closer to a decision.� I'm loved, Kay, more strongly than I had ever dreamed possible.� Jason and Pamela don't know that I know.� They're not very good at hiding their feelings, now that I know how to look � and how to believe what I'm seeing.

��� It's funny to think about.� If this stopped six seconds from now, I'd still be somewhere beyond huge.� I have to tell my parents � they got back Friday, but I haven't been able to make myself call them.� I'll need physical therapy for months, maybe years.� I'll always be stared at:� I can never disguise myself, and I refuse to hide.� I know the full spectrum of reactions I'll be facing.

��� It scares me.

��� But I have a sister now, and friends, and �

��� Now that we're together again, I can believe that we'll find a cure.� Not just have to believe it:� really know that it will happen.� There's nothing the six of us can't beat.� Let the world say and believe what it wants to about me, because together, we can deal with it.

��� Do you remember that little rhyme I taught you when you were six?� I remember it very clearly.

��� "Which one, which one, will I choose?

��� "Which will win and which will lose?"

��� "Do's and don'ts and don'ts and do's?

��� "This one, this one, I now choose."

��� I can't get it out of my head.

��� Back to work.� I have to find that happy ending.

 

��� Jason glanced at the clock.� Almost seven p.m. on Sunday, April 7th.� He hoped seven was Sadira's lucky number.

��� The ladies had gone to dinner:� he had begged out, pleading a need to exercise, spent an intense half-hour on the machine, then scarfed three Powerbars and gone back to work.� He knew his metabolism was stable at the higher level:� it was only his nerves that made him think the danger was increasing.� All of his muscle groups had firmed, and he was acquiring new tissue bulk.� He had never been in better shape.

��� Jason wondered if that path led to death.� If he became so overmuscled that he couldn't bend his joints...�� Man dies from getting in shape:� (mostly censored) film at eleven �

��� � no.� That was weeks away, even at the accelerated rate.� At the moment, he just looked like he'd put about a year of very serious gym time in.� They would find a cure, for him and Sadira.

��� But if they didn't, he would die first.

��� And he didn't regret it.� Pamela wasn't infected.� If he died, he trusted Pamela and Sadira to solve the rest of the riddle in time to save her.� Sadira was out of Nigilo's grasp forever.� It had been worth it.� Jason knew how Angel felt.� He'd done something good with his life...

��� But he still didn't want to die.

��� Jason picked up an infected tissue sample.� He'd been working with the pregnancy data � and now with the samples of breast tissue from pregnant women that Nigilo had brought into Cascade.� (There was also a large sampling of adolescent and post-pubescent cells:� Nigilo had gone all out)� It gave him a wider database to examine, since he could study the actual cells from all stages of development, noting hormone levels throughout the cycle, and looking for key differences in structures and active gene areas.� It was better than just looking at numbers and charts.� Despite her best efforts, Pamela's connections hadn't been able to provide them with those samples.� Nigilo's had.� He prayed that no one had suffered for them.

��� But he had them, and there might have been some luck in the timing that had taken the one he'd just spent four hours studying, while the others were working on the metabolic program.� He'd had another course to pursue.

��� The new virus was complete.� It was time for the latest theory to fail.

��� He pushed the thought away and put the sample in the study area.� It had already been infected with BE-1.� He added the new virus and watched.

��� Oh.� My.� God.

��� He didn't jump, he didn't scream for joy.� He wanted to, but he had to double-check, run the test again.� Even if he had it, really and truly had it, it was only half the puzzle.� They still needed the metabolic brakes.� But they would be halfway there.� If they halted the growth, and Sadira channeled all her energy into muscle development, she'd be back on her feet faster.

��� Jason checked the data.

��� It was real.� The growth had stopped.

��� He snatched up the sample tin, spun around, dancing with it, reaching to extract another group of cells to test, and then he'd use Sadira's samples, and when those stopped �

��� � the label was wrong.

��� He looked at it again.� It wasn't the fresh, leukemia-modified sample taken from Jasmine.� It was one of the pregnancy tins.� He'd mistakenly infected it with BE-1, too busy to notice...

��� That just means it works on a generic subject.� He went and got Jasmine's samples, and ran the test.

��� Then he ran it with Sadira's cells.� And then he methodically tested every tin in the lab, then brought in leukemia factors, then started comparing and contrasting the results...

 

��� "I think I can go a few more hours after that."� Pamela smiled.� "Good soup.� We took too long in the restaurant, anyway."

��� Sadira nodded.� "I could stand some more work, too."� She looked at her sister.� "Jasmine?"

��� "Me?� I just read."� They both grinned as the elevator stopped.

��� Pamela stepped out.� "Let's check on the Mouse.� I trust him to keep his schedule, but I want to be sure."

��� "You trust him and you want to be sure?" Jasmine asked.� "Isn't there a contradiction in there somewhere?"

��� Pamela looked at her, eyebrows raised.� "'I contradict myself?'" she semi-quoted.� Jasmine saw it coming.� "'Very well, I contradict myself.� I am large �'" Pamela froze, listening.

��� The twins stopped, instantly paranoid � and then they heard it.

��� Sadira pushed the wheelchair to top speed, racing down the hall, easily outdistancing the others, heading towards Jason's lab �

��� � and she found him sitting, head in his hands, shaking with sobs.

��� "Jason?"� Oh God, something's wrong, his metabolism went wild �

��� He slowly looked up at her, his face streaked with tears, and she felt the pain radiating from him.� "Sadira," he pushed out, and managed to take in a breath.� "I couldn't.� I �"

��� Pamela and Jasmine got to the door.� Pamela ran in first, passing Sadira and reaching the desk.� "Mouse?� What's wrong?� Did something �" and she saw the scribbled notes on the table, the handwriting becoming increasingly jagged as it raced towards the inevitable conclusion.

��� "No," she whispered � and Sadira rolled up.

���� Pamela moved, instinctively wanting to block her from the knowledge � but too little, too late.� Sadira's reflexes were what they always should have been:� she turned the wheelchair to the side, snatched the notes off the table, and read them.

��� Jasmine slowly came into the room, knowing only that something had gone wrong �

��� "It's the recessive," Sadira said, and there was no emotion in her voice.� "The virus turns off the tissue development and growth sequences unless the macromastia sequence is present.� That shut-down signal has to be more complex:� there's an extra gene to account for.� Without those additional factors, the stop command is canceled."

��� "But I stopped growing �" Jasmine started to protest.

��� Sadira nodded.� "Naturally."� Her voice continued to drop, and her hands started to shake.� "Because you had that altered command.� We need data from pregnant macromastics.� But the gene is so rare.� Nearly a hundred samples, not one with the gene.� We'd be lucky to find one in a thousand, or more, and what are the odds of their being in a sampling group...?" The words were a whisper.� "Who's studied macromastics?� Nobody.� Why study that sequence?� It could take months to get enough samples and build a database.� The time involved to collect all of that..."

� ��"Me," Pamela said urgently.� "Get me pregnant.� Study my cells, see what's going on �"

��� "I'll do it," Jasmine interrupted.� "My genes are closer.� We'll learn more �"

��� "Up to nine months," Jason quietly reminded them.� They all instinctively did the math.� Two hundred and seventy days...

��� "The time..." Sadira whispered � and her head started to loll forward as her hands trembled� �

��� � Pamela was there, holding Sadira's face between white hands.� "No!"� a primal scream without volume, forcing her words past the tears.� "Screw BE-2.� We can have one virus without the other.� Everything goes to the decelerator.� We slow the growth to a normal rate and buy you that time."

��� Sadira managed a small nod.� Pamela released her.� "We get back to work," she said, her voice a little stronger.� "Start trying to gather those samples.� Somewhere, someone's got to have acquired some cells with macromastia sequences, just by accident.� But while we look, it all gets put into the decelerator."

��� Jasmine walked across the room and put her hand on Sadira's left shoulder.� "Does that mean you don't want me to get pregnant?"� She sounded so � disappointed...

��� Sadira looked up � and the giggling started, a small current that turned into a surge, and then a wave of mirth, gallows humor, yes, but if you couldn't laugh at death, then what was there to laugh at?

��� Jason's laughter joined the chorus, surprisingly deep, and then Pamela's, so much higher than her voice, and then Jasmine couldn't hold it back any longer, her giggling joining the chorus...

��� "Give � give me a while to think about it..." Sadira panted.� "God only knows � how big you would get..."

��� Jasmine's face leapt into hopeful anticipation � and the laughter began again.

   

41

130-133:� This one, this one, I now choose

 

��� "Special delivery."

��� Sadira turned and saw a young black man carrying a box.� He was wearing denim jeans and jacket � and then a stunned expression as he saw Sadira from the front, eyes open as far as the lids would allow, jaw slightly dropped, box falling to the floor �

��� � "Cypher!"� Jason leapt from the exercise bench and crossed the room in a flash.� He took the stunned hacker's limp hand and pumped it until some life came into the return grip.� "What are you doing here?� You're missing class �"

��� "I've got enough class for everyone," Cypher replied, voice still a little shaky.� "You've never heard of spring break?� I wanted to surprise you guys."

��� Jason frowned as his memory reached back.� "Isn't this a little late for spring break?"

��� The right side of Cypher's mouth quirked up.� "So I'm missing a class or two.� I'm way ahead of everyone else, and I've got a friend sending me notes and assignments.� Got a new portable to link in with using part of that first bond so I can get them and send the homework back, and then I grabbed a plane ticket.� What kind of fucked-up state is this, anyway?� Fifteen inches of snow forecast?"� Cypher fingered his damp jacket.� "It's a blizzard out there."

��� Jason shook his head, grinning.� "It's my state, and don't you forget it." He finally released Cypher's hand as Sadira wheeled up and extended hers, raising it high to clear the side bulge of her right breast.

��� Cypher stepped to her side, took her hand, and they solemnly shook.� "Hey, I'm sorry about that.� I mean, I knew what was going on, and I saw the cameras, but �"

��� "I know.� It was your first actual look."� Sadira gently smiled.� "You get one free.� Then I run over your toes twice."

��� Cypher winced.� "I'll watch my eyes, then."� He picked up the box.� "This is for Shaw.� Where is she?� I called her from the airport, and she told the guys downstairs to let me in."

��� "In the bathroom," Sadira explained.� "She'll be back in a second �"

��� � and Jasmine walked in.� "Cypher?"� The hacker found himself in a close hug, arms wrapped around him, Jasmine's breasts pushing against him, her lips seeking his out...

��� Jasmine pulled back.� "That was for helping," she told him.

��� Cypher didn't seem to be capable of responding.� Sadira looked at her sister, eyes narrowed with exasperated humor.� "Jasmine Pirouze Archer..."

��� "What?� He earned it."

��� Cypher blinked.� "I wonder what I get for this?"� He bent down and picked up the box.

��� Sadira looked at it.� Ordinary white cardboard.� "What's �" and then Pamela walked in.

��� "Welcome to the land of the loonies," she told Cypher.� "That's good news, right?"

��� "The best."

��� Jason sighed.� "Why does everyone put down my state?"

��� Pamela shook her head.� "Have you looked around lately?"� She took the box.� "So how much did you get?"

��� "Quite a bit.� I wanted to deliver it in person.� I can hook into my main system with the portable and keep going."

��� Pamela found a clear spot and put the box down, then sliced the tape with the van keys and pulled out several sheets of paper.� "Looks good.� When Douglas gets in around five, I'll put him on getting these.� If the snow doesn't slow him down..."

��� Cypher glanced at his watch.� "I might have just missed him:� he probably got in as I rented the car.� They were still letting planes land.� He should make it in."

��� Pamela looked deeper into the box.� "What's that?"

��� "The Noodletown duck you mentioned.� And a lot of chocolate."

��� Sadira smiled.� "At least I'm getting enough exercise...� So what are the papers?"

�� "Information to help back up some of the blackmail stuff.� I took those files and did a lot of surfing to some really tight places.� A lot of this is circumstantial, but you could give people a really hard time with it.� And if your photographer friend can chase down the physical stuff a little more � well, I think you've got enough as is, but you can't be too careful."

��� Pamela nodded.� "I want this stalemate locked down..." and an odd grin briefly appeared on her face.� "This will help."

��� Cypher grinned back.� Sadira felt a secret pass between them.� "I'll just get the rest of my stuff, hook up and keep working from here."

��� "Go ahead.� Lots of space available.� And if you see anything you like, feel free to grab it.� We're having a going-out-of-business sale.� You get a hundred-percent discount."� The hacker nodded appreciatively and left.

��� Sadira checked Pamela's face.� It was guardedly neutral.� "What are you up to?"

��� "Endgame," Pamela said.� "Don't worry, Sadira.� You just work on the virus.� I'll keep calling the tactics."

��� The possibility flashed across her mind, she knew Pamela had seen the insight �

��� � Sadira nodded and wheeled back to her station.

 

��� Early Tuesday morning.� Not too early:� they had worked late again, and Pamela had declared a recharge time.� Unfortunately, there had really been nothing to do in Helena at two in the morning.� It had come down to sleep.

��� Sadira finished her morning check and found something that was rapidly becoming familiar:� her sister lying against her left breast, snuggled in tight, lost in sleep.� Sadira sighed.

��� Softly, "Jasmine."� A small head tilt, no more.� "Come on, Jasmine, we have to get up." �A tiny arm shift.� This was ridiculous.� In high school, she'd been able to wake up her sister by breathing too loudly.� She reached across with her right arm and stroked her sister's cheek.� This got better results:� Jasmine stretched towards the touch, her eyes opening...

��� There was a knock on the door.� That woke Jasmine up.� "Who is it?"� she said sleepily.� "I'm coming..."� She rolled away from Sadira's breast and got out of bed, stark-naked �

��� A hiss of warning.� "Jasmine!"� Her sister had always gotten up before her and snuck back to her own room before the others came around.� They didn't know...

��� Jasmine was still walking through the fog of oversleep:� she padded softly towards the door, uncomprehending.� A sleepy check of the security port, then a turn of the knob and a pull �

��� "Oh, hi," she said.� "Time to go already?"

��� Pamela brought up her left hand up to her temple, as if she'd instantly developed a headache.� Jason took a small step back.� Cypher stared.� "Uh � ah � yeah," he finally stammered out.� "It's almost noon.� We'd better breast � book!"

��� Sadira and Pamela groaned in concert.� Jasmine's half-lidded eyes looked down and regarded her breasts.� "Oh, right," she murmured.� "I'll get dressed."� She went to the side of the Jacuzzi and started picking her clothes up.

��� Cypher kept staring.� He hadn't been warned about Jasmine, and there was no way anyone could run over his toes.� He also wasn't sure how to stop.

��� Pamela and Jason slowly walked into the room.� Pamela looked at Jason, then at Sadira, who had been propping herself up on a huge pile of pillows, keeping the blankets over her with judicious shifts of covers and breasts.� She had achieved a sixty-degree angle.� "Sadira," Pamela slowly began, "is there something you'd like to tell us?"� There was a little teasing in the tone, but more worry:� if the hormones had finally taken over...

��� The mischief darted through her mind, and Sadira shrugged.� The blanket shifted a little:� she instinctively grabbed for it and stabilized the covering.� "Well � we've been sleeping together �"

��� Jason looked behind him.� There was nothing to fall back against.� He settled for widened eyes and a raised hand, an opposite-side duplication of Pamela's earlier reaction.� Pamela's face went through a series of contortions.� Cypher was still watching Jasmine dress:� the information barely registered � and then it hardly helped.

��� Jasmine heard Sadira as she finally finished waking up, and immediately caught on.� "Ever since Thursday night," she confirmed as she pulled on her bra.

��� "Every night," Sadira added.� "Completely naked."� An exasperated look at Jasmine.� "And she won't stay off my chest."

��� "You're warm!" Jasmine protested.� "I like warm.� You weren't complaining last night!"

��� "Well, you're not exactly cold yourself..."

��� Cypher seemed to be on the verge of passing out.� Pamela and Jason weren't doing much better �

��� "Suckers!" Sadira yelled, and Jasmine nearly fell down laughing.

��� Every muscle in Pamela's face went wild as she tried to find an expression and stick with it.� Jason just picked slack and stayed there.� Cypher collapsed against the door frame.

��� "You believed that?" Jasmine laughed.� "Shit!� Think about it, people!"

��� Pamela was the first to recover her voice.� "But you were �"

��� Sadira was still laughing.� "Sleeping together.� We didn't say anything that wasn't the truth.� You did the rest on your own."

��� Her voice had been recovered.� The brain cells were still trying to line up.� "But you said � your chest �"

��� Sadira giggled.� Oh, I needed that... �The emotional roller coaster had, at least for the moment, come to a high point.� "Pamela, look at me, then look at the bed."

��� Pamela looked.� The bed was huge � but so was Sadira.� If Jasmine had been on the left, and Sadira had shifted up and over � Oh.

��� Jason finally got control back.� "Sadira, that was �"

��� "� funny?"

��� "Not my first choice for a word..."

��� Jasmine finished getting dressed.� "I thought it was funny."� A few last giggles escaped.

��� "You weren't the butt of the joke."

��� Jasmine raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Sadira � who turned, nodded and, unseen by the others, moved her lips.� Jasmine read them easily:� she'd picked up the skill in her second year of dancing.� Some of the clubs were just too loud.� "Speaking of butts � come on, Cypher."� Jasmine grabbed her purse.� "I'll buy you lunch in the coffee shop."� She took the hacker's left hand and pulled him away from the door.� He didn't resist.� Or breathe.

��� Pamela watched them go.� "Poor Cypher," she said, smiling.� "I wonder if he'll be disappointed if they actually reach the coffee shop..."

��� "Close the door."

��� Jason looked at Sadira first.� She nodded.� He closed the door.

��� Pamela turned.� Sadira had continued to wedge and pile pillows:� she was now sitting up straight.� "Douglas is still sleeping," she mentioned.� "We might have to check out of here.� Bringing you in and out with a blanket over the chair isn't helping much.� People might start talking �"

��� "Get over here."

��� Pamela found herself taking a step before the words reached the thinking part of her brain:� there was something in the tone...� She checked on Jason:� he had also stopped after getting slightly closer.� "What is it?"� And then she thought about it:� Jasmine was gone, and Jasmine had been helping Sadira.

��� Sadira was still in bed.� She needed help.� In her sitting position, the covered mounds of her breasts seemed to reach her feet.� Possibly beyond.� Pamela glanced at Jason again, and found him looking at her.� Well, it's Mouse and me:� that won't violate the agreement...� She knew Jason had never seen Sadira naked.� Pamela could see Sadira's bare shoulders:� it appeared the Mouse was about to get his first chance.� She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

��� "I want both of you over here.� Sit on the bed."

��� Jason glanced at the spot she was pointing at.� "Is there anything you need me to get first?"

��� "I want you and Pamela to get yourselves over here.� Now.� We have to talk."

��� Jason and Pamela glanced at each other �

��� � and psionics took another step towards being proven.

��� She knows.� One thought, two minds.

��� Slowly, they made their way to the bed and sat down, Pamela on the left, Jason on the right, legs hanging off the edge, bodies twisted to face Sadira.� Allowing for different heights and builds, their positions were exactly the same.

��� "You."� Sadira pointed at Jason, and Pamela's heart jumped.� "You're in love.� With me.� Yes or no?"

��� Slowly, he nodded, and Pamela felt the pain begin to rise.� We're still friends.� There's always that.� Always...� It didn't help.

��� Sadira turned towards her.� "You.� The same.� Right?"

��� The pain fell away � then turned back, confused.� Jason seemed to be having her first reaction.� "Yes."� Then, quietly, "Always."

��� Sadira nodded and folded her arms on top of her breasts.� "I knew about you two," she began, a lecturer with a class on the first really warm day of spring, trying to make sure she had her students' attention.� "It took me a while.� I'm pretty good with denial.� I've got the brains to rationalize a whole bunch of bullshit to back it up.� But I did figure it out."

��� "Sadira, we were trying to� �" Jason, badly presenting the case for the defense.� "We didn't want to �"

��� Sadira tilted her head to the right and looked at him.� "Shaddap."� He shut up.

��� "So," Sadira continued, "you didn't want to upset me.� I can understand that.� I was under a lot of stress �" she briefly grinned "� which has not exactly gone away, and neither of you wanted to add to it."

��� She looked directly at Pamela.� "Did you think it wouldn't hurt when you stopped touching me?"� But the words were soft and loving.� "When you wouldn't come in to help anymore?� Because you didn't want to compete and hurt me that way?"� Pamela's gaze dropped.

��� Jason looked at them, and his mind said Let her go.

��� What? he demanded of himself.� I can't �

��� Look.� He looked.� They've known each other for nearly five years.� You've known Sadira less than one.� They lived with each other.� They've made love.� Pamela loves Sadira, you know that.� And Sadira loves her.� You heard what she just said.

��� Jason, if you love her, then let her be happy with Pamela.� Let her go.

��� His eyes closed, and his heart cracked, and he found no argument that would work, nothing he could say to that internal voice.� Jason stood up.

��� Sadira and Pamela turned at the movement.� He looked back at them.� "Be happy," he barely choked out, and started towards the door.

��� "You idiot!"

���� He turned.� Sadira was staring at him, the tears starting to form in her eyes.� "Did you think I was going to just let you go?"

��� Pamela jerked back as if she had been shot again � and Sadira quickly faced her.� "And you!� What makes you think I'd abandon you?� I can't let you go out in the world alone!� Someone has to hold your leash!"

��� Jason looked at Pamela.� Their faces were mirrors of confusion.� "I don't understand �"

��� "I kept looking at the two of you," Sadira told them, her voice soft again, almost a whisper.� "I had to decide.� Two people loved me.� Two people that I loved.� I was so happy � and then I was furious, because I didn't want to make that choice."� She turned and reached up to touch Pamela's face.� Their eyes met.� "Ivory, I never understood.� I thought it was friendship, as deep and true as anyone could ever have.� I didn't even imagine that there might be something more.� I wasn't capable of understanding." Her free hand indicated her breasts.� "If this hadn't happened, I might have never really known."

��� Another turn, another touch., her right hand now caressing Jason's cheek, and his eyes briefly closed before meeting with hers.� "My Mouse," came the gentle voice.� "So bold and so shy.� Ready to save me from anything, including myself.� You had the courage to face Death head-on for me, but you couldn't find the strength to tell me why."

��� And she was touching them, one hand for each, and she said, "I choose both of you."

��� Jason looked at her.� So did Pamela.� They all spent a moment looking at each other.

��� This time, Jason recovered first.� "How?� We can't �"

��� "Like hell we can't," Sadira told him.� "We're scientists.� Scientists experiment.� I've think we've got pretty good chemistry."

��� "The three of us?" Pamela got out.� "Together?� How would we �"

��� "We'll have to figure that out," Sadira said.� "But it comes down to this."� Her voice dropped, and took on the commanding tone. �"I love you both.� And I'm not giving either one of you up."� She folded her arms again and looked at them, each in turn, then stayed with Pamela for a moment.

��� Pamela reacted.� "We can't get married �"

��� Sadira sounded vaguely bemused.� "We could have if I picked you?"

��� "Hawaii passed a law.� We could have.� But all three of us �"

��� "Oh, I don't know," Sadira breezily said.� "I marry Jason in Canada, a quick trip to Hawaii to marry each other..."

��� "Jealousy," Jason said.� They both faced him.� "How do we keep a V-shape balanced?"

��� "That's pretty easy," Sadira said.� "Make it a triangle.� Kiss her."

��� They both looked at her.

��� "Sadira �"� Both of them, in chorus.� Another glance was exchanged.

��� Sadira looked at her startled lover.� "Three years, right?"

��� "Huh?"

��� "That's the last time you met a man you could stand.� About three years ago.� Unless you had another date since then that you didn't tell me about.� You've dated a few men.� You've slept with one that I know of."

��� "I like women a lot better," Pamela said.� "Most men are just �"

��� "� do you like that one?"� Sadira pointed at Jason, who blinked.

��� Pamela looked at Jason, and her eyes seemed to be trying to pierce memory, seeing him for the first time again.� "He's a good man," she said slowly.� "A good person."

��� It had been over two weeks since the thought had begun.� She'd never allowed it to finish.� It finally found its conclusion.� "If it wasn't for you," and the words were hers, but so strange to hear, "if I'd just met him somewhere and we'd somehow managed to talk to each other �" a quick smile "� which isn't all that likely � then he would have been the first man that I'd gone out with in three years."

��� A slow smile spread across Sadira's face.� "I hoped so," was her honest truth.� "You care about him."� Pamela nodded.

��� Sadira turned to Jason and waited.

��� Jason looked at Sadira, then to Pamela.� "Spirit," he said.� "Spirit and soul.� You both shine so brightly."� Like Pamela, Jason knew the words were his, taken from his deepest truths.� Somewhere deep within was his religion, and it was screaming that this was wrong, two women and one man, God hadn't meant for things to work that way � but deeper still was his faith, and it said that God was love, no matter how that love was expressed.� "Rainbows," he continued, looking directly into Pamela's eyes.� "If you had been bonded, and we had worked together �" and he started laughing "� I would have been too scared to ask you out!"� Pamela giggled � "But I would have wanted to!"

��� Sadira was laughing, they were all laughing...

��� "It's not exactly normal," Sadira finally said, wiping away tears of joy.� "But we're not normal people.� And," a big grin, "normal sucks.� I think we're all just crazy enough to make this work.� It won't be easy, and there's going to be problems �"

��� Pamela's words emerged without flavor.� "I'm going to need a bigger bed."

��� Jason looked at her, face deadpan.� "Bed?� Apartment."

��� "The hell with an apartment.� Let's buy a house."

��� "Custom-built," Jason decided.� "Lots of special features for Sadira."

��� Pamela nodded.� "A really, really big bathtub.� Handgrips in the bathrooms.� Wide doors.� The bed is going to have to be custom-made, too."

��� Sadira stared at them.

��� The exchange picked up speed.� "I think we've got more than enough money for elevators if we go two stories."

��� "Elevators?� Don't baby her!� She's got to develop enough strength to handle stairs!"

��� "Well, you can't ask her to do it immediately!� How about one of those sliding chairs that goes up a rail, and we eventually take it out?"

��� "Done," Pamela agreed.� "A good gym, too, so she can work out at home."

��� "All right, that goes in the basement.� Right next to the swimming pool."

��� "I want a hot tub."

��� "Well, we can have both.� And the pool can be heated."

��� "Point.� How about cars?� A huge van.� Do you think we can get sidesaddle driving controls?"

��� "People!"� They both looked at Sadira.� "Before you plan out the rest of my life for me, do you think you could do the first thing I asked?"

��� They both looked at her.� "Sorry," Jason asked, grinning widely.� "What was that again?"

��� "You," Sadira told him.� "Kiss her."

��� Pamela got up.� So did Jason.� They walked to the front of the bed.� Sadira watched them closely as they appraised each other, joking gone.

��� "It's been a long time," Pamela slowly said.� "I don't have anything against you, Jason.� I just don't like most men.� I gave up on them as a gender.� But I meant it:� I would have gone out with you."� She briefly glanced at Sadira.� "But sleeping � making love to you �"

��� Sadira partially faked exasperation.� "I'm not asking you two to fall into bed with each other this second.� I want you to be in bed with me first.� But I want us all to be happy."

��� Jason's eyes found Sadira's, his gaze soft.� "So you want us to love each other as much as we love you."

��� Sadira nodded.� "It's the only way this is going to work.� You already like each other.� That's how it all starts.� Friendship, then love.� Maybe this is just me � but I think it's just degree."

��� Jason and Pamela looked at each other, their eyes locking � and then Jason bent down, and Pamela stretched, and they met somewhere in the middle.

��� Sadira nodded approvingly as they separated.

��� Pamela looked up at Jason.� "You're as bad as she was."

��� Jason winced.� "Thanks a lot."

��� "Don't worry about it."� The snow leopard was there, but it had come out to play.� "You'll see how well I taught her."� A visual pounce to Sadira.� "This is going to take some time to figure out..."

��� "I don't even know how we're going to work this out," Sadira admitted.� "There aren't any databases to follow."� A rueful shrug, and her voice turned back eighteen years.� "And this bed isn't big enough for three people, and the floor is cold!"� Jason started laughing.� "What we've got is a place to start."

��� Pamela glanced at Jason.� "No, this is a place to start."� She winked, and he understood.

��� By mutual agreement, they each returned to their original sides of the bed, then kissed Sadira, one on each cheek � then took turns for the lips � and finally, with a lot of effort, laughter, and more wriggling around than was absolutely necessary, they somehow managed to create a three-way hug.

��� Sadira wiped away their tears as they finally pulled back � but not apart.� Never again.� "Since that's settled," she concluded, "could you two help me get dressed?� Since I can't start the orgy, we've got to get to work."

��� They both sprang from the bed.� Jason headed for the shopping bags.� "What color socks do you want?"

��� "White's fine."

��� Pamela glanced at Jason as she dug through the pants.� "You do realize that if we got this right, we might kill you."

��� Jason grinned.� "I'd die happy."

��� "You'd still die," Sadira pointed out.� Jason ruefully nodded.� "Ivory, aren't you overestimating yourself a little?"

��� "Me?� I'm talking about you.� Mouse, trust me:� it took a while to get her eyes open, but then she wanted to see everything."

��� "Ohmigod."� Jason straightened up, the socks falling from his hand.� Sadira and Pamela both thought he was jokingly reacting to Pamela's last sentence � until he turned and looked at them both, eyes serious.� "What am I going to tell my parents?"

��� There was a long silence.

��� Sadira sighed.� "'Think things through...'" she said.� "Can we think that one through later?"� And a smile. �"We'll come up with something. There's nothing the three of us can't work out.� Let's go find those brakes!"

��� They scrambled to gather the clothing, and Sadira watched them, eyes misting again, and the only thought was as crazy as the triad, but it made sense too, beautiful and perfect.

�� �I'm complete.

   

42

142-144:� Roll the bones

 

��� Douglas handed Pamela a piece of paper.� Pamela nodded, handed it back, and he left.� Pamela returned her gaze to the electron microscope.� Jason was working out:� Denise and Alan had gone home.� Sadira looked at Pamela.� "And what was that about?"

�� �"Oh, he's going back to Cypher."

��� Sadira pressed on.� "What is Cypher doing?"

��� "Working with Douglas."

��� One more try.� "Cypher and Douglas are working on...?"

��� "A computer."� Pamela smiled.� "Ebs, I'll tell you when I'm ready to tell you."

�� �"It's Thursday.� How much longer can you hold out?"

��� "One minute longer than you can ask.� It's a surprise."

��� Sadira had a theory, but wasn't quite ready to test it.� If Pamela wanted to surprise her, so be it.� But it was fun to try for the information.

��� They'd changed hotels on Tuesday:� Pamela had decided they'd pushed their luck far enough with that secret.� The new one had a huge Jacuzzi, but the bed was smaller.� Sadira had been disappointed:� she'd been looking forward to their first night sleeping together.� While Pamela � and then Jason � had told her that they thought it might be just sleeping for a while, Sadira had other theories.� Both of them had told her that they still needed some time to get used to the idea.� Sadira thought they were trying to work through the last of their worries about the triad.� She felt that once she had them in bed with her, the rest would follow naturally.

��� She thought.� She hoped.� She wasn't sure, and she definitely wasn't all that confident that it would go smoothly even when they were together.� She'd been discussing things with Jasmine earlier as they came back from the bathroom, trying to get some advice on how to proceed.� Sadira had figured that Jasmine had to have been in or seen at least one movie with two women and one man.

��� Jasmine, who had been in the middle of exaggerating her disappointment about losing Sadira's warmth, had shrugged and said, "Movies are scripted.� Badly scripted:� there's no imagination.� With the three of you, it's going to be improvisation all the way."

��� "That really helps, sis."� Sadira sighed and looked down.� She had a new board.� One hundred and forty-two inches at the morning measurement:� nearly twelve feet of bustline � which, even after allowing for all the spreading at the front, meant that when sitting with the board, the furthest point of her breasts was still several feet in front of her.� They'd added counterweights to the back of the chair.� "I'm still trying to figure out how we're going to work around me."

��� "Are you kidding?� That'll be half the fun!� You'll get to use positions no one else has ever thought of!"

��� "Despite my vast intelligence," Sadira said dryly, "I'm having trouble thinking of any.� Jasmine, you've got the experience with this.� I'm still half a virgin.� What can we do?� I have to move myself in order to get to �" she paused:� their rapport was getting stronger every day, but it still felt occasionally strange to talk about some things "� the vital areas, and it's going to get pretty crowded with just me in the bed."

��� Jasmine's face turned serious.� "Okay.� You want the honest truth?� A lot of positions are closed to you."� A small shrug.� "But you never got to try them anyway, so the hell with them.� You've got two intelligent and imaginative people with you.� One brainstorm between the three of you, it'll be settled."

��� "It won't always be three of us," Sadira told her.� "We already realized that there's going to be times when one of us will need some time alone, or two of us just need to be with each other.� I'm okay with it being Jason and Pamela �" and she'd shocked Jasmine again:� her sister had frozen in place while Sadira continued forward.� She backed up the wheelchair.� "That got you?"

��� Jasmine defrosted, then nodded.� "A movie is one thing.� Real life is another.� You're really comfortable with that?"

��� "I want them to love me and I want them to love each other.� Is that unrealistic?"

��� "Now you're asking me?"� Jasmine took a deep breath.� "No.� Maybe for anyone else � but I think you three can make it work."� They started down the hall.� "I'm still jealous."

��� "What about Cypher?"

��� "We didn't do anything."

��� "Why not?"

��� "Well, he looked like he really needed coffee �"

���� Teasingly, "I think he likes you."

��� "Oh, come on, you've already got two."

��� "I'll stick with that number."

��� "What about kids?"� This time, Sadira stopped.� "I mean � well, you and Jason, or Jason and Pamela � half brothers and sisters �"

��� "Brothers and sisters," Sadira corrected.� "Period.� And you forgot me and Pamela."

��� Jasmine inhaled sharply.� "How?!"

��� Sadira smiled.� "As soon as everything else is wrapped up, that's the next project.� Or maybe we'll just work on it on alternate Tuesdays while we're completing BE-2A.� I know we can't get government funding for it � but I think we've got enough money to work with on our own.� But kids are a long way in the future � and I don't think I should get pregnant."

��� "Why not?" Jasmine started � then saw it.

��� Sadira confirmed.� "This is glandular tissue.� I get pregnant, and it's 'Be fruitful and multiply.'� God only knows what happens when the milk comes in.� Maybe if we found a way to disable those genes..."

��� "I'd be really careful about messing around with your own genes after this."

��� Sadira ruefully nodded.� "Pamela already volunteered to carry.� But she's got the macromastia sequence, too...� Well, it's a long way off."� She started the chair rolling forward and looked over to Jasmine, again walking by her side.� "Are you sure you don't have any hints?� It may all come to me once we start, but..."

��� "Sadira, I've made some movies, and some of them were with women.� Good money."� Jasmine's voice dropped as the miles weighed it down.� "I've fucked a lot of guys because I was lonely � but most times, I was just going through the motions.� Honest truth?� It's a lot more fun when you're making it up as you go along."� A sigh.� "Two people."� A deeper one.� "You're my sister, all right."

��� Sadira smiled and steered around a corner.

��� "Actually � one idea." Jasmine looked down at her sister, and then to the front of her breasts.� The new bras had a soft area at the front to allow for nipple swelling.� The conversation had started the process.� Sadira had joked that her erect nipples were only one twenty-eighth of her total bust measurement �which sounded reasonable until the math resulted in five inches.� Jasmine grinned.� "One nipple each."

��� Sadira looked momentarily intrigued.

 

��� Jason walked into the lab, toweling away sweat.� "I wish this thing made me think faster instead of just reacting faster," he grumbled.� "I'd like to be able to do more in that room than just count repetitions."

��� "I've been looking at your latest extrapolations," Pamela said.� "I think adding this sequence might help, but it still looks incomplete."� She gently hit the side of the machine.� "Damn it," came the soft voice.� "It still goes too far, and I'd settle for not far enough, just to slow things down..."� She'd found love, twice over, and both of the people she loved were still at risk...

��� Sadira wheeled away from the computer.� "Can I get a look at that new printout?� Mine isn't going anywhere."

��� Pamela nodded and gave it to her.� Sadira lifted it high in front of her, staring straight ahead at it �

��� � and then she was seeing something else.

��� Pamela and Jason looked at her just in time to see her eyes unfocus.

��� They had each seen it before, Jason once, with Sadira looking at a puzzle on a computer, and Pamela a dozen times over the years, always just before �

��� "Oh, God," Pamela prayed, and for a moment thought Jason had said it.

��� They were still trying to find macromastic samples, but they'd gathered virtually all the metabolic data in the world.� Sadira had read everything, all the pieces of the puzzle were somewhere in her head, Some Assembly Required...

��� "Come on, Sadira," Jason breathed.� "Put it all together..."

��� They clasped hands as Sadira continued to look beyond the paper, twenty seconds, thirty, forty �

��� � and out to the other side.

��� Sadira spun the wheelchair, desperately getting back into position at the computer, and her right hand shot out, alternating between mouse and keyboard, clicking, typing, occasionally pausing briefly as she checked for typos, one bad keystroke that worked into the sequence would ruin the lot, then hurrying forward again �

��� � she stopped.

��� Jason and Pamela rushed over.� The simulated double-helix was rotating on the screen, quietly beautiful.

��� Sadira breathed deeply, trying to find oxygen, as if she'd just finished a marathon � or simply tried to walk a few feet.� "Let's try it."

 

��� The six of them had gathered.� Jason and Sadira were sitting.� Cypher was leaning against one of the computers.� Douglas and Jasmine were standing, and had been trying to make conversation.� They hadn't been doing well.� Pamela had been the last to walk in, her testing complete.� She held two syringes, one in each hand:� blue plunger head in the left, red in the right.� Sadira glanced up at the clock.� Thursday, April 11th, five minutes before eight p.m.

��� "The simulations aren't sure what will happen to the body as a unit." She glanced at Jason.� "Your readings are different from Sadira's.� She's got additional factors to worry about.� This could work on one of you, and not the other."� She looked at her left hand.� "That's the decelerator.� If it works properly, you both go from ten back to three.� Normal rate.� Mouse, you're cured.� Sadira, we'll have time to gather those samples: you won't be growing any faster than you would have during adolescence, and your energy needs will go back to normal."

��� "And if it doesn't work?" Douglas asked.

��� "It could go too far.� I could give them a shot of the accelerator to counter it �" she nodded at the syringe in her right hand "� but both viruses in that short a time frame is a major shock to their systems."� Slowly, "The computer thinks that could be fatal.� Seventy percent chance.

��� "Involve all the systems at once, every cell, and things get chaotic.� One thing goes wrong, cascade effect, and everything goes.� It can't be tested on animals.� The sequences only affect humans.� And we sure as hell can't infect someone else as a test subject."� Pamela smiled, just for a second, feral again.� "You know, I thought nothing could make me wish Nigilo was alive.� Wrong."

��� Jasmine looked into Pamela's eyes.� Quietly, she recited, "'My objective all sublime, I shall achieve in time.'"

��� Pamela nodded and finished the quote.� "'To let the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime.'� It did, didn't it?� But I can't do it twice."

��� Jason looked up at her from his seat.� "When you insisted that we bring the virus samples into Cascade, it wasn't just for bluffing, or modification if Sadira had found the cure.� You made sure you had the decelerator, didn't you?"

��� Pamela put the syringes down on a table and walked over to him.� "Mouse, if I had the chance, I was going to kill him.� The virus was in case I got to do it poetically.� So maybe it was murder.� But I can sleep at night.� And if I ever can't �" she looked at Sadira "� will you two still be there for me?"

��� "'Let the punishment fit the crime,'" Sadira simply said.

��� "'The punishment fit the crime,'" Jason echoed.

��� Pamela kissed them both, then went back to the syringes.� "So we can try this," she said, "or we can look for something else.� But we've learned as much as we're going to by using the samples and simulators."� The next words were slow, like the pronouncement of a judgement coming down from the high court.� "We have to make a decision."

��� Sadira looked at the blue syringe.� "You know the sick part?" she asked softly.� "After all that, it wasn't even that complicated."

��� Jason smiled at her.� "For you," he pointed out.� "But we all did it together.� My source, Pamela's modification, your completion, Jasmine's idea to look for it in the first place, Douglas and Cypher keeping us alive long enough to find it."� His eyes drifted up, and locked with Pamela's.� "I trust all of us," he said simply.� "I'll go first."

��� Sadira started to wheel towards him.� "Jason �"

��� He held up his right hand, stopping her.� "Because if something goes wrong, then you're still alive.� No argument."

��� Sadira rolled up and took his hand.� "You've been hanging around Pamela too much," she whispered.

��� "It was your idea," he reminded her, and gently squeezed.

��� Douglas looked at the syringes.� "So what do we do?"

��� Cypher answered.� "You and I get ready to go with our final stage," he said.� "They get ready for theirs."

 

��� Nine p.m.� Jason was hooked up to a full battery of monitors, checking pulse rate, breathing, EKG, brain wave activity � the works.� They had been hastily labeled with their deductions of the correspondence from metabolism to the various activity levels:� ten to zero.� The equipment had been recovered from Mexico.� Pamela wanted different machines:� all these had done was monitor death � but perhaps they were due to see a cure.

��� Douglas and Cypher had stopped their activity to join them:� they had retreated to the doorway after shaking Jason's hand, and were visibly trying to project their strength.� Sadira was sitting on Jason's right, holding his hand and trying to stay away from the wires.� Jasmine was kneeling on the left, holding his other hand.� They all waited patiently.� Pamela pushed up Jason's left sleeve and sterilized the injection area.� "Mouse," she began, unable to meet his eyes, "if this doesn't work �"

��� "Try the accelerator," he said calmly.� "Then we'll look for something else."� He glanced at Sadira, then back to Pamela.� "We've been beating the odds so far.� One more success for me, and two for Sadira."

��� Sadira looked over at him.� "Lean over," she whispered, and Jason did.� Pamela moved with him, and they both kissed him.� Jasmine came up and got his cheek.

��� Pamela looked at the needle, glinting in the light, to Jason's brown eyes, reflecting those sparkles back to her, and then around the room. Sadira's lab.� It ended where it began.

��� She injected Jason and moved to the monitors.

��� The cells around the injection site took in some of the invading organisms, accepted it, adopted its code as their own, then sent the message to other cells.� The rest of the virus raced around the bloodstream, trying to beat out the speeding transmission � once a cell had been modified, further infection would do nothing.� Pamela watched the screens as Jason's systems were hit, and began to react.

��� Ten, and she remembered what had happened the last time she had started the countdown.� Nine.� Eight.

��� Jason gasped, and began to tremble � and then the movement accelerated.� She looked away from the monitors.� Sadira was holding onto his hand as his body jerked, eyes wide and desperate.� Shedding reaction! her mind screamed.� The simulations said this might happen, he's trying to dump any excess still in the cells!� But her heart didn't believe it, she could hear Douglas crying out, she was already reaching for the red syringe, glancing back at the monitors �� Six.� Five. �He was convulsing, his body vibrating itself to pieces, it was happening too fast, she had the syringe � Three �

��� � and the indicators stopped moving as Jason's body tightened, lifted � and crashed back into the seat.

��� Every monitor had stabilized at three.

��� Jason took a long, shuddering breath.

��� "Now that," he gasped, "we could sell to Disneyland.� Shake, rattle, and roll."

��� Pamela looked at the monitors again, then at Jason.� Somehow, all the wires and pads had remained attached.� It was all stable.� Human-normal rate.

��� "Let me get a few samples, and make sure things are working properly," Pamela got out.� "But if you look okay �"

��� Sadira's eyes, and her own, said that Jason looked more than okay.� He looked like he was going to live.

��� "� then we try it on me," Sadira finished.� "Don't uncross your fingers yet."

 

��� It took an hour to run the checks.� The virus was out of Jason's system:� it had infected the cells � some of it going after already-modified areas � and died.� All of Jason's cells had returned to normal functioning.� The various systems had been hit hard, and together � but they had ridden through the storm.� He was cured.

��� It was Sadira's turn.

��� The positions had changed:� Sadira was in the center now, wires coming out of the neck of the muu-muu:� it had been a minor bit of fun to get the heart and lung pads properly attached.� Jasmine had shifted to the right, Jason was on the left.

��� Douglas came into the room, Cypher close on his heels.� "I'll see you on the other side," he told Sadira.� "One day, I will see you in front of my camera, giving that smile to the world.� You did promise, after all.� I will not allow you to escape that."

��� Sadira gave him that smile.� "I only promised to consider it."� But the words were kind, gently teasing.� "Can't you think about anything else right now?"

��� "Only that love is strength, and we will not let you fall."� He bent down and kissed her forehead, then stepped aside.

��� Cypher stepped forward.� "We haven't really known each other that long," he hesitantly started, "but � well, you give good trouble.� I'd like to keep you around this world for a while."

��� "Cypher?"� She met his dark eyes.� "What's your real name?"

��� He shrugged, then looked embarrassed.� "Gates.� William Gates."� A flash of a grin.� "Now you know why I like Cypher better."� Pamela and Douglas started laughing.� He looked back at them.� "Quit it.� A little respect for the humiliated man.� I'm going to have it legally changed."� They forced themselves to stop.� Cypher looked at Sadira.� "Good luck, girl."� He put out his right hand, realized that Jason and Jasmine had eliminated the possibilities �

��� "� go ahead," Sadira told him.� He kissed her forehead.

��� Jasmine looked up at her.� "We're going to have that time together," she stated firmly, and then a kiss.

��� "So will we," Jason added, and kissed her as well.

��� Pamela approached.� "We all will," she told her.� "If only because my last memory of you will not be in that outfit."� She pushed up the left sleeve of the garish neon-pink muu-muu as Sadira started giggling.� "No one would be caught dead in that thing.� That's why you're going to live."� A smile as she sterilized the injection site.� "Got me?"

��� "I hear you, Ivory."� A kiss, and then the needle.

��� Pamela went to the monitors.

��� The difference was immediately obvious.

��� Jason's body had been generally accelerated, all systems at full power, with special attention diverted to damaged areas � the bullet wound, the muscle tissue � when needed.� Sadira's body had that same acceleration, but she had hormones streaming through her body, carrying a specific set of messages.� There was a focus area for the power:� regardless of the state of the rest of the body, energy was always being channeled into the production of new cells in the breasts.� The system was inherently unbalanced �

��� � and it wasn't shutting down evenly.

��� The monitors fell to eight almost immediately, jumped back up to nine, plunged to six, then threatened to go off the top of the scale.� Sadira was shaking violently, her hands squeezing until Jason and Jasmine screamed in pain, body jerking, the convulsions powerful enough to raise her out of the seat against the weight of her breasts, and she was screaming as the monitors plunged to four, then back up to six, a leap to nine, body vibrating faster, Douglas and Cypher running to try and hold her down, and Pamela grabbing the red syringe again as the indicator fell to two, the scream reaching higher and louder as the monitor surged back to three, fell to two, reached higher, plummeted to one, they tried to pull her down, Pamela raced towards her, readying the syringe �

��� � Sadira fell back into the chair, breasts shuddering at the impact, eyelids fluttering � then closing.

��� Pamela risked the tenth of a second it took to check the monitors.

��� They had all stabilized at three.

��� Sadira's eyes weakly opened.

��� "Sadira?"� Pamela held her right wrist, verifying the pulse.� They were all there with her, at her sides, waiting.� "How do you feel?"�����

��� The words were weak, her voice shattered by the pain.� "It's more like � how I don't feel."

��� "How's that?" Jason whispered.

��� "Hungry."� And a small smile crossed her face.

��� Pamela started to say "I'd better take those samples," and got as far as "I" before throwing the rest of the sentence away, dropping the syringe, and going in for the hug again, and everyone was there with her, somehow they were all hugging Sadira or each other, there was definitely a question as to who had who, somewhere in there Sadira got a Powerbar out and threw it across the room, but they all had each other, all crying and laughing and ready to live...

   

43

144.0383561:� A moment in time

 

�� �"Hi, Mom.� I know I was supposed to call on the fifth.� Well, I haven't been in the apartment lately.� Things have been a little busy.� I just wanted to tell you that I'll be home tomorrow."� Sadira gave the hotel phone an awkward look.� "No, everything's fine at work now.� It wasn't before, but � Mom, this really isn't something I can discuss over the phone.� Well � ah � I'm going to be bringing some friends � Jasmine's coming with me!"� The words leapt into the break created by the shock.� "Do you want to talk to her?"� Without waiting for an answer, she thrust the phone at Jasmine.

��� Jasmine slowly took the phone and shot Sadira a wry glance.� "Thanks a lot, sis."� She raised the receiver.� "Hi, Mom.� Yeah, it's me!� Sadira and I will be home around nine.� We're leaving in about two hours on a red eye."� Another glance at Sadira.� "No, she isn't sick.� I'm not either.� Mom � this is � I can't really talk about this.� We'll just tell you when we get there.� Nothing's wrong.� We've just got some relatively minor things to work out.� Well, they're kind of minor by comparison..."� Jasmine desperately thrust the phone back to Sadira.

��� Sadira held it up, blurted out, "Love you, Mom!" and hung up.

��� They both stared at the phone.

��� Jasmine said, "She's standing in the kitchen right now, staring at the phone, wondering what the fuck would put us in the same room."

��� Sadira smiled.� "You know anything we could have come up with is going to be more believable than the truth."

��� A slow smile.� "Maybe we should have told her we were getting married."

��� They both giggled.� "Compared to what I do have to tell her, that might be easier.� Mom might eventually be happy I've found someone � maybe even two someones � but Dad..."

��� "He'll scream, and he'll yell, and then he'll let you do what you want to.� That's what happened when I told him I was going to dance."

��� "Yeah, but he knew you would do it anyway.� I'm going to have a harder time."

��� "Just tell him you'll pay for the wedding.� Weddings.� How are you three going to work that?"

��� "No idea."� Sadira grinned.� "Right now, our main concern is finding a really big bed."

��� Jasmine smiled back � then paused.� "I just pictured their faces when they see you.� Maybe we should just try to explain the really tough stuff before the shock wears off."

��� "Good idea.� That'll give us an extra hour to think of something to say about that.� I haven't come up with anything in two days..."

��� Jasmine sighed and reached for Sadira's bra.� "Well, let's get you dressed for the flight."� She glanced at the instructions.� "This is actually starting to make sense."

��� Sadira looked at the booklet.� "At least there are instructions."� They'd been removed from the Cascade shipment:� the Shaw name was everywhere.� "I hope I memorize these faster than Rice-a-Roni."

��� "You'll get more practice."� They started putting the bra on.� Sadira glanced down at the visible portion of her breasts.

��� She had found privacy � and a full-length mirror � in the bathroom that morning, so had stood up for a look.� Standing hadn't been easy:� she hadn't realized just much extra energy she'd been channeling until her levels had dropped back to normal � but she'd done it, forcing herself temporarily upright against nearly a hundred and twenty pounds of extra mass.� Sadira considered it to be a good sign.

��� Her breasts had descended just past her knees, but most of the last surge of growth had gone forward and out to the sides.� Lifted and corralled into the bra, she stuck out several feet to the front, and they were so much wider than her body even near the base, swelling out even further to the sides as they moved towards their distant ends...

��� But now she could think of them as her breasts, for more than a few seconds at a time.� They were no longer visibly changing day by day.� She could start getting used to them.� It would be a long, hard process � but she would have all the help she needed.

��� And Jasmine, who had been on a creative streak, was coming up with more possibilities for the bedroom...

��� "So how does it look?"

��� "Better than the muu-muus."� Sadira appreciatively looked at the garment.� Jasmine had put together her sewing skills, Sadira's measurements, a large bolt of grey fabric, and two hours of careful work.� The result was a passable sweater.� "I finally decided what I want to spend some of the money on." She grinned.� "Shirts.� Sweaters.� Suits.� Coats.� A really big Mets jacket.� Nothing with flowers or fruit.� Money is no object.� Customize everything."

��� "It's in your budget," Jasmine agreed.� "How about a bathing suit?"

��� "Good point.� We're going to have the pool.� Maybe Ms Shaw:� she can build in the supports."

��� "Too bad."� Sadira looked up at her.� "Well, that means it has to be a one-piece.� I was picturing you in a really strong bikini..."

��� Sadira winced.� "I'm still trying to figure how we're going to work the wedding dresses.� And Pamela will insist on wearing black..."

 

��� They finished getting Sadira dressed just as Jason and Pamela walked in.� "Got everything?" Pamela asked.� "Douglas is waiting downstairs with Cypher."

��� Jasmine nodded.� "I cleaned out every towel in my room."

��� "You're a multi-millionaire," Jason pointed out.� "You can afford towels."

��� "It's a collection," Jasmine defended.� "I've got one from every hotel I've ever been to."

��� Pamela arched an eyebrow.� "Then why take them all?"

��� "Backups," Jasmine explained thoroughly, and went into the bathroom to see if she'd missed any color variants.

��� Sadira wheeled over to the hotel desk and grabbed her notebook.� "I can't forgot this.� I'll finish it after we explain everything to my parents."

��� "And then to my parents," Jason added.� He didn't sound like he was looking forward to the experience.

��� "My mom," Pamela added, "and done.� Sadira won the dice toss:� New York first, even if your parents are closer."

��� Jason shook his head.� "I mind?� It gives me more time to think of something.� Your mother sounds like she might accept this.� Sadira and Jasmine can go in together.� I'm a dead man."

��� Sadira smiled.� "Does that mean you want to forget it?"

��� Jason returned the expression.� "Not a chance.� But it may be a while before we can visit for the holidays..."

��� Pamela groaned.� "Don't bring that up.� It's hard enough juggling family commitments for two.� We're going to need a computer to work out the schedules.� We might have to alienate someone to stay sane."� Her eyes twinkled.� "And you're forgetting something, Mouse.� We all face our respective families together.� They can't beat us all.� No one can."

��� Jason heaved an exaggerated sigh, then nodded.� "Then you can stand at the front when we face my parents.� I'll be hiding at the back."

��� "Behind what?" Sadira asked.

��� "I don't know.� I could always try to crouch down behind you..."� Jason blushed.

��� "Oh, is it going to be fun when we get him in bed," Pamela decided.� "I bet he turns out to be as good as you.� Look at that color."

��� Sadira examined Jason's face.� "Would you say that's more apple or rose?"

��� Jason affectionately glared at Pamela.� "Like the human stoplight can talk."� Pamela glared right back at him.� Jasmine walked between them.

��� "Everyone's got everything, right?"� They quickly engaged in a last-second search of the room, and concluded that if they'd missed anything, it was probably too late anyway.� "Let's head out."

 

��� Pamela glanced at her watch as they waited for the elevator.� "Nine o' clock.� It shouldn't be long now."

��� "We've still got nearly two hours to catch that flight," Jasmine reminded her.� "There shouldn't be much traffic on a Saturday night.� And it's a charter:� the pilot won't leave without us."

��� Sadira smiled.� "I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to squeeze into one of those seats..."

��� Pamela shook her head.� "It's a very wheelchair-friendly plane:� Douglas made sure of that.� There's special clamps for the wheels, and lots of room:� he went on the plane and measured.� But that's not what I was talking about."� She looked down at Sadira.� "Remember that little surprise I had planned?"� Sadira nodded.� "I was just thinking about the timing.� Late on a Saturday � when everyone would be resting � and on the thirteenth of April.� I just wish it was a Friday."

���� "Pamela," Jason said carefully, "what did you do?"

��� "Me?� Nothing.� Cypher and Douglas did most of the real work.� Jasmine helped." She looked at the floor indicator panel.� Everything was still stuck on 2.� They were on 15.� "To start with, Cypher wiped out some of the electronic records of you two at the company, and Douglas destroyed the paperwork.� As far as employment goes, you two purchased your bonds and left on March fourteenth."

��� "And then there was that bill of sale," Jasmine added.� "I think I lost my copy."

��� "Ivory..."� Jason and Sadira together.

��� "Well �" A glance at the indicator lights.� The central elevator had moved up to 4.� "Basically, the company got sold off completely, the names of some people who don't exist are in the records for the sales, everything was bearer bonds, so no one knows who has the money � we're going to take a major hit from the IRS when we deposit this:� we'd better find a good accountant..."

��� Jasmine looked at Pamela.� "I'm going to tell them if you don't."

��� Pamela shrugged.� "Well, about an hour ago, after we got the last bunch of bonds, Cypher pressed a button.� At 11:30, the police and news agencies are going to get hit with a ton of Email � including pictures � detailing crimes, evidence locations, and where they go to pick up the people who committed then.� We put together enough for all of it to stick.� A lot of people are going to jail for life.� Mass murder, after all.� The trial should be something.� They'll probably run it on Court TV.� We'd better get cable."

��� Jason and Sadira's eyes widened.� Pamela added.� "All of the evidence for the information release leads back to a computer bomb planted by Angel Carmody.� He was killed by the owners to keep him quiet, but they didn't know about the computer program.� He'll be a hero.

��� "And in case someone decides to get cute � well, everyone at the meeting, and everyone we were going to blacklist, was infected with one half of an airborne binary virus, by us or by our agents.� We've been immunized.� They weren't.

��� "All of the ex-owners have computers, and all of the employees we went after, and they all have Email addresses.� Since Thursday night, they've all been getting little messages reminding them that at any moment, someone could open a bag of chips near them and release a puff of air carrying the second half � and if anything happens to us, or they even mention us, that's what happens to them, guaranteed.� Douglas wrote out the details of how they would go.� It looks just like a stroke, but it's a lot more painful.� And then the message releases its computer virus and erases itself.� Cypher checked:� everyone's picked up their mail � so he released the hounds."

��� "That's impossible," Sadira told her.� "No virus works like that �"

��� "� they know that?"� Snow leopard.� "I told them you built it. �They think you're capable of anything.� Ebony, I promised them I wouldn't call the cops.� I always keep my promises.� Cypher hit the button."

��� Jason started laughing first.� Everyone else had joined in by the time the elevator finally arrived.

 

��� Douglas was setting up a odd-looking camera on a tripod in the parking lot.� A current of warm air washed across them as they exited the hotel through the double-doors.� Montana was moving into a spell of good weather:� the temperature was in the low fifties.� Jason had been unable to use it as an argument for settling in Montana.� He hadn't even tried to fight very hard:� they were going to live in New York.

��� "What's this?" Sadira asked as she wheeled closer.� The camera was very odd:� unreasonably wide and tall, with six slots in the front and three flashes.

��� "It's called a copy camera," Douglas said.� "More of a novelty item than anything else.� I picked it up yesterday.� It takes the light from one picture and imprints it onto several rolls of film at once.� This one does standard and instant pictures.� I wanted to get a photo of us all before we departed.� We will all have a copy instantly � I will develop the standard film for myself.� I assumed you would want an immediate extra to enclose for your cousin."� Sadira nodded gratefully.

��� Douglas straightened and looked at the threesome.� "I've lined up an assignment in San Francisco.� I have no interest in taking credit for the images that went out in the mail.� I think I'd rather go back to my old new life, even with my overly-generous windfall � and that will start it again."� He looked at the camera.� "If I can just get this thing to cooperate, we can strike our pose."� He went back to adjusting it.

��� Cypher stepped away from the wall and approached them.� "You guys are going back to work soon, right?"

��� Sadira nodded.� "But we're going to take a few weeks off first.� We have to explain things to our parents, and then spend some time with each other."� She glanced at Jasmine.� "We've got some more catching up to do."�� A long look at her lovers.� "And a lot of things to figure out."

��� "But you're not cured," Cypher reminded her.� "Can you guys take that time?"

��� The expression was one of loving exasperation:� she understood the concern, but...� "We can't spend our whole lives in a lab.� And we've bought a lot of time.� I'm still growing � but at a normal rate.� It's no faster than it would have been as a teenager."

��� "That could still be pretty fast," Jasmine reminded her.� "I put on seven inches when I was fourteen."

��� Sadira laughed, long and hearty.� "Oh no, seven inches in a year!� And to think it used to take me forty-two hours to pull that off!� Jasmine, just wearing the same size bra for a month is going to be a luxury.� We've got that time now.� We'll find the answer.� If it takes a year �"� Sadira grinned.� "I don't think most people can spot the difference between 144 and 151 too easily."� Her voice momentarily dropped into wry tones.� "At this point, what's a few more pounds?"� Jasmine caught the note and nodded.� "Mom will put together that program for me, and eventually, whatever it takes, I will be back on my feet."

��� "Aunt Susan is flying in on Tuesday," Pamela added.� "We're going to get Sadira custom-fitted, and go for that back brace."

��� "Anything you need," Jason said.� "Always and forever, no matter what happens."

��� "Lovers, partners, and friends," Sadira concluded � then had a thought.� "We're going to need a new name."

��� "I was thinking about that," Jason told her.� "I'll go with Archer."� Pamela nodded.

��� "No, our company!� We're all equal partners now.� We can build up the seventh floor into something great, but we're going to need a good name."

��� "What's wrong with Terragen?"

��� "Ivory, it sounds like a spice."

��� They all considered that.

��� Cypher responded first.� "How about initials?"

��� Pamela considered.� "Shaw, Archer, Pterros.� Sap.� I'll pass."

��� Jasmine's eyes went wide.� "Switch the first two.� Asp."� Pamela recognized the grin type.� "Dangerous when handled incorrectly."

��� "Aspgen," Pamela mulled.

��� "Now we sound like a ski resort," Sadira pointed out.

��� Pamela shook her head.� "I like it.� Mouse?"� Confirmation.� "All in favor?"� Two hands went up.� "You're outvoted."� She looked at Jason.� "I like this arrangement.� Three can't tie."

��� Sadira groaned.� "I knew I was going to regret this..."

��� "Got it ready!" Douglas called out.� "Start getting in position.� Everyone line up in front of the camera, anyway you like.� This is a spontaneous photo, after all."� He smiled at Sadira.� "We'll teach you how to be professional later."

��� "Douglas, give up."

��� "The most gallant pursuits are the futile ones.� The most noble are those that still come true," Douglas philosophized.� "One day, Sadira, you will be ready.� And you as well, Pamela."

��� Pamela groaned.� "You know, the way he says it, it almost makes sense..."

��� "All right," Sadira decided.� "Help me up."

��� "Sadira, your back �" Jason started �

��� � and Sadira cut him off.� "I'm on my feet for this one.� Each of you take one side and help support me.� I've been practicing.� If I use you two for balance and you brace my back, I can stand up long enough for the photo."

��� Jason sighed and went to remove the board.

��� "You've been practicing?" Pamela accused as she reached down, taking the right side.� "You kept taking that risk after I caught you the first time?"

��� "That sounds a little weird coming from a woman who took five bullets.� Not to mention three darts.� Now you can buy the first drink at Fancy That on Friday."

��� "All the drinks are free," Jason reminded her, moving to Sadira's left.

��� "Then she can buy the van that gets us there."

��� "Fair enough."� They carefully lifted Sadira.� Cypher scrambled behind them and pushed the chair clear.

��� "Where do I go..." Jasmine mused.� "Got it.� Cypher, come around here.� I'll sit in front of Jason �"� she did so, then scrambled sideways, getting out of the shadow of Sadira's breasts, and turned so that her body was in profile to the camera.� "Sadira, tilt over a bit.� Let the camera see some forward projection.� Kay won't get the best view with that angle."

��� "Jasmine �"

��� "You've got it.� Lots of it.� Start flaunting it a little."

��� Sadira started to protest � and found herself being angled.� "Hey!"

��� "She's right," Pamela said.� She and Jason continued to adjust position.� "A little here and there won't hurt.� It'll help your ego. Believe me, if you get out of control, we'll let you know.� Besides, I think it'll look better."

��� "Jason?"

��� "Two against one again," was his reply.� They finished the shift.

��� "Great..."

��� Cypher looked at Jasmine's position.� "Okay, I get it.� So I sit in front of Pamela and turn like this �"

��� "� that's about it," Jasmine agreed.� "Lean forward a little.� You've got a good profile:� show it off."

��� Douglas looked at their poses.� "And there is no place I can go where I won't unbalance the arrangement," he said ruefully.� "I did say spontaneous.� I would lie down in front like a bathing beauty, but that would do the aesthetics no good."

�� "Just go on the left," Jasmine said.� "I don't think anyone's going to worry about it."

��� "None but me," Douglas good-naturedly grumbled.� He gave his settings a final check.

��� "I'm going to have to work out more," Pamela decided.� "You're not easy to carry, Ebs."

��� "She feels pretty light to me," Jason said.

��� Sadira glanced at them both.� "You're barely letting my feet touch the floor."� She focused on Pamela as Douglas approached.� "I wish you would grow your hair long."

��� "Are you kidding?� I'd look like an avalanche in progress."

��� "I think it would look sexy."� A significant glance at Jason.� "Mouse?"� Jason nodded.� "You're outvoted."

��� Pamela winced.� "And it was so much fun until now..."

��� "All right!"� Douglas started moving into position.� "One minute left for me to find a better spot �"

��� Sadira looked to the right, at the edge of the camera's view.� Angel should be standing there.� The guilt began to rise.� He died because of me...

�� �But soon, the entire world will see him as a hero.� He would have liked that.� He deserves that.� And if she looked hard enough, concentrated, she could call him out of memory, and he wasn't average at all.� He was handsome, dynamic, and there was an expression on his face:� quiet satisfaction.

��� Better to die a hero than live as a slave, the inner voice said � and she wasn't sure it was hers. �No one else will die because of GenTree:� no more 'testing' on innocent people, and the ones responsible will finally pay.� One of them already has.� It was a good death, better than life.

��� � and was that just imagination, now?� Could she see him there?� For a second, it seemed as if she could �

��� � and the guilt faded away.

��� Douglas gave up and settled in on Jason's left.� "About fifteen seconds, people!� Settle in!"� Cypher fidgeted.

��� Sadira turned her head to smile at Douglas, the smile he had said was so beautiful, and the expression was returned in kind and feeling.� Another to Cypher, and he settled in.

��� She looked at Jason and Pamela, who were getting ready for the camera, then Jasmine, who was already perfectly prepared.

�� �After all these years, I finally have a sister.� And I found out that I could be loved, that I am loved, more than I ever would have believed possible.� I have two people who will be with me forever, always loving, and we'll never be alone again.

��� "Smiles, everyone!"

��� The books are closed, but the scales aren't balanced.� They tilt towards me �

��� "In three, two, one �"

���� � because it was worth it after all.

                       

Closing Credits

 

Cast

 

Starring:

 

Sadira Scheherazade Archer..............................voiced by Jenine Rideri

Jasmine Pirouze Archer................................................Susan Cangelosi

Jason Pterros..................................................................Jonathan Trask

Pamela Anne Shaw...........................................................Kimberly Reed

 

 

Featuring:

 

Angel Carmody....................................................................Cullan Reese

Cypher (William Gates)............................................................Ty Risken

Kyle Nigilo................................................................Nathaniel Landborn

Douglas Pollota...........................................................Thomas Stevenson

 

 

With (speaking parts only):

 

Airline Ticket Agent............................................................ Trent Wilson

Bartender at Fancy That..............................................Alan Stonebender

Billings Cabbie...................................................................Peter Sanford

Billings Ticket Agent.................................................................Ed Smith

Citizen Negotiator..............................................................Lincoln Tirelli

Delivery Man......................................................................Vincent Lyons

Female Computer Technician............................................Ellen Sanders

Guard on Fire!..........................................................................Cal Hawk

Guard in Lab........................................................................Jake Rommel

Male Computer Technician................................................Niles Hardesty

Minneapolis Cabbie.........................................................Maria De Roche

Waitress at Al's Barn..........................................................Anna Ragatini

Women in Stairwell............................................................Naia Verwoerd

Young Lady on Train........................................................Betty Robinson

Harold Adams.........................................................................Jack Cohen

Olivia Anderson..................................................................Kaitlin Frakes

Roger Barker............................................................................Colin Swift

Neil Benning......................................................................Virgil Clawfoot

Gordon Danson...............................................................Raymond Glasso

Mikhail Davtenkirtch.............................................................Joseph Race

Thomas Desparin...............................................................Clifford House

Carter Fallo...........................................................................Devlin Torve

Henry Ipswitch.....................................................................Max Simpson

Paul Jonas........................................................................Harold LaLonde

Elmora King............................................................................Alice James

Emmitt Lewis...................................................................Cameron Denver

Calvin Menken................................................................Kenneth Murphy

Peter Miral...........................................................................Michael Paris

Stan Price...................................................................................Roger Lee

Angela Rockford........................................................Barbara Haversham

Carlos Santini........................................................................Archie Fideo

Claire Shalm....................................................................Stephanie Alasin

Victor Shalm.................................................................Mikhail Rodreguiz

Alex Stanis..............................................................................Gene Bavasi

Ron Swensen......................................................................Amos Atchison

Fred Temperi...............................................................................Bob Sudi

Lisa Trevor..........................................................................Cristene Culizi

Grace Windsor................................................................Clarissa Wheeler

Stan Zindel..........................................................................Richard Farze

   

And quantum-jumping without a license:

 

Kimberly Reed................................................................................Herself

Melanie Skyler................................................................................Herself

   

��� All characters (with the following exceptions) and unique locations such as GenTree Research in this story are copyrighted to Sam Tuirel, and may not be used without permission.� Ask politely, because I also reserve the right to withdraw permission at any time.� And I'll want to go over your drafts.

� ��Since everyone should copyright a phrase, I'll take "Inches are bunk."� Not that anyone else would use it...

��� The characters of Kay Archer, Rick Danby, Charlotte Davenport, and Susan Shaw are copyright to SortaDog, which means you get to ask him.� Permission was granted for their use in this story, and thanks are hereby given once again.

��� However, the Fancy That club chain wishes it to be known that they will open a new branch wherever their services are needed.� But the spirit of the clubs must be kept:� they are places of rest, respite, laughter, and healing.� If not, the bouncers will show up.

   

The author wishes to thank the following

people and organizations:

 

�� �SortaDog, in all his aliases.� This story could not have been written without his willingness to help with this crazy idea, reading it chapter by chapter as it came out, making suggestions, spotting typos, and trying to keep my spirits up all the way through.� None of those were easy tasks.� I cannot give him enough credit for his assistance � but that's not a problem.� I'm sure he'll take plenty on his own

���

��� The National Library of Medicine at Bethesda, Maryland, which, although they probably wondered what the $%^^ I was up to, was gracious enough not to ask.

 

��� Cheyenne Chaste Moon, for chosing not to rip apart the story in her R & D review column.� She choose to rip apart the original ASCII symbols instead.� Cheyenne, the RTF version is complete, and now the HTML version is up, thanks to ErikZ.� Those of you with stock in CVS may want to sell it:� the price will drop now that I'm buying less aspirin...

 

��� Everyone who wrote in while the story was being posted, week by week, or said good things about it in the right areas � including those on IRC who asked if I was the one writing Sadira's story, and I had to figure out whether admitting it was a good thing or a bad thing...� If I tried to list all of you, I'd forget someone, and get screamed at later, so I'll use the old awards trick:� you know who you are.

 

��� Flashdancers New York, for the look backstage which turned into the dressing room at Al's Barn.

 

��� The Manhattan branch of Fancy That.� Thanks, Grace:� should it worry me a little that you let me in that fast?� Of course, now people aren't going be sure whether I'm serious or not...� But I'd like to think that if you go walking in the Maze region of Manhattan, you might find a white door with brass numbers and a golden doorknob.� You never know.� People have found Callahan's.

   

The author wishes to not thank the following people:

 

��� My neighbors.� All of them.� Look, people, I've talked to you about this.� Sure, blasting your stereo at three in the morning does let me get more writing time in, and I'm sure that you're just squealing your tires down the street as a means of testing your brakes, and that rancid beer smell coming from your house is homemade perfume � but you can't hide in there forever.� You've got to come out eventually to buy more beer.� I will get you.� Wise up while there's still time.

   

Soundtrack

 

��� The author associates certain songs with certain characters.� While the author doesn't have the legal right to put together a soundtrack for sale or the equipment to do so if permission was granted � the author can certainly say what music was associated at the time of writing.� Every reader will pick their own songs to link in, but I'd suggest going heavy on Chicago and Bat Out Of Hell II, with bits of Van Halen and Survivor here and there.� Instrumental themes are usually fragmentary, as are many vocal songs:� cut and paste whatever is needed.� Some of my musical associations were:

   

Chapter 2.� Rude awakenings

 

It just won't quit, Meatloaf.� [Sadira thinking about the virus]

 

4.� Jason hears a "What!"

 

Making love out of nothing at all, Air Supply:� Jason's song.� [while waiting for the red-eye flight]

 

6.� City mice, country mice

 

Modern Woman, Soundtrack, Ruthless People [playing on the airport system during Jason's phone call]

 

11.� Four of the three musketeers

 

The mountain, Soundtrack, Star Trek V �[Sadira at the door through the reunion]

 

12.� Tutorial programs (remedial division)

 

Keeper of the flame,� Martin Page:� Pamela's song.� [waiting for the tub to fill]

 

13.� The court of last resort

 

She's A Beauty, The Tubes:� Jasmine's song.� [playing in Al's Barn when Sadira walks in]

 

14.� The curbs of Philadelphia

 

Ride of the Valkyries, Wagner.� [on the car radio during the chase]

 

23.� Sic transit Sadira

 

Swamps of Sadness, The NeverEnding Story soundtrack [Sadira's dream]

Sacrifice, Elton John [Jason takes the accelerator]

 

26.� Dear Kay,

 

Hold on to the nights, Richard Marx� [writing about Jason and Pamela]

 

29.� Further developments

 

Broken wings, Mr. Mister� [Sadira looks at the wheelchair]

 

30.� Construction work (column #6)

 

1984, Van Halen:� Carmody's theme.� [during the Internet search]

 

31.� TransAtlantic DataFlow

 

When I'm back on my feet again, Michael Bolton [Sadira working out]

 

35.� Cascade failure

 

Break it down again, Tears for Fears� [Pamela looking at through the fence at the Cascade site]

 

36.� Dungeon crawl

 

Christmas Eve Sarajevo, Savatage� [the whole chapter.� In fact, if read at just the right pace...]

 

39.� Sisters

 

Hard to say I'm sorry, Chicago� [Jasmine tries to reconcile with Sadira]

 

42.� Roll the bones

 

Poor unfortunate soul, instrumental end, The Little Mermaid Soundtrack [Sadira is hit by the decelerator virus]

 

43.� A moment in time

 

When it's love, Van Halen, instrumental opening.� [getting into position for the photo]

 

��� Every reader will find their own soundtrack � but if you have an extensive musical library and ever decide to try a re-read, give those a shot.

   

Semi-joking statement

 

��� The preceding novel has been shareware.� If you have enjoyed what you have read, please send me five dollars.

   

Serious statement

 

��� I am, however, curious as to who got to the end of this.� You deserve a medal � or at the very least, a hearty congratulations and thanks.� (And I confess to wanting some kind of readership count...)� So even if you favored me with a letter before, or you read this years after the completion date, I'd love to see a simple "Done" appear in my Email.� Add any other comments you like.� Be warned:� I write back.� The address shall remain [email protected].�

��� I would also love to see an illustrated version of this story, if only for me � then again, I know what they look like, so it would probably be for everyone else.� I certainly wouldn't mind seeing a few people contribute out of the goodness of their hearts...� Feel free to send a sample in, and we'll talk.� I'm somewhat curious as to what you feel they look like.

   

About the Author

 

��� Sam Tuirel oscillates between anima and animus fast enough to get whiplash, so goes for gender-neutral pronouns on the Internet.� (Besides, everyone seems to have a favorite opinion and vision of what s/he looks like:� why� ruin everyone�s fun?)� S/he�s realized that any goal of becoming Actually Published is summarily doomed � and, since Summarily Doomed is actually a genre these days, is leaning towards doing something in the field of horror-fantasy.� Online, of course.

�� When not staring at a computer screen in frustration, Sam takes long drives at night, listens to baseball games � often at the same time � reads more than is probably good for hir, and even makes a living somewhere along the way.� S/he doesn't drink, smoke, or take drugs, feeling no need for artificial assistance to be insane.� S/he is, however, a Mets fan, and in any quanta where the team exists, will make one of the characters a follower, because if s/he has to suffer...

��� S/he practices an odd sort of moral code where s/he is polite, helpful, gracious, and chews out those idiots who bring three shopping carts into the 12 Items Or Less line.� Hir sense of humor can be slightly drier than the Sahara in August, and s/he's a dirtier fighter than Pamela.

��� Sam continues to reside in New Jersey and is depressingly single. �S/he occasionally suspects those two facts are related.