Sadera Part 1

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 sam_tuirel@nac.net, 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 naïve 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?"

    "Whiteout@erl.net.  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.