Sadera Part 2

20

62:  Probability reversal

 

    Sadira woke to find Pamela sitting up in bed, wireless headphones on, with her gun at her side.  She was alternating glances at the door and the television set.  Sadira focused on the second —    

    — managed to look away for a moment, to where they'd piled Jasmine's bags.  The duffel that held the merchandise was open.  The tape case was on top of a pillow.

    Pamela turned at Sadira's movements, and her face held nothing but passive neutrality.  "Four positions and three lines," she said evenly.  "And she flubbed the lines."  She shrugged.  "I was very bored and when I turned on a light to read by, the Mouse started waking up.  Waste of time.  Sorry:  I didn't think you were going to wake up this early."

    Sadira found herself looking at the screen again.  Pamela reached for the remote, ready to turn it off.

    "I've seen it," Sadira told her.  "I walked in on her once.  This isn't much different."  She got up and headed for the bathroom.  Pamela turned off the set.

    Well, she thought, glancing at the sleeping Princess, if nothing else, she's limber.  Jason stirred.  Pamela reached for the case and crawled across the bed, reaching for the VCR.  She was going to replace the movie before the Princess saw what she'd been up to.

 

    "I don't think we're anywhere near the Museum of Modern Art.  We should have paid more attention to the subway map."

    "Well, that homeless person was sleeping in front of it.  I just didn't want to get that close."  Claire shaded her eyes and looked around.  If the neighborhood could be described as any sort of artwork, it was a Dada painting:  randomly picked chaotic elements with no intention of achieving a coherent whole.  The only consistent factor was decay.  "Nearly a week late starting our vacation and now we can't even find anything.  You should have taken that map from the token booth."

    "I didn't because you told me there was a map in every car.  We could have —"  Vic stopped and took a deep breath.  "We're on vacation.  We are finally, almost miraculously on vacation, and I'm not going to spend it fighting with my wife."  He looked around the street, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of the people standing around — and leaning — and sleeping on the sidewalk...  Vic reached out and hugged his wife.  "This was supposed to keep us from falling apart, remember?  To get outside the hospital?  I think I can see Central Park from here, and the Museum is supposed to be on the eastern side:  what say we just take a nice romantic walk until we spot the place?"

    Claire pulled back slightly, but only so she could look directly at his face, her skin seeming to glow in the morning sun.  "Was that a proposal, Mr. Shalm?"

    "No," he said, "that was a proposition.  If the day goes well, we may get to the proposal around noon."

    She smiled.  "We may not wait that long..." and kissed him.  "But not here.  Let's get out of this neighborhood."

    Victor laughed.  "Right!  No point stirring up the locals."  They started down the street, sighting on the trees, walking hand in hand. 

    Claire allowed herself a smile:  maybe the rest would do them some good.  She might be able to forget the roving eye Vic had been developing — and, although she wasn't going to admit it to him, her own tendency to look around for more than a brief glance.  She'd realized the need for time with her husband when she'd spent four minutes treating a twenty-second leg scrape on a college student so she could enjoy the view of his butt...

    But they'd made it to Manhattan at last, with no train derailment and medical mystery to slow them down this time.  Vic had spent two days fuming about his conversation with GenTree and the girl's escape, but he'd finally settled down and rescheduled everything.  Together, and he was holding her hand tightly, as if the bit of danger added a little spice to the day.

    She didn't realize Vic had stopped dead until his hand didn't move forward with her:  she was nearly pulled off her feet, jerked back and sideways, nearly knocking her husband over.  "Victor Shalm —!"

    "Shh!"  A fierce whisper.  He was staring across and up the street, looking at four people slowing their pace as they came up to a very shabby building.  Rather, he was looking at one of them.  A very, very large-breasted one...

    "Victor," she hissed.  "I'm over here."

    "That's the same woman," he whispered.  "The exact same one, with the black hair!"

    Claire's anger faded long enough for her to focus — and then she kept looking.  Her eyesight was perfect:  even from across the street, she could make out the features of the young woman who had collapsed on the cold ground, and later run as if she'd been set afire.  The face was the same, the hair, height — but the bustline had undergone a drastic increase.

    She felt her jaw start to drop, and gathered it in.  "That is her," Claire whispered back.  "You couldn't get two faces like that."

    "Want to bet?" Vic replied.  "Look at the blonde."  Claire did.  The breasts seemed smaller, but the face was a near-exact match.  Of the other two, the man was turning towards the door, and she couldn't quite see his face.  The fourth was completely swathed in black cloth, but was obviously female.  Very obviously.  It was a macromastia convention.

    "That's got to be padding," she argued, wanting to believe it.  "No one can grow that much in less than a week..."

    "I don't think so," Vic answered.  The blonde woman looked as if she was starting to feel eyes on her.  "Let's go."  They hurriedly walked down the street.

    Jasmine spotted them as they were about to turn the corner, but thought nothing of it.  She didn't think that scouts would go out in teams or run after being spotted (they'd walk casually away to avoid suspicion) — so she didn't think of scouts at all.  She saw a middle-aged white couple in good clothes rushing to get out of Alphabet City, which was something she could understand completely.  Jasmine didn't see it as being worth mentioning.  And she didn't.

 

    Carmody had gone to the bathroom.  It was the only reason Nigilo could think of for his being out of the office.  He was, for all intents and purposes, living in his chair, but it didn't have a built-in toilet.  Nigilo didn't think he'd get very far proposing a new type of office seat at the next board meeting.

    He walked around the desk, waiting for his assistant to return.  They had been getting together at the end of each day to discuss the latest results — or, realistically, the continuing lack of results — and formulate a plan for the next day's attack.  The talks hadn't produced the result Nigilo wanted, but he was determined to continue them.  If nothing else, it helped him focus his thoughts.

    The phone rang.

    If it was someone calling in a report, there was no sense in waiting for Carmody to return to get the information — and Carmody didn't get personal calls.  Nigilo picked up the receiver.

    "GenTree Research."

    "Is Carmody there?"  He didn't know the voice, but it was angry, tense:  none of his employees would talk to him that way.

    "He's out at the moment.  This is his superior."

    The tone was fluctuating, as if tension and relief were warring in every syllable.  "Good.  Then maybe I can get some straight answers out of you.  This is Victor Shalm; I spoke to Carmody earlier in the week.  Who I am speaking with?"

    Nigilo stiffened.  He remembered Shalm very well:  he remembered the whole incident at the hospital, and the second phone call, which Carmody had given him word for word.  But why call now?  He'd said he couldn't prove anything.  Had he taken some sort of cell sample and actually deduced what was happening?  Carefully, carefully... "Victor, my name is Kyle Nigilo.  I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Kyle:  that might help repair whatever damage my assistant has done.  What can I help you with?"

    The relief was winning out:  Shalm was obviously happy to get someone who was at least willing to put forth the semblance of honesty.  "Do you know what I was originally speaking to your assistant about?"

    "Yes.  No need to waste time on a rehash."

    Barking laughter.  "Good.  Well, I went on my own vacation, and spotted your little vacationer again —"

    Years of lying, years of deception, his knowledge of the prior conversation, an entire career reached synergy.  "Victor, if you've seen Sadira Archer, then you may be responsible for saving a life.  I need you to tell me exactly where she was and what she was doing."

    A long pause.  "Whose life?  Does she have something spreadable?"

    "No, thank God."  He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength to force out the truth.  "Sadira is one of our top geneticists, and she really is on vacation at the moment — but the day she left, she was accidentally infected by a proto-virus.  From what our researchers have been able to tell, the virus was one of the trial runs from her own metabolic research:  it's accelerating her body functions.  There's also a radical degree of breast hypertrophy — and dementia."  He paused and took another breath:  so hard and yet so good to tell the truth at last...

    "It took us a while to figure out what had happened to her, and we've been working with the government to bring her back and find a cure.  Yours is the first real clue we've had.  The metabolic effect is increasing:  if we hadn't found her in a few more days, she would have —" he put a small pause in, just enough time to choke back false pain.  "— she would have died.  But if we can find her, treat her, then we might be able to save her.  The control agencies have been making us work quietly — they don't think the public would believe it can't be passed along.  They wouldn't give Carmody the clearance to tell you the first time, and we were too late.  If you can tell me where you saw her..."

    "Dementia?  She ran out of the hospital like she was possessed."  He was buying it, full price from the impulse counter.  He needed someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that his world made sense, and now Nigilo was doing just that.

    "Yes, and getting worse.  We think she may have some awareness of the mental effects, and be working with old college friends to fight it — she may have convinced them that she's in danger:  the dementia also manifests as paranoia."

    "Oh, God."  A very real choking sound.  "I waited the whole day to call because I thought I'd just get lied to again.  If she dies because I didn't call earlier, then —"

    "Victor, it's not your fault.  There's no way you could have known, not with all the secrecy the government's been forcing on us."  When in doubt, blame the authorities.  "They don't seem to feel one young woman's life is worth anything.  Help us prove them wrong."

    And at the other end of the line, sitting in a hotel room, with his wife listening to every word, Victor Shalm told Kyle Nigilo everything he could.  Nigilo helped him bring out the details, speaking reassuringly, calming him when the effort became too much and he again began to blame himself for the delay.  Under his guidance, Vic searched his memory with the determination of a man possessed, somehow dredging out the name of the street, a description of the building, and two digits of the building number.

    Nigilo could think of only two places all four would have to go into — a laboratory or an apartment:  no other reason to haul their test subject around.  And with either location, they were guaranteed to return eventually.

    "Victor, you've just saved a life."  He projected the smile.  "On vacation, no less.  Thank you."

    "She'll be okay?"  The doctor worrying about his patient.

    "We have the counter-virus ready.  All we have to do is get it to her — or her to it, so we can monitor the effects."

    "Thank God."  A long pause.  "Kyle, thanks for the truth."

    "No.  Victor, thank you for saving her life."

 

    Carmody walked back into his office and found Nigilo sitting behind his desk, looking at a series of notes in exceptionally bad handwriting.  Nigilo looked up and smiled, wide, sincere and contented, like a shark who had scented blood from heavily-wounded prey.

    "Game," he began slowly, relishing the moment, "set, and match."  And, taking great delight in every word, he told Carmody exactly what had just transpired.  Carmody stood and listened, his face reflecting none of the joy his boss felt — but then, he was always neutral in Nigilo's presence, no matter what he was feeling.

    "So how do we proceed?" he finally asked.

    "Recover her, of course.  I want a team assembled from the agents we already have in New York.  They'll check the building, they'll check the contents of the building, and then they'll check her off my things-to-do list.  I've been thinking about ways to smuggle her out of New York."  Nigilo held up the note pad.  "They'll probably have to drive out to a private airport:  if we have them drive her back, it'll take nearly three days — they'll certainly notice any growth over that period.  Unless she's stopped — no, let's not take the chance.  Do we have anyone trustworthy on staff who can fly a plane?"

    "I'm not sure, sir.  I'll have to check."

    "All right, but if we don't, just bribe a pilot.  And we'll have to get the facilities at Cascade ready for her.  I should contact the potential sponsors at some point..."  He got up, stretched, and suddenly laughed, head tilted towards the sky.  "Come on, Carmody!  Hurry up and make those calls so I can buy you dinner!"  Nigilo walked around the desk and sat in one of the visitor's chairs, perfectly comfortable, then gestured for Carmody to sit down.

    Carmody sat down, turned on the computer, and began to search the personnel records.

    "It's got to be the lab," Nigilo said.  "No other reason for them to be dragging the lab rat with them in the morning.  By the time we finish setting things up, they'll probably be done for the night.  We'll have to wait for tomorrow morning."  He still had the note pad with him:  a few more words were scribbled.  "I think we can afford to wait.  She's gone to ground:  no further running.  She doesn't know how close we are.  It's something else, Carmody.  All negatives, not a single encouraging word from the East Coast, no sightings at all, and now we pin them down exactly on a phone call from someone we're not even paying!"

    Carmody looked up from the screen.  "Harold Adams in Grafting.  He has a pilot's license, and might know someone to contact for a plane.  A rental, perhaps, under a false name."

    "Sensible," Nigilo said.  He was still in high spirits.  "I'm telling you, Carmody, it's almost enough to make me believe in a benevolent higher power — higher than me, anyway.  I'm feeling so good, I'm going to let Victor Shalm live."

    "Sir?"

    Nigilo grinned hugely.  "It's a joke, Carmody.  He's no danger to anyone.  He knows the virus isn't contagious, he believes it's dangerous, and he thinks he's saved Archer's life.  He also believes the government was involved, and that the matter has to be kept quiet.  Mr. Shalm is not going to talk.  The only real question is who else might open their mouths, and I'm not sure anybody will."

    Carmody carefully listened as Nigilo said "Archer's the key:  Pterros and Shaw are secondary.  We don't need the sister at all.  But the more people we have to transport, the greater the risk.  Maybe we should just concentrate on Archer..."  He looked up from the pad.  "I'm bringing in another phone.  Two people can plot faster than one — and the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat."  He eased out of the seat and headed for the door.  "Lobster, Carmody!"  A smile.  "Now what should I have?"

   

21

66:  Hang together...

 

    Sadira looked at the bra label, then at the mirror, then at the measuring tape.

    The label said 32 LII A.

    She could no longer see the full bulk of her breasts unless she stepped back from the mirror — and, given the size of the bathroom, into the tub.  The basic shape had remained the same throughout the growth, with her size increasing in even proportion in all directions, but there now seemed to be a slight shift, with the newest cells accumulating towards the front of the glands:  somewhat more projection and less descent.  It might be an optical illusion:  things changed fast enough to make keeping exact track difficult.

    At the moment, the lower slopes were well past her navel, heading for her waist — but there was a proportionate amount of forward growth.  Her breasts projected over a foot from her torso even out of the bra, just from sheer mass.  The overall effect was to completely shroud her upper torso:  from the front, the view was mammaries from collarbone to waist, and she could, turned and looking over her shoulder with arms partially raised, catch a reflection of them from the back.  (Or, for that matter, with her arms lowered)  The nipples were semi-erect and still over an inch in length.  On Pamela's recommendation, she'd started wearing Band-Aids over them.

    The measuring tape read sixty-six inches.  She was now quite literally bigger around than she was tall — and, in a flash of raw intuition, she realized that was what Level II meant.

    I should probably tell Pamela.  She'd caught Ivory staring at the Level IIs on occasion with a mixture of confusion and frustration.  Maybe later.  She's already annoyed about being up this early.

    Sadira struggled into the bra — she never got to stick with any size long enough to master it, and the new hip and lower back supports were giving her some trouble.  They'd moved out of Pamela's personal experience, so she got to tackle it alone — and help hadn't been offered.  While Pamela had continued offering advice and thrown herself into the new role of exercise therapist, she hesitated at anything that involved physical contact — sometimes with an odd side glance towards Jason.  Sadira had stopped asking.

    Of course.  I don't find me attractive either.  She finally got the straps aligned and reached for the blouse.  It was the largest one left from their first shopping trip, and it was getting tight.  They'd have to make another run on the Brick S. House.  Or the camping store.  A pup tent might fit.

    "Come on already!"  Jasmine.  "If we're going to do this, let's get going before daylight!"  If she didn't get to enjoy a full night's sleep, no one else got to enjoy the morning.  Sadira could hear Pamela grumbling outside, and Jason rattling pots.

    Yeah.  And if we picked the right place and you used the right booth, we could be there all day.  Sadira toweled her hair and left the bathroom.

 

    "Look, I'll just wait outside.  You three go in without me."  Pamela stared at the stonework.  "I'll yell if anything happens."

    "You're the one who said we should stay together, remember?" Jason insisted.  "And we could all use this."

    "Not me.  I avoid this.  They don't want me here."

    "I'd prefer a Methodist church myself," Sadira said, "but this is what's close by.  I made everyone get up early so I could do this, so let's not stall.  And Pamela — he wants everybody."

    "Don't I get a choice in the matter?"  Sadira pointed down.  "Right, very funny.  I'll be in the foyer."

    "You'll be inside.  Come on.  You told me you believe in God."

    "Sure.  I need someone to blame."

    Jason shook his head.  "Pamela, He doesn't bite."

    Pamela didn't seem to believe it.

    Sadira pointed at the door.  "Ivory.  In."

    Pamela still looked skittish, but quietly went inside with them.

 

    The church held multiple pews and four people:  there were no priests around at the moment.  Each Bible in the pews was attached to the wood by a short, thin chain.  Most of the lit candles had burnt close to the base, and the stained glass was illuminated only by the harsh streetlights outside.  The statue of Jesus looked as if he was loving and suffering as usual, but his head was tilted towards his shoulder, as if he was trying to see someone sneaking up behind the cross.  A streetwise saint.

    By unspoken agreement, the group separated.  Jason went to the front, getting close to the statue.  Pamela, obviously uncomfortable, stayed near the door.  Jasmine just sat in the nearest pew.  Sadira, who had a fondness for candlelight, went to the area with the most burning wicks and carefully knelt down, trying to keep her back straight.  The required medication dosage had been steadily increasing.

    "Hi," she whispered.  On the rare occasions when Sadira prayed, it was always out loud and on a personal basis.  It was easier to talk to a person than some sort of distant, omnipotent, and seemingly aloof being.  "I know it's been a while, but — well, you know what's been happening lately.  I just wanted to —"

    She stopped and looked across at Jason, about fifty feet away.  He was sitting on the floor, hands pressed together and eyes closed.  His lips were still, and he seemed at peace.

    "Once before, I asked to live, and you gave me that — but the price was that I had to live in fear, because anything else I got would kill me unless I could deal with it myself.  Is there always a price?  I thought it was just the other one who made bargains."

    Sadira focused on one of the lights.  There was something comforting about a lit candle:  it was delicate fire, something that seemed to need protection.  It couldn't consume and destroy, only illuminate and guide.

    "I know about all the problems of the world, and the pain suffered by others.  I was trying to solve one of them — and maybe I got sidetracked by jealousy, and the memory of pain.  Maybe the project was about me all along.  But if jealousy is a sin, then the punishment is too extreme for the crime.  I never thought you were petty.  We may be created in your image, but you're not supposed to be flawed."

    A glance back.  Pamela was looking at the door, keeping watch for all of them, and standing as if she hoped to be moving through it soon.

    "I want to live.  I want to be cured.  I want to be loved..."  She looked at the flame again and reached out with her mind, trying to feel something tangible.  "I think you're here:  I don't believe any one religion is right.  We've never been able to do any real testing."  Sadira smiled faintly.  "I just hope that you're listening, and seeing us.  We've all paid the price, in fear and paranoia and..."

    She stopped and looked back to Jasmine.  Her sister had leaned back in the pew, as much as the uncomfortable configuration would allow.  She seemed to be examining the ceiling.

    "If pain is always the price, then we've paid it in full."  The flame danced, flickered, steadied.  "Please," Sadira said simply, and waited.

    She felt nothing in the church, no presence waiting just beyond her normal senses, no flow of love and comfort.  There was only the quiet glow of the candlelight.

    The flame went out.

 

    Gordon was the first to see the lights on the seventh floor.  "Shit!" he said.  "We're dealing with fucking owls!"  Given the description of the building, he'd been able to run down the address, the name of the landlord, and the name of the person renting the space:   all a matter of paperwork, once you knew where to start looking.  You could even do it late on a Saturday night with the right connections, but it took a while.

    By the time they'd confirmed the information and checked in with Nigilo, he'd decided on a morning trip.  They were to get there early in the morning and wait for the four to arrive, then, if it looked like it was going to be easy, pull them off the street.  Gordon, as the senior member of the team, had decided to show up forty-five minutes before sunrise, just in case the targets were early risers — and he got owls.  "So much for grabbing them off the sidewalk," he muttered.

    "Now what?" Carter asked.  "Do we wait around until they're finished for the day and then take them?  Or do we hang out here until they go out for lunch?"

    "If they go out for lunch," Stan pointed out.  "If they're here this early, they may be sleeping in the lab and working in shifts.  The doc might have caught them on a supply run."

    Roger shook his head.  "Nigilo sounded happy.  Nigilo spends money when he's happy.  If we sit around out here for a week waiting for them to need a change of underwear, then he's not going to be happy any more.  It's early, it's Alphabet City, and if they are sleeping in, there's a good chance some of them are asleep."

    "You want to go in?" Carter said incredulously.  "You want to risk waking up the whole damn neighborhood?  I hope you explain it in exactly those terms when the police show up."

    Gordon stroked the scar on his throat.  It was from shaving:  he told people it was an old knife wound.  "Not necessarily," he said.  "I've lived around here long enough to know how the locals think.  They'll probably wait until long after the shooting stops to call the cops — not that they'll hear anything to begin with."  He hefted the special gun.  "And Nigilo wanted a security expert —" a glance at Stan "— in this group for a good reason.  We've broken into labs for him before."

    "Yeah, but no one was home at the time," Carter argued.

    "You heard the man, same as I did," Roger reminded him.  "He was willing to wait for morning, but not much longer than that.  And you also heard his reasoning on the others.  You may not agree with the man — I'm not sure I follow all of his logic — but he's the one signing the checks.  He gets what he wants.  And he wanted us in the lab before we finished:  if they're staying there, then we have to go in."

    Gordon nodded.  "I don't like rushing in," he said.  "But I don't like waiting, either.  We might have to flush these quail.  Think hard, boys.  We need a solid plan.  I've never been shot, and I don't intend to be taken down by game birds."

 

    Pamela was practicing science as meditative exercise:  constructing the metabolic acceleration virus was helping her calm down after being in the church.  She had nothing against most religions.  She had nothing towards them, either.  Pamela occasionally wished they felt the same way about her. 

    At the moment, she was using the same philosophy the Mouse had employed in rebuilding the BE-1 virus:  see what this does and then think about ways to undo it:  maybe it all goes to the same place.

    Even if it had come from the Princess, the slowdown was a good idea.  She had been somewhat ashamed of herself for not thinking of it.  The real problem was the speed of the growth, not the growth itself:  slowing things down to normal human speed would buy them months, years to work on a full cure.

    But not a reversal; some of the tissue was fat, but most of it was glandular:  exercise and weight loss wouldn't help that.  There was no viral way to get rid of matter.  All they could do for that was take her to a psychiatrist, try to get her past the phobia...

    Pamela glanced at Sadira, who had adopted her new favorite writing position:  notebook braced with her left hand against a column and just above her head, pressing the pencil down hard.  The notebook was shifting slightly, but she was compensating.  She looked ridiculously sexy.

    I like her this way, Pamela thought, and then mentally slapped herself before kicking her libido into a dark corner.  Sadira was in pain, more every day.  Her breasts had become large enough to make sitting down near a table and writing uncomfortable, and writing sidesaddle wasn't as easy as typing; that was why she used the column.  She had almost outgrown her clothes, she was moving so very much more slowly...

    But she was still Sadira.  Flat or insanely buxom, she was still sexy.  And that includes insanely buxom, her libido reminded her.  She kicked it around again.  Great time to decide I have a breast fetish.  Archer fetish.  Whatever.  She'd been avoiding potentially sexual contact, honoring her agreement with the Mouse, but still...

    Sadira wasn't the only one who needed to bring changes of undergarments to the lab.  Only hers were going to be for the lower body.

    Some cold water in the face might help:  it might wake her up a bit more, anyway.  Pamela stepped away from the Mutator, and was heading for the bathroom when she heard the beep.

    It was fairly high-pitched, formulated to act as an instant sonic annoyance that could penetrate nearly any amount of concentration.  A good case of sexual confusion didn't stand a chance.  Pamela immediately swerved and headed for the door, focusing on the little status panel as she approached.  One of the lights was glowing red.

    "Oh, fuck," she whispered, then, more loudly, "People!  We've got company!"

    They were with her in seconds, even the Princess.  Pamela jabbed a finger at the panel.  "Someone just cracked the second lock, just past the door, but whatever they used to open it wasn't electrically conductive:  they broke the circuit.  We're going to have visitors, and they already beat the first keypad."  She hit a switch on the side of the panel.  "If they've got the second combination, that'll slow them down:  I just scrambled it."

    "How long?" the Princess said urgently.

    "Don't know.  Everyone remember what we discussed earlier?"  Nods.  The Mouse walked over to the wall phone, picked it up, and shook his head:  no dial tone.  The police had been a dubious option before, and now they were a closed one.  "All right.  It's just us.  Grab your weapons and break.  Let's make these rats run the maze."

 

    Shaw's security was good, but anything less than great in Manhattan wasn't enough:  Stan got them past the series of locks and pads on the first floor in eight minutes.  They emerged from the stairwell (because you never trusted the elevator) and got past the second series in six minutes, working carefully and quietly.  Gordon motioned the others forward as the final barrier fell, and they got into position, ready to storm the lab.  There was a slight chance the occupants knew they had arrived.  They might also have weapons, which was why the team had bulletproof vests under their ambulance whites.

    Gordon signalled ready with a quick hand motion, and put his rubber-gloved hand on the doorknob.  No electrical charge.  A quick turn and push —

    — they rushed inside, spreading to the sides, weapons ready —

    — darkness.

    The first hints of dawn were starting to make themselves felt through the closed curtains, lending odd shadows to the pieces of equipment in front of them.  Gordon could see a tangle of little paths leading around and through the metal, little indicator lights here and there, and nothing else.

    Carter tapped his shoulder and, when Gordon turned, began signaling with his barely-visible hands — a useful skill in covert operations — raising them so they'd be visible to the group.  "Lights on a timer?"

    "I don't think so," Gordon signed back.  One of the indicator lights was on the wall next to him, and it was an angry red.  "I think they want an ambush.  We've got a bunch of scared scientists here:  let's see who's better."  He turned fully and signalled to Roger and Stan.  "Be careful."  They could always be scared scientists with weapons.

    Nods, visible as a shifting of shadows, and more hurried signing.  Roger proposed separating, arguing that the occupants wouldn't huddle together in the center:  they would have to be found and caught one by one.  Gordon agreed and searched the wall for the light switch, considering that it could be hooked up to a trap.  He rejected the idea and tried it.  It didn't work.

    They went into the maze.

 

    Jason knelt next to the huge filing cabinet on the west wall:  as the largest, he had to hide by the biggest thing available.  The Magnum felt surprisingly comfortable in his hands, though he would have preferred an old-fashioned long rifle.  And a silencer:  he understood they made some sound, but it might help a bit.  Unfortunately, Pamela had been unable to acquire them.

    He had never shot a person before.

    They were after Sadira.  He could damn well shoot one now.

 

    Carter moved slowly through the maze.  There were double-blinds everywhere, strange shadows, odd twists and veers.  He suspected it was a bitch to navigate in full lighting.  Waiting for dawn wouldn't have helped much:  what he could see of the curtains looked thick, and the street was on the wrong angle.

    He hadn't wanted to invade directly.  The place might be populated by wimp brains, but who knew what those brains had come up with?  He was carefully avoiding contact with the machinery.  These people worked with viruses:  there could be some nasty booby traps set up...

    Given a second chance, he would sit on the curb until Doomsday.  But he was here now, and he intended to get out in one piece.

 

    Pamela waited by the photocopier, watching and listening.  Her thoughts mostly concerned not making the same mistake twice.

 

    Roger spotted the two computer systems and almost headed for them, but checked himself and turned right.  They had to find the occupants first.  Unless Carter was right, and the lights were on a timer.  A great thought:  they could sit and wait.  But what kind of timer shut off at this hour?  Computer failure?

    He could look at the computer later.  He could search the lab now.

 

    Jasmine crouched between the electron microscope and the disposal oven, clutching the taser in trembling fingers.  She remembered how to use it:  just squeeze the sides and thrust forward.  That was all.  If it was working.  If the person was within reach.  If she was still moving after she was seen.

    She'd kissed Jason because she'd wanted to kiss him, begin the next stage, but there had been an honest emotion behind it.  She wasn't an egghead, she hadn't been working on the virus.  If they were all captured, then there was no reason to bring her back.  Jasmine couldn't help, they probably knew that already, and how long could she fake it if they didn't?  Easier to just keep her quiet, and the most permanent way of keeping her quiet was...

    She unconsciously, compulsively squeezed the taser.  The blue sparks flew from the contact points, almost blinding after the long darkness, and there was a crackle, and a faint smell of ozone.  Jasmine's first thought was relief:  the battery was charged and ready — and the first realization was that the taser made a sound, and made a light, she'd just heard and seen it, and someone else might —

    — the hand seized her wrist and squeezed hard.  Jasmine screamed in pain and dropped the taser as she was dragged out into the maze, a gun pressed against her head.

 

    The scream rang across the lab.  Pamela and Jason couldn't tell who it was:  the twins' voices were too similar — but Sadira knew.  She was at the east wall, too far away to reach Jasmine quickly:  they'd spread out to make it harder to catch them.

    She started to move — and remembered Pamela's plan:  there was only one way out of the lab.  They'd have to take her out the door, and Jason was closest.  And if they came out of hiding and rushed towards Jasmine, they lost all advantage.  Free for all, and who knew what could happen?

    But Jasmine was in danger.  Her sister...

    If she got to the microscope from the right angle, moved without being seen or heard, she might be able to trump the hostage card, take the invader prisoner.  But how to move?  She risked a glance out —

    — and saw the shadow of a man, gun drawn, to the right.  She darted back.  She'd have to emerge more fully to get a good shot, and if she missed — even if she didn't, if they heard the sound and panicked...

 

    Gordon looked at his catch in the dim light:  the face was about right, and the boobs were fine for all those "very's," but the hair was blonde.  The sister was a blonde, unless the scientist had dyed hers in the past few days...  No, hair wasn't good enough for identification:  almost completely reliable normally, but not under these circumstances.  He was ninety percent sure he had the dancer, but he wanted one hundred.

    "Jasmine or Sadira?" Gordon asked.  "So they can hear you."

    "Sadira, oh God, please, Sadira, don't kill me..."  Because they won't kill Sadira, they can't, if they're confused then they won't kill me...

    Gordon considered.  "I'm not sure you're telling the truth."

 

    Jason flinched.  Jasmine and her captor were standing in an acoustical center:  they were audible to the entire floor.  He was supposed to get to the door, wait for them to try and exit — but this was now a hostage situation.  Gun vs. gun — they'd sacrifice him and he couldn't risk Jasmine...

 

    "I'm not sure you're Sadira," Gordon said, cultivating a special tone in his voice:  reassuring menace.  What he told her was true, no matter how terrifying it sounded.  If she believed him, then it was close to being over — and this one seemed too scared to think straight.  They'd told him the scientist thought fast under pressure, and she would know they wanted her alive for the information:  therefore, this was the dancer.  So it was time for information, because this looked like a planned setup that was starting to break down, and he had the weak link in his grasp.

    His voice became softer, pitched only for her ears.  "I think you're Jasmine.  I don't need Jasmine." She was shaking in his grip, too scared to try to escape, too scared to think straight.  "But maybe you can live through this.  Where's Sadira?"

    She was trembling harder, almost vibrating, and the faint light let him see beads of sweat on her forehead, flowing around the barrel of the gun.  "I don't have to kill you, not if you help me, just give up your sister and you can live, she got you into this, just tell me where she is and I'll let you go, you'll live..."

    — and Jasmine couldn't tell which words came from him and which were from her own thoughts, because the two were merging, finding the same pulse, because she didn't want to die, she couldn't die but he was going to kill her and she was expendable and she was going to die —

    "THE CENTRIFUGE!" she screamed, flinging her right arm to the east.  "SHE'S NEXT TO THE CENTRIFUGE, ON THE EAST WALL!"

 

    Something took over, something beyond both impulse and reason, something that was tied into her blood, and Sadira broke cover and dived forward, trying to reach Jasmine, adrenaline surging, the wild energy building and pushing —

    — the darts hit her with a hiss of compressed air, a neat grouping of five, punching through her jeans and into her right leg.  She stumbled, the pain of the impact and the weight of her breasts combining to throw her off-balance.  She threw out her hands, trying to catch herself, but her balance was wrong, her breasts hit first with an explosion of pain that was muted too quickly, because her heart was still pumping fast and any chemical that entered her body, with her metabolism, would take effect much faster than normal, especially if it was already designed to act almost instantaneously.

    She realized they were tranquilizer darts as her eyes began to close, and her last thought was that for the first time in days, there was no pain in her back at all.

 

    The cry was something fundamental, betrayal beyond belief, and Pamela didn't realize it was coming from her lips until she'd launched herself into the aisle, taking the most direct path to the center.

 

    Carter saw the long body suddenly unfold itself from the shadows, and he saw the outline of the gun, knew it for what it was, and fear took over.  He dropped the weapon he was carrying, drawing from his second holster, the one with the real gun, catching the silencer on the edge, shooting almost the instant it was clear.

    The shot was very loud, solid, and on target.  The silencer clattered on the floor.  The shadow fell.

 

    Stan had his orders:  he picked up Archer's limp body, hooking one arm around her waist — he could feel the underside of the huge bra and its contents over his arm — and started dragging her towards the exit, his other arm pointing the gun towards any new targets that might present themselves.  If things became disastrous and they had the scientist, the first priority was to get her out.  The others could fend for themselves:  he was the only one in position to transport the target.

    He was still thinking that when he heard the gunshot, and the echoes were still fading as he dragged her along without a pause.

 

    Gordon heard the shot and threw the sobbing dancer to the floor, clearing his aim because the rule was that in a real firefight, with the kind of person who had made that cry, someone might just shoot through the hostage, getting his own gun into position as a living shadow flung itself around the corner in front of him, all black but for a narrow strip of white at head height, and fierce blue eyes that almost glowed —

    They fired simultaneously.  Three of the darts in his burst hit, taking his opponent in the chest as the bullet ripped through the unshielded shoulder of his gun arm.  He screamed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound, and saw the shadow stagger, bringing the gun up again —

    — he dived left, into one of the small passages.  He heard the shadow stagger, a clatter as the gun touched the floor, but it was still moving, coming towards the corner with mad determination, it wasn't going to allow the drugs to work —

    — and a thud as it hit the floor —

    — and he realized just now much blood he was losing, the bullet had nicked something major, he needed medical attention, fast —

    "Boss!"  Stan's voice.  "Arrow clear!"  Far away, possibly out in the corridor, and that was the code which meant the scientist was in their control.  He didn't know how the others were faring, but Nigilo had said that Archer was the most important target.  The computer files in the lab that Roger was supposed to get, the other two geneticists, fuck them all because they had the person Nigilo really wanted — the one who could recreate the data he wanted.  And he was bleeding, and he needed light so he could be bandaged and worked on, and he couldn't drag the shadow with his bad arm and still hold the gun, and someone could have heard the shots —

    — and he didn't want to get shot again.  He was afraid, and he was in charge.

    "Move out!" he yelled, and headed for the exit, trying not to clutch his shoulder, praying there was no one else in the dark.

   

22

67:  ...or hang separately

 

    Jasmine knew the siren's wail.  Not police, but an ambulance, moving away from the building.  It was the only thing that reached her as she lay curled up on the floor, trembling, trying to force everything back, find a measure of control.  She was alive, that was what mattered, she was still alive...

    There was slow, steady breathing in front of her:  the ghost, with darts casting odd shadows across her body.  Jasmine recognized the shape from a National Geographic article:  tranquilizers.

    She convulsively straightened her legs, kicking against the microscope — the sound was like another gunshot — and when that trembling fit subsided, tried to stand up.  Her elbows and breasts ached:  she'd hit the floor hard.

    The gunshot had come from the west wall, somewhere near Jason...

    She stood, orienting herself against the sharpening shadows, and moved west, picking her way across the lab as more light forced its way in.  Jasmine didn't know how long she'd been on the floor, how much time had passed since the ambulance had left.  She was up and moving and alive and —

    — a ray of sunlight snuck through the curtains and illuminated a trickle of red running across the cracks in the old floor.

    She froze, unwilling to look further — then did.

    Jason was sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, blood pouring from his hands — no, behind his hands:  they were pressed against his left thigh, as if trying to push the liquid back in.

    He was breathing, slow, shallow gulps of air, and his eyelids flickered.  He was trying to staunch the bleeding, hold back the tide, but he was barely conscious, and his hands were starting to slip.

    Jasmine knelt down next to him and pressed her small hands over his large ones, pushing down, trying to get pressure over the wound.  It didn't seem to have any effect.  He didn't even notice her presence, and his breathing was getting softer...

    Tourniquet.  That was the word, something wrapped around — no, just above the injury, tight enough to cut the circulation.  She needed to tie something around his leg.  Her blouse was too sheer:  it would probably rip if she pulled it tight...

    Jasmine whipped off her blouse with one practiced motion and got her bra on the way back.  The straps were thick and heavy:  there was no way they were going to tear.

    His eyelids flickered as she lifted, getting the limb up, and he gasped as the leg came back down.  She risked moving his hands:  she had to see exactly where the wound was so she could tie above it — but the shadows were still thick, and his pants were mostly intact.  She forced herself to work by feel, widening the tear and moving her hands up until she felt whole skin, then sliding the bra up to just above that point.

    Jasmine pulled tight and made the best knot she could manage.  Never should have quit the damn Girl Scouts...  The blood made it slippery work:  she had to wipe her hands to get a better grip on the straps, streaking red across her pants and, accidentally, her sides.

    There were footsteps behind her:  she turned around, the fear speeding back as she focused...

 

    Pamela staggered up and knelt down, pushing her mask back as she moved.  It was almost too much to coordinate:  she was so dizzy, so tired...

    Her night vision was excellent:  a quick glance at the Princess saw her topless and covered in blood, but none of it was hers.  Mouse was in worse shape.  "Tourniquet?" she pushed past the fog.  "Creative..."  Pamela checked his pulse:  weak but steady.  There was no way to tell how much blood he'd lost.  He was going to need medical care, a transfusion —

    — from where?  Any gunshot wounds that appeared in the emergency rooms had to be reported to the police.  The police might be on the way, and they could help if they showed up, but she had to improvise, had to treat Jason herself.

    Did that make sense?  It was so hard to think...

    The Princess was staring at her — at her breasts.  Pamela wondered what the hell was drawing her attention in the middle of a crisis.  She automatically looked down.

    Three darts were embedded to varying degrees in her sweater — no, in her bra.  Only one had penetrated her skin, and only just, on a strange angle.  The other two had gotten through the garment, hit the bra, and become stuck in the heavy fabric, been blocked by the fine network of fibers within the cloth, or blunted on the underwire.  She'd only taken a small percentage of the drug carried by the darts, which explained why she'd woken up so quickly, and why she felt so bad now.  "Son of a bitch," she whispered.  Note to Aunt Susan:  design a Kevlar bra for use in law enforcement, sale to the army...  No, they'd be stiff and uncomfortable — stay focused...  She looked up at the Princess. 

    "Keep your hand here, in this position," Pamela told her.  "That's his pulse.  I've got to get the lights back on so I can see —" the dizziness washed across her again.  All my fault.  If I'd just shot the one in the park...  "— see what I'm doing a little better.  Night sight isn't enough.  Yell if the pulse rate changes."  She pulled herself up, using the filing cabinet as her ladder, and staggered towards the light switch.

 

    Roger had turned off the ambulance siren long before they got to the George Washington Bridge.  It wasn't unusual for a city ambulance to venture outside the borders:  they occasionally got "loaned" to other hospitals, and a few of the privately affiliated ones simply went wherever they wanted to go.  A few quick decals had turned this one nicely generic.

    He'd borrowed the vehicle from a contact on Nigilo's recommendation:  no one ever questioned paramedics coming out of a building with unconscious bodies.  Neither of the two homeless people on the street had blinked as they'd carried Archer out on the stretcher they'd left by the door.  So that part of the operation had been successful.  And all of it might have worked if Gordon hadn't turned out to be a chickenshit.

    Carter had basic medical training.  It was the main reason he was on the team.  Nigilo wanted an IV feed hooked up to Archer, no questions.  Do what they were told, or someone would find out about some of the other things they'd been told to do in the past.  Standard deal.

    At the moment, Carter was finished with the sleeping geneticist, and was busy checking the dressing on Gordon's wound.

    "I'm telling you, it'll heal perfectly," he insisted.  "The bullet passed completely through.  It's cleaned, it's covered, it'll be back in one piece in a few weeks.  A little conditioning, you'll never know you were shot.  Now hold still so I can apply more disinfectant."

    Gordon winced and cursed softly as the liquid was applied, but held still.  Stan was snoozing in the passenger seat:  the noise didn't disturb him.  And Archer had enough chemicals in her body to tranquilize a good-sized bear.  "How long until we get to Stamford?" he grunted.

    "At least three hours, with these local roads," Roger replied.  "I'm not going to push the speed limit around the yokels.  Some of them might ticket an ambulance just for the fun of it."  The smaller roads weren't in the greatest shape, either:  the heavy-duty shocks on the ambulance still rocked as they went over potholes.  Gordon cursed again.  "You know, you should be glad we left three of them behind.  It would have been pretty crowded in here."

    Gordon's glare was visible in the rear-view mirror.  "There were shots fired, remember?"  Carter briefly closed his eyes.  "Did you want to be around when the cops showed up?"

    "And what happens when they do show up?  If they show up?"  Seven floors up, no other occupants, early in the morning, Alphabet City...  "They're going to tell the cops something.  Think they might accuse us of kidnapping?"

    "Well, the descriptions are shit," Carter reminded him, briefly rubbing his makeup.  "And Nigilo implied that they wouldn't go for help.  Remember, if things went wrong, it was grab Archer and run.  We did that."

    "Nigilo doesn't always think straight," Roger pointed out.

    "He seemed pretty confident on this one," Carter replied.  "And it's not our asses.  So we didn't copy out the files, or grab any specimens."   He smiled and patted Gordon's sore shoulder.  "We can just blame that on Old Faithful here."  The mercenary in question glared, but said nothing.  "After all, if he hadn't been taken by the Shadow Ninja..."

    They went over another pothole.  Carter adjusted his balance and glanced at Archer:  she was in place, strapped to the trauma stretcher, each limb separately stabilized.  They hadn't been able to get a strap around her chest.  The IV bag was still attached, the needle was holding nicely — according to the doc who had spotted the target, he was supposed to change it every three hours, who knew why — and Archer was still sleeping, her fingers flexing slightly...

    She had taken five full doses of poractudine, and her fingers were flexing .

    Carter had put the dart gun on one of the shelves, out of the way, he was going to have to reach past Archer to get it —

 

    Sadira's eyes snapped open as she finished running through her fastest wake-up check ever.

    Her brain said ambulance, then straps, and that was enough.

 

    Archer's arms came up, at least from the elbows, straining against the straps — and they were beginning to give.  Carter could see the white bands starting to appear in the thick plastic as she strained, back arching, mouth open in a soundless scream.  He reached across her, spotting the dart gun, grabbing it —

    — her right arm broke free, swung up, and nailed him in the crotch.  He was wearing a protective cup:  standard equipment for covert operations.  The impact was hard enough to dent the plastic:  he went down anyway.  The gun flew from his fingers, out of sight.  Gordon was just starting to get up as her left leg broke free, and now there was sound, screaming and wailing, all the pain in the world coming from a single mouth as she thrashed and strained, an explosion of energy that was almost too much for the body to contain.  The plastic over her left arm was starting to stretch and break —

    — three darts thudded into her left leg, fired from the front of the ambulance.  The scream went higher, reached a crescendo as her left arm began to pull free — then cut off, a thousand decibels to zero without intermediary steps.  She collapsed against the stretcher.

    Stan shook his head and blinked away the last remains of sleep.

    Carter got up, oxygen coming back to him in short bursts.  It felt like his virility was going to take a lot longer.  "She couldn't have woken up," he gasped.  "She processed all five darts in one hour.  That's impossible..."

    "That," Gordon said slowly, "is why Nigilo wants her.  The question is, can we make more money giving her to someone else?"

    They thought it over for half a mile.  Roger finally said, "No.  I don't think we can get enough money in one shot to make up for an entire career's worth of blown reputations — not to mention retaliation.  From what I hear, Nigilo knows some people."

    Gordon nodded.  "You're right.  But if we play it right, we can get some extra money for keeping our mouths shut."

    Carter sat down and took a deep breath.  The air reached his balls and made them hurt.  "And personal injury compensation."  He exhaled and tried a second breath.  "Lots of it."

 

    Pamela carefully extracted the bullet with the long tweezers:  it had come to rest just next to what she judged was the femoral artery, the major blood supply line for the leg.  A hit there would have meant bleeding to death within a few minutes:  Jason had just had many other, not-so-major highways nicked.  She'd force-fed him as many painkillers as she dared, a few of which had sleep aids added.  The combination of medications had taken effect:  he had passed from shock into sleep, and she was carefully monitoring him to make sure he didn't slip deeper.

    She'd come up with a formidable number of medical supplies (or workable substitutes) in her search of the lab:  Pamela disinfected the wound, then stitched it using a hastily-sterilized sewing kit from the Princess' purse (for emergency costume repairs on the road).  They'd had sterile tubing and sample kits.  The Princess and Jason were, by dint of welcome luck, both AB positive, and Pamela's blood was O negative, the universal transfusion factor.  A quickly-growled question established that the Princess was AIDS-free, and they contributed three pints between them.

    Pamela had loosened the tourniquet after finishing the stitching, giving full circulation back to the leg.  There was no seepage from the dressed wound:  she passed the bra back to the Princess, who was still kneeling next to Jason, her fingers clamped against his wrist.  She looked at it and tossed it behind her:  it was soaked with blood.  Her blouse still lay on the floor.

    One more look at Jason:  even in sleep, the pain was still etched into his face.  They'd made him as comfortable as they could, putting Sadira's wadded jacket under his head, cutting away the blood-soaked portion of the pants leg, and covering him with their own jackets.

    "He'll live," Pamela said.  The bullet had damaged a lot of muscle tissue on the way in:  she wasn't sure what the exact effects would be, but it didn't look good.  "He might need a lot of physical therapy to avoid limping for the rest of his life, and any activity is going to be restricted for weeks."

    Pamela glanced at her watch.  Seven in the morning.  The police had never come.  Either no one had heard the shots, which was certainly possible, or no one had cared, which was also possible and much worse.  The last of the drug's effects had been beaten down by raw necessity.  "All right, Princess," she said, turning to face the dancer.  "Your turn."

    "What?"  She'd been fading in and out of shock, regaining enough insight to tie the tourniquet and remember the sewing kit, then forgetting the pulse point every time she had to move her hands.

    "Medical attention.  You've got some bad bruises starting there.  Stand up:  I need to look you over."  The Princess stood up:  Pamela straightened slowly and looked her over.  "You hit pretty hard, and you've got some bruising on your wrist — did you hit your jaw on anything?"

    "No — I don't think so —"

    "There's something — tilt your head back:  I need a closer look."

    She obeyed without thinking.

    "Perfect."

    It was perfect.  It was the single most perfect left hook she'd ever thrown.  There was barely any pain in her hand as the impact rocked the Princess, sending her reeling backwards, stumbling, heels locking into the bra straps —

    — she fell backwards, hands shooting back in time to take most of the impact.  She sat there, propped up, breasts falling to the sides, eyes fearful.  Pamela liked the look.

    "You bitch," she hissed.  "You goddamned Judas.  You'd sell out anyone to save your own hide, wouldn't you?"  Her fist tightened again, and she was closer, curled fingers in front of Jasmine's eyes.  "You killed her, you pulled the fucking trigger —"

    "He was going to kill me!" Jasmine screamed.  "They didn't need me, I was a witness!  He was going to kill —"

    "And that's why you said you were Sadira?  So they'd kill her instead, and you'd have another day before they found out they had the wrong person?  Piece of rancid shit —"  She brought back her fist, aiming for Jasmine's nose —

    — there was a soft groan behind them.

    They both froze.

    Pamela slowly, slowly uncurled her fingers before standing up and going back to Jason.

    "How are you feeling, Mouse?"

    His eyes were open, and etched with pain.  "They got Sadira."

    Pamela paused.  "They did."

    "I was stupid, Ivory.  I broke cover without looking —"

    "That makes two of us."  She wiped sweat from his forehead.  "I just got a little farther."

    "My leg?"

    "The bullet's out, and everything's clean.  If we take you to a hospital, they're going to ask questions..."

    "I watch television."  His face contorted as another wave of pain washed through it.  "I can't think of any good lies to tell them right now, either.  Jasmine?"

    "Alive."  She knew he could hear the acid.  "In one piece."

    "We've got to go after her.  We've got to —"

    "I know."  If she just had some morphine, any stronger painkiller — but she didn't, and the chemicals in the lab couldn't make a decent synthetic.  She didn't trust the stuff on the street.  "But I'll go.  You're not going anywhere for a while."

    "Bullshit," Jason gasped.  Jasmine came up behind them.  He didn't see her:  all his attention was focused on Pamela's eyes.  "We can leave almost immediately, once we find where they've taken her."

    "Mouse, you can't walk.  There's got to be doctors around here who treat gang wounds:  I'll find one and trade services for chemicals."

    "No need."  Another spasm of pain.  "We've got all the medicine we need right here."  Slowly, he raised an shaking arm, waving it to the general east.  Pamela turned to look, and saw only assorted machinery — then guessed.

    "No way."  Fast, almost violent head shaking.  "We don't know what the long-term effects are.  There's been no testing, no idea if it'll work when it's separated from the breast growth sequences.  We've already — misplaced Sadira:  we can't risk losing you —"

    In the single worst Tonto imitation she'd ever heard, he said, "What do you mean we, white woman?"  A small smile.  "Fuck it.  Sadira came up with it, and I trust her.  I trust you to make it the right way, and we'll find a way to slow me down later.  Besides —" he pulled a breath between clenched teeth "— I like Powerbars."

    Pamela smiled.  "You know the risk."

    "Ivory, if you were on the floor with a hole in your leg, you'd be begging me to inject it."  He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, cracked them open again.  "Okay, ordering."

    Pamela considered the reversal.  He was absolutely right.  "Point."  She drew the line on his arm.  "I always wanted to play mad scientist.  All right, Mouse.  I'm going to test it on some cell samples first, but if it looks good, you get the accelerator." She stood up and pushed past Jasmine as Jason's eyes closed in triumph.  She'd left the Mutator on standby power:  it wouldn't take long to finish the virus.

   

23

68:  Sic transit Sadira

 

    They had been waiting at the private airfield for three hours.  Carter stood by Archer's stretcher, finger tense on the trigger of the dart gun.  They'd tried to regulate the dosage, keep her under without putting her out for good, but they'd played it a little too safe:  there had already been two other near wake-ups.

    The weather had taken another swing during their wait:  it was now comfortably warm, the air finally verging into spring.  It made Carter nervous.  He preferred a bit of cold:  just enough so that it kept him sharp, not so much that all he could think about was how cold it was.

    At one p.m, the plane finally showed up:  a twin-engine Cessna.  It braked to a smooth stop on the runway as they wheeled Archer's stretcher towards it.

    A burly, heavily-tanned man hopped out from the pilot's seat.  "Somebody call for a package pickup?"  He marched up to Carter and put out his hand.  "Harold Adams.  Pleased to meet you."

    Carter, somewhat bemused, shook the pilot's hand.  "Carter.  This is the package.  I hope you brought tranquilizers with you:  it has a tendency to unwrap itself."  Two other people got off the plane and headed for the stretcher.  One was carrying a fairly bulky phone:  a cheaply-made satellite connection.

    "No problem.  We've got a full pharmacy in the back.  Where are the others?"

   Gordon stepped forward.  Good; it's his fault.  "This is the only one we got.  We met heavy resistance."  He displayed his wounded shoulder.  "The minimum objective was accomplished, but that's it:  no data, no specimens, and the others were — left behind."

    The woman holding the phone stepped up to Gordon.  "Then this is for you," she said with malicious amusement, and gave him the receiver.

    Gordon visibly swallowed, then put the phone to his head and began to carefully explain things to Nigilo.

 

    Pamela was whipping cell samples in and out of the microscope at top speed, watching the effects of the acceleration virus on each type, changing samples, observing, and trying to mentally combine the data into ramifications for a full organism.  It wasn't working.

    The computer simulations said it should work for a generic subject.  The breast growth triggers weren't present:  Sadira had simply deduced a way to recreate her body's metabolism in another human.  The factor sequence wasn't complicated.  It was the genetic equivalent of finding a dial and turning it from 3 to 10.

    And it had never been tested.  And there was no known way to reverse it.

    But the Mouse was right:  if she'd been shot, and he'd turned down the request, she would have dragged herself to the Mutator and completed construction from the floor.  She wasn't sure she would have bothered with the testing, either.

    Pamela felt the gaze and turned to see the Princess standing off to her right, just out of swing range.  "He's sleeping again," she said.

    "Fine," Pamela said tightly.  "Put something on.  I don't feel like looking at you."

    "You'd rather look at my sister, right?"  She took a small step back, moving out of kick range.  "Fucking dyke."  The words lacked any real strength.

    "Not as often as I'd like and not entirely," Pamela replied.  "And she's got a beauty that you'll never have or understand."  She checked the screen, then looked at the Princess' eyes, her own narrowing.  "Bouncing back quickly, aren't you?  I guess you've forgotten exactly what happened."  Her fingers were starting to curl.

    A long hiss of words, emerging under high pressure.  "I know exactly what happened.  I gave her up because I was going to die.  You can't understand that."

    "If it had been me," Pamela said slowly, measuring each syllable, "I would have fed him an elbow.  I would have dropped and let my weight pull him down and bring the gun off-line.  I would have lied until someone else could get to us.  I wouldn't have caved in."

    "Yeah, and you're just so damn tough," Jasmine spat.  "Nothing scares you, nothing could make you break down and —"

    Pamela took one step forward, stopping with her breasts just short of touching Jasmine.  "Look at me," she hissed.  "I've lived like this for twenty-two years.  Guess how tough that makes you?  It wouldn't have been the first time someone held a weapon on me.  No, I wouldn't break.  I'd fight and stall and struggle because only fools are too impatient not to wait for miracles."

    "And you charged out," Jasmine shot back.  "You didn't think.  You just ran through!"

    "I was the miracle!" Pamela yelled, leaning in — then leaned back.  Jasmine blinked.

    "At least," Pamela said slowly, "I was supposed to be.  I just fucked up.  So did the Mouse.  You snapped and the entire chain went to pieces."  Her left hand came up, seemingly without her knowledge, and covered that side of her face.  "I lost control and ran to help without thinking about meeting someone on the way.  You broke first, but we all broke."

    Jasmine was standing quietly, looking as if she wanted to put her hands on her hips, but resisting.

    "I hate you," Pamela said, her voice cold.  "And it's not anything Sadira said, either:  we were roommates for four months before I knew you were alive.  All she told me was basics.  I guessed the rest from watching her.

    "I hate you for what you did to her.  I hate you because you won't change.  With what the Mouse has told me lately, I can read between the lines.  She didn't ask to be smart and you didn't ask for your body."

    She looked at Jasmine, and for a moment, Sadira flickered into view.  Her voice became softer, more thoughtful, without losing any of the ice. "The difference is that she never flaunted in an attempt to make someone feel worthless, and you did.  Any offense you took, you picked up on your own.  You were kids:  get over it already.  Both of you.  She's sexy and you're —" a long, long pause, then a reluctant "— smart.  I saw some of those books, and you were reading them.  You both deny your attributes, you're both impulsive, you're twins, damn it.  Maybe it's time you were sisters."  She turned back to the screen and replayed the last interaction.

    From behind her, a small voice said, "They're going to kill her, aren't they?  Because of me."

    "No, not yet," Pamela said to the screen.  "Not until they get all the work out of her, until they have the second virus."  If they don't have it already.  But Pamela had seen the files, and seen the time it took to construct them.  There was no way they could have finished without Sadira to head the project.  "She'll stall.  She's got the gaming experience.  We've got some time.  But we're loose ends."  She thought it over as she switched samples.  "They may have wanted all of us.  They may come after us again.  They may not.  I'm still trying to figure out why that guy didn't take me or put a real bullet through me after I was down."

    Jasmine hesitated, then told Pamela everything she'd heard.

    Pamela laughed.  "Typical.  He sounded scared and all of us were down.  I thought I hit him:  nice to know it was in a good place.  All right:  I temporarily give up on trying to figure out Nigilo's logic.  Anyone walks in the door, I shoot them:  that's all."

    "So what do we do?"

    "We?"  Pamela started shaking her head — stopped.  "You go read files.  We're down to two, and I could use some insight."  Jasmine started to walk away.  "Fucking dyke," Pamela softly mused.  "You were enjoying yourself on the tape."

    "I was getting paid," Jasmine replied, and left.

    Pamela shook her head.  We should all be so lucky.  The thought was slightly ironic in tone.

    She went back to work.

 

    The Cessna had been chosen for size, silence, and proliferation:  there were thousands of them in the sky at any given moment.  Nigilo didn't think anyone would track the air path, but he'd chosen a common model in case someone talked.  He had not been happy with the overall results of the operation, and after he finished talking to Gordon (who had forgotten to try for extra money), he had expressed that feeling to Harold.  However, it was a mixed sort of not happy:  it was as if losing the rest wasn't really important.  He was mad because he thought he was supposed to be mad.

    Angela bent over Archer, changing the IV needle.  The disadvantage of the Cessna was its speed:  even with top speed, fast refueling, and hurried maintenance, it would take nine hours to reach Montana.  Keeping people out of the plane at their stops was easy.  Nigilo seemed to feel keeping Archer in the plane would be hard.

    The plane was carrying, in addition to the miniature pharmacy, a full array of medical equipment:  Angela had been monitoring the geneticist since she'd come on board, keeping her asleep and beginning a battery of tests.  Aaron, who was there for security, stood around and looked bored.  Angela finally took a break and joined Harold in the cockpit.  "A walking fission plant," she summarized.  "Everything at full power, even with the tranks."

    "Did you see her — chest?"  Angela was sensitive to word usage.

    "Yes," she said frostily, then, warming slightly, "Couldn't miss it.  I saw her around the fifth floor before this.  Always the quiet ones, right?"

    "Yeah," Harold said.  "As long as she stays quiet all the way to Montana."  Carter had taken a perverse delight in pointing out the broken straps.

 

    Sadira's asleep.

    She dreams frequently — everyone does, the mind can't survive without that release — but she never remembers them.  Her mind works on levels:  there's the one that deals with the world and makes the everyday decisions, that higher plane where all the real thinking takes place, and deeper ones, including one where she never goes.  Where the fears are.

    The dreaming level is many layers down, and she can't access it, not consciously.  But now, between hormones and drugs, she's aware of the dream, though unable to control it.  She's watching it, as if locked into a seat in front of the stage.

    She's moving through the halls at GenTree, and she's got her old body back, the one without any breasts at all, and there's a curious freedom to that:  she can remember the infection, and for a moment, the dream selves think she's cured.  They're both a little wistful.  Sadira really did want to have something, just not quite all that.  She thinks.  She's not completely sure.  Some small part of her has its own competition with Jasmine.

    Someone's been redecorating the halls:  the old white walls have double helixes covering them.  She recognizes some of the sequences.  She identified them.  She never told anyone that she'd been working late in the science hall one night when she'd come across the frat party in one of the labs, spent a few minutes outside the door, listening to drunken ideas, then, with that highest level in full gear, gone in to help.  She found the sequences, she found how to use them.  All about her in the end.

    Nigilo comes down the hallway, grabs her hand, starts dragging her off.  She resists, leaning back — but it's no good:  he's a large man, outweighs her by a hundred pounds easily, and he's just pulling her along.  It's like she's surfing behind him.

    Her arms fling out towards the wall, trying to find some purchase, and she hits one of the helixes.

    Her breasts start growing again.  Not like before, not where she needs time-lapse photography to pick it out as it happens, but impossibly fast, inches in seconds.  The lab coat is stretching with her, covering evenly as she goes past C, past D, accelerating through the alphabet, and Nigilo isn't compensating for the weight.  He's pulling with the same strength, but Sadira's getting heavier.  He pulls forward and she doesn't come with him.  Their hands slip apart.

    She turns and runs again, but it's getting hard to move again, she's in the forties and still going, and it's slowing her down, changing her balance.  Sadira reaches her lab and gets inside, pressing her hand to the door and the rest of her body just follows.  But it's Pamela's lab, Terragen, she's working the computer sidesaddle again, looking at a picture of Sadira, taken from the Christmas photo, that's morphing from nothing to Level II and back again, and there's this wistful look on her face that Sadira can barely stand to see.

    Jason is standing in front of the electron microscope and he's got that look again, the one where he's got the really impossible problem which changes every time he catches up to it, but there's a new determination there.  He just keeps working, and tries not to look at the picture.

    Jasmine is sitting at her desk.  Blood flows from the bullet hole in her forehead, cascading onto a blank page.

    Sadira walks closer:  no one notices her.  She's still growing, and she gets too close to the page and blocks her view of it:  she has to turn sideways to read it.  It says, in letters of blood formed by Jasmine's stream, There are no children here.

    Jason and Pamela turn, and they seem to see her for the first time, but then they turn away, and glance at each other with guilt.

    Nigilo catches up and seizes her again, but he can't move her:  Sadira's breasts are down to her waist and out past her elbows, and she's too heavy to budge, but she can't run anymore, the weight affects her too.  She's frozen, sessile.

    That's when Pamela and Jason, and Jasmine, still bleeding, get up and rush Nigilo, dragging him to the ground as Sadira's weight drops her to her knees, and the frontmost portions of her breasts are touching her knees, starting to overflow as Nigilo's struggles stop.

    The Sadira on the stage looks at the one in the audience as all three help her to her feet, and smiles.  It's feral, like Pamela at her best and worst, and there's some pain in it.

    The curtain drops.  Sadira is alone in the audience, and she doesn't applaud.  She couldn't bring her hands together in front of her, anyway:  her breasts are in the way.

    A rain of red roses falls onto the stage from the ceiling.  Two of them bounce and land in her hair.

    It's the end of the dream, but Sadira will remember it when she wakes up.

 

    Pamela knelt next to Jason, who was awake again.  She had a needle full of vitamins and virus in her left hand.  "It'll work," she said, "but only as long as you're hurt.  All the energy you generated would go directly to healing.  Sadira could sleep at night because she was growing:  the calories had a constant outlet.  You'll heal — and then you'll still have the same appetite, the same need for power, with nowhere for it to go.  Either you'll wind up incredibly hyperactive, unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time, or you'll just burn out.  Pick one."

    "So neutralize it after I'm fixed," Jason said.  "Virus, counter-virus."

    "Simple," Pamela agreed.  "How?  I don't know what's going to turn it off.  I've been thinking:  we've got some time, Sadira will stall while they try to make her do the work.  You can heal enough to walk normally and we'll go after her —"

    "Maybe," Jason said.  "She might be able to, we might have weeks.  The clock is still running on her end, remember?"  Pamela closed her eyes, because in all the chaos, she had forgotten, just for a second —

    — and in that moment, Jason grabbed the needle, pulling it out of her hand, found a spot, and injected himself.  Pamela stared at him. 

   "Now," he said clearly, "it's both of us.  So let's find those brakes."

    Pamela stared at him.  "You're an idiot.  You know that."  Neutral, almost blank.

    "Country mice aren't very smart."

    Their eyes met, and she kissed his forehead.

   

24

70-71:  In conference

 

    They had gone to a hotel (after a quick trip to the store for fresh clothes).  Jasmine had paid cash, and they'd registered under false names.  Jason had originally thought that it really wouldn't matter, they made a distinctive enough trio — but Pamela had driven across the border and gone deep into New Jersey.  She believed they were safe enough for the night.  Jason, awake and in pain — and having gotten some sleep earlier in the day — had taken first watch.  Pamela had gotten the second, and Jasmine the third.  There were two bedrooms and two large beds:  they each took one in turn.

    It was Jasmine's shift when Jason woke up.  He knew because she was the one who woke him.

    She gently rubbed his arm until he came back, blinking up at her.  The adjustable lights in the room had been turned to their lowest level.  "What's wrong?" he whispered, working his way out of the sleep-fog.

    "Just checking on you.  How are you feeling?"

    And you woke me up to ask me that?  But there was real concern in her face.  "Shouldn't you be watching the door?"

    "One of the busboys who was about to get off shift is standing in front of it.  I told him we didn't want to be disturbed for a while.  So how are you feeling?"  All in whispers, with Jasmine's holding a faint hint of bemusement.

    "Still hurting, but I can sleep past it.  It's a little weird.  I can almost feel the new cells coming in.  It'll take a few days to get back to normal, but that's as opposed to weeks.  Pamela may have to take the stitches out tomorrow."  His brow furrowed.  "Are you that tired?  Can we trust the bellboy?"  God, he sounded like Pamela.

    "For the amount of money I gave him, he'd better be trustworthy."  She smiled gently.  "But there's still some pain?"

    Jason could have sworn he'd said that already.  "Yes."

    The smile got gentler.  "Then I'll do all the work."  And she began to take her blouse off.

    The fog dissipated, and sixteen expressions warred for control of his face.  Confusion won.  "What —?"

    "You don't know?"  Bemused.  "This is going to take more work than I thought."  She shimmied out of the garment, braless underneath, then reached for the blankets.  "Let's get you out of those shorts..."

    Jason was about to say something — was about to think of something he could say — and then Jasmine changed her direction and leaned in, kissing him, long, hard, and desperate.  Again, he returned the kiss, feeling the urgency behind it — then stopped, withdrawing slightly into the pillow.  Jasmine sensed it and straightened up, confused.

    He looked up at her, saw the bewilderment in her face, the residue of fear, the hint of desperation he'd felt in the kiss, all honest emotions.  "No," he said, surprising himself a little.

    "No?" she echoed, her voice very soft.  He had the distinct impression no one in this situation had ever said it to her.

    "Jasmine —" She turned away and headed for the door, picking up speed.  "Jasmine, come back."

    She turned around and looked at him for a long moment.  Jason sat up and patted the edge of the bed.  She slowly walked over, then climbed onto the bed, hands heading for his crotch again —

    "Just to talk," he said quickly and moved over, giving her room to sit down.

    Confusion and betrayal crossed her face, almost too quickly to see, but she sat down, back braced against the headboard.  "I don't want to talk," she said, her position giving the lie.  "I want to fuck, and I'm not going to ask Casper."

    Jason easily met her eyes:  while it was his first look at Jasmine topless, being around the three women had made it easier to override instincts.  "I don't want to."  He smiled.  "A little — I can't say I'm not curious —" or aroused "— but I can't.  I couldn't even look past a clothed photo of you in a magazine because I thought I'd be betraying Sadira.  Too old-fashioned..."

    She looked away.  "So you love her."

    Matter-of-fact.  "Yes."

    "You, the ghost — I guess she's making up for lost time."  She kept staring at the doorway.  "I nearly died yesterday."  Slow, sad, "I just want to feel alive for a while."

    "I can understand that," Jason said gently, automatically falling into "just friends" mode.  "But I'm not it.  I like you, and if things had been different, if I never met Sadira —"

    "— then nothing would have happened," Jasmine cut him off.  Her words were flatly honest.  "Maybe I would have picked you up off the street and taken you back to my hotel for a fast run.  I don't spend all my free time reading.  But after that, I would have thrown you away and forgotten about you.  I never would have looked at you in the first place if I haven't thought it would hurt Sadira.  I would have broken up her and Shaw if I could, but I couldn't figure out how — and then they just stopped touching."

    Pamela had been right.  It still hurt.  Even with his feelings for Sadira, the commitment, it was nice to know someone else found him interesting, good for the ego.  The idea that Jasmine had been using him, hadn't been attracted to him at all — the dagger quickly stabbed through his heart.  "And now?" he said softly.

    She shrugged.  She still wasn't looking at him.  "I kind of like you.  I don't love you.  I kissed you back at the lab because I was scared, but I was using the fear...  And I just hurt Sadira as much as I ever could.  I — I don't think I can top that.  There's no point in even trying."  Whispering, "I've spent so much time hating her that I don't know how to stop.  And now I'm never going to get the chance..."

    With Jasmine, it was sometimes difficult to tell what was real and what was artifice:  she was a manipulator, and she used emotions to her own benefit.  Jason could see that manipulation now.

    She was trying to change herself, forcing her feelings out, make herself face them for the first time in years.

    "She's not dead," he whispered back.  "Neither are you.  You'll both have that chance."

    She turned to face him.  He reached out and hugged her.  She hugged him back, and nothing more came of it.

    Jasmine's own healing had begun.

 

    Oh, Sadira thought as the roses faded from her hair.  So that's the way things are.  And then, before she opened her eyes, she realized where she was.

    There was something almost indescribably wonderful about waking up in her own bed after a long time away, an instinctive recognition that turned into another layer of comfort.  Sadira was in that bed, but she hadn't gotten into it herself, because the sheets were laid out flat across her body.

    Sadira opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up.

    The white room contained most of her bedroom furniture, including the wardrobe and nightstand, arranged in roughly the same pattern.  There was no debris on top of the little table, and all the drawers were closed evenly, instead of being stuck in varying degrees of jut from bad packing.  The past week-plus hadn't been a dream:  someone had just decided to transfer her residence and made the ambiance-destroying mistake of cleaning up.  It felt wrong.

    That, and the cameras in the corners, swiveling to cover the room, with two of them currently scanning the bed.

    Sadira got up.  Her bra was much too tight:  she'd been wearing it for nearly a day, and the fabric didn't have much give.  On the other hand, her back felt pretty good:  she'd spent that day doing nothing but sleeping and healing, and she didn't feel hungry.  More IV tubes...

    Had she seen one in the ambulance?  She remembered having briefly been awake.  She didn't remember much beyond that.

    There were three doors leading out of the room.  Sadira explored, finding a little kitchen, a bathroom (with an amazingly wide bathtub), and a solid lock.  She had to use the second.

    There were cameras in the bathroom.  One of them covered the bathtub, the other scanned the toilet.

    Sadira looked up at the cameras and gave the operator the finger, then looked at the toilet.  She briefly closed her eyes and tried hard not to think about it.  It didn't help.

 

    She did think about Jasmine, Pamela, and Jason almost constantly as she bathed, carefully following Ivory's washing instructions.  It took much longer to wash her breasts now...

    Sadira had no idea what had happened after she'd been knocked out.  There was a good chance that the others had been taken out in different vehicles, and were walking up in their own little faux apartments.  There was an equally good chance they were dead.

    No.  They needed us alive.  We all worked on the virus, they have to realize that —

    Except Jasmine, whom they could kill.

    Her eyes squeezed shut, and the tears began to leak out as she sank into the water.  Oh, Jasmine...  She understood, and even sympathized with what might have been her sister's final cry.  Jasmine had just been scared, just wanted to live...

    Vengeance, she thought softly.  You don't fuck with a Brooklyn girl, don't hurt her family.  Her twin...

    But her sister, her friends, they might all be alive.  Looking for her.  No matter what she was eventually told, she had to believe that until she had proof to the contrary.  It was the best way to stay sane, so she could plan that vengeance.  Try to contact the outside, arrange a rescue — or, if necessary, escape alone.

    And if she ran alone, she was going to have to run soon, because even her walking was slow and deliberate, and in a few weeks, it was going to be impossible.

    The pain would have to wait — and that hurt most of all.

    Still, she allowed herself to cry, splashing water in her face to hide the tears, because she couldn't make herself stop.

 

    Her captors wouldn't give her any privacy, but they let her have some time to wash, get dressed, and have a quick snack.  Most of the clothing in the drawers was hers:  she got her lower body covered without difficulty, but the shirts were a complete loss.  There were, however, several large smocks of fabric, muu-muus with worse-than-average design, sized for color-blind women a few hundred pounds heavier, and equally huge belts.  She did the best she could.

    There were no bras other than the one she'd brought in.  She tried to get it back on, but the discomfort quickly turned into pain:  the cups were fairly rigid, and wouldn't stretch to accommodate her.  Flesh bulged from the top of the cups, and the sides, and when she tried to force it into a better fit, her breasts started to hurt — she quit, got the bra and muu-muu off, then improvised with a second muu-muu and a few belts.  The result was almost completely ineffective, but it would have to do.

    She noted the presence of knives in the kitchen with some interest.  Weren't they worried about her committing suicide — or attacking someone?

    Probably not.  Sadira wasn't the suicidal type, except for certain very specific circumstances:  she had a living will in case of severe brain damage.  They had her psych profile from the scholarship tests, they'd know that — and she didn't know enough about the setup yet to risk a break — and at any rate, she was probably outnumbered and outweaponed.  Basic gaming principle:  scout the opposition.

    The kitchen cabinets were well stocked.  Mostly with Powerbars.  She groaned, took one, and closed the doors.

    Her radio was in the bedroom, and her television:  she turned both on long enough to verify that she was back in Montana — but, while she'd never been in every part of GenTree, she found it hard to believe that they'd set things up in the building.  The radio could still pull in the Helena FM stations, but they were dim.  She was somewhere near the limits of their range.

    There was nothing to do but wait for someone to talk to her.

    At 9:30 a.m, someone did.

 

    The door opened.  Sadira looked up from the television.

    "Sadira?"

    It took a moment to place the face:  it even blended smoothly into memory.  "Carmody," she replied.  "And it's Ms Archer, or Miss, or kidnap victim.  Whatever turns you on."

    He didn't flinch.  "I have to take you to a conference.  Would you please come with me?"

    "Please?"  Perhaps Pamela was dead, because it felt like she was channeling her.  "'Please' implies a choice.  I don't have one."  She turned off the television.  "Any more lies?"

    He just stood by the door, waiting.

    Sadira thought about staying in place, making him haul her along, or get a lot of help — but it really wouldn't accomplish anything.  She went through the door.

    White corridor, florescent lighting, two guards with odd-looking guns — probably more tranquilizers — and hand-held screens that were tied into the interior cameras.  Perverts.  She had no doubt there were more guards close by.  There were several cameras, and plenty of doors.

    "Follow me," Carmody said as he locked the door, and they went for a walk.

 

    It wasn't GenTree:  all the floors had the same basic layout.  This was closer kin to Terragen, but on a larger scale:  a maze of corridors, winding about without seeming pattern.  The guards paced them, five feet ahead, five feet back.  They passed several other people on the way, none of whom Sadira recognized.  All of them stared at her.  In one case, she smiled and waved, remembering something Pamela had told her.

    "Just smile.  Wave a little."

    "Why?"

    "Because it shorts out their brains and they can't do anything but smile back."

    The man's lips twitched, and he hurried on.

    Eventually, they went in an office, large, elaborately paneled and decorated, and the frost was waiting to greet her.

 

    "Ms Archer.  Please sit down."

    Sadira sat in the plush chair facing the desk.  Her breasts brushed against her lap.  She leaned back a bit, lifting them.  Behind her, Carmody went into a corner and held position.

    "Mr. Nigilo," she replied.

    "Kyle," he said, smiling.

    "Not likely."  It had just slipped out.

    The smile wavered slightly, then came back full force.  "I have to say, you look — different this way.  Are you content yet?  Have you beaten Jasmine to your satisfaction, or are you playing double or nothing?"  The words were couched in friendly, conversational tones.

    Sadira kept the confusion from her face.  "Where is Jasmine?"  Soft, demanding.

    "Concern for the lab rat?"

    Sadira blinked.

    "She's alive," Nigilo replied, "and you may see her in time."

    Sadira wondered if she could believe him.

    He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick file.  "I have a little story to tell you.  I think you'll be interested, and I only want to tell it once."

    Sadira sat and quietly listened as Nigilo told her exactly what had led to her being caught, taking great pleasure in detailing the chase.  Some of the silence stemmed from confusion:  he wasn't covering everything.  He laughed at the coincidence that had led Victor and Claire Shalm past the lab entrance — but the man whom Pamela and Jason had confronted in Central Park was never mentioned.

    Nigilo did explain his motives in placing an agent at Al's Barn —

    — which made very little sense to Sadira.  She could follow his logic and see the false premise he'd built his chain on, but it was rough going.  She wondered what his family had been like to make him see everything in terms of competition.

    Nigilo, however, was enjoying his chance to show off, speaking to her as if deconstructing a particularly enjoyable game of chess.  He congratulated the driver on the brilliant car chase.  He commended Pamela's ability to hide her tracks.  He really, really liked the trick with the credit card.

    "So," Nigilo finished, "your luck has taken a turn for the worse — but if you work hard, you might be able to reverse it.  Not all the way, unfortunately, that's impossible now — but it might eventually become somewhat positive."

    Sadira waited for him to continue.  He obliged her.  "Sadira —" first time for first name usage:  she wasn't sure how to stop him "— you used the virus too soon.  Two days, to be exact."

    "It was an accident."

    He waved a dismissive hand.  "Say whatever you like:  some of us know the truth.  You kept up appearances well, though."

    As well as you did?  "Thanks," she said neutrally.  If he thought she was less than sane, it might lead to underestimation later.  "So what was going to happen in two days?"

    "If all had gone well, I would have come to you with a new proposal.  I had been making some early inquiries — but you interrupted the work.  The project would have proceeded."

    She stared.  "How?  You were right:  no one was going to allow me to test the virus —"

    "Legally."  He smiled.  "No one ever said the control agencies had to be involved, did they?  That performance in the conference room was for the record only, so we could all truthfully say the project had been rejected if something went wrong.  But we're going to test the viruses, and we'll market them.  It's easy enough."

    "On who?  You're hardly going to get volunteers for an untested cosmetic enhancement!"  It felt good to throw the words back at him.

    Nigilo reached into another desk drawer and passed across a small clear vial, filled with small white stones.  "Do you know what this is?"

    Sadira picked it up and looked at it.  She knew.  The local police had taken a case full of samples to the high schools, warning the kids.  "Cocaine, in the 'crack' composition."

    "Correct.  We're allowed to keep a few samples around for the project on six."  Sadira knew about it:  the addiction breaker, removal of the physical need for the drug at the cellular level.  "It's also a very powerful motivational force, along with poverty."

    Sadira started to see where he was going, and was paralyzed by the horror of the vision.  Nigilo kept talking.  "Montana has its share of addicts, but most of the deranged people in our state don't need chemical help.  Our  — private Mexican branch works in a different environment.  They are surrounded by poverty and drug addiction."  The chill smile formed a layer of ice across her mind.  "This is deliberate.

    "Are you aware of the current organ market?"  She didn't respond.  He took it as a negative.  "Very poor people, or addicts desperate for their next fix, find a network of contacts — or sometimes they're sought out.  Desperate people, corrupt doctors..."  Sadira shuddered.  He didn't notice.  "The human body has several duplicate organs which can be transplanted out.  A kidney, usually, but sometimes a lung, and some of them are desperate enough to give up a cornea and lose half their sight.  The money is very good, especially at that economic level.  Admittedly, it's more common among the poor than the addicts — would you want a drug-soaked kidney?  But it's done more often than the media likes to believe or bothers to investigate.

    "Now, if you were to offer people a fraction of that money, but told them they wouldn't lose any of their body parts — in fact, two parts might be enhanced and allow them another means of earning a living..."

    "They'd talk," Sadira feebly protested.

    "They don't.  You just spent some time in a fairly poor area, and you're originally from New York.  You know better than that."

    Nobody talks.  Because if one person talks, then the money is cut off — or the person might vanish...

    "We'd keep them locked down for a while, good food and clothing while the virus does its job.  A pleasant change for them, actually. After testing was complete, we'd begin selling it."  The smile was almost warm.  "You were right all along.  There are plenty of women who would love to have larger breasts, and are terrified of silicone poisoning, or the perils of the operation, even with saline."  This time, Sadira managed to suppress her reaction.  "They would pay thousands for a safe alternative."

    "But how do you keep it secret once you start selling it?  Eventually, someone's going to talk..."

    "Oh, you work through intermediaries — investors, so to speak, and we wouldn't sell it in the United States unless the money was simply too tempting.  It's like the cancer drugs that get imported illegally:  no one's going to reveal how they get into the country, because then everyone's source dries up.  For this, gratitude suffices to keep things quiet.  I'm not saying it would be easy — there's more work involved than I want to detail — but it can be done.  It's been done before, though normally with drugs.  Turning a profit is easy."  He opened the file and passed her a chart.  "Based on initial inquires and simulations, that's the profit picture for the first five years with an ultra-conservative distribution scenario."

    Sadira looked over the chart.  Accounting wasn't her strong point, but she could add, and she could see the grand total in the bottom right corner.  Four hundred and twenty-three million dollars.

    "That's based on an average cost of fifteen thousand dollars a treatment, with extra costs for more drastic enlargements.  If we increase the distribution and number of patients treated, we can lower the costs somewhat — but why bother?  It's almost all pure profit.  A breast enhancement performed by a professional can cost five thousand:  tripling the cost to account for absolute safety, and the added bonus of being able to get as large as you like — well, what do you think of a base cost of fifteen thousand, with an additional two hundred for every inch after the fourth?  That would allow a completely flat woman such as you — used to be — to go from zero to D for the base cost."

    Sadira blinked.  "It seems somewhat expensive."

    He shook his head.  "That's what the market is prepared to bear.  Again, the more patients we treat, the lower the cost.  I wouldn't bring it under ten thousand base at any rate.  I also have to consider the percentage our investors would take.  And even if someone talks — we'll be difficult to track, and once thousands of people are walking around with no side effects at all, the biohazard agencies aren't going to make any real effort to go after the source.  Breast enlargement is too trivial to investigate."

   Nigilo reached out for the chart:  Sadira passed it back.  "So this is obviously where you come in.  I wouldn't have presented it all to you in these terms to begin with — your profile is a little too clean.  I would have told you we had a tentative approval outside the States, fed you a few lies about the Mexican site, and given you a healthy piece of the profits.  I do pay for good work, Sadira.  I run this company hard, but well.  I'm not the owner, but they know better than to cross me.  I have some connections, and information on most of the people in GenTree, including everyone at this site.

    "You'll reconstruct both viruses for us.  It doesn't seem sensible to give you any of the profits now — after all, we now have to recoup the price of the hunt — but you'll get some of it."

    No.  I'll finish the work, and you'll kill me — maybe not.  It might be to his advantage to have a pet geneticist, but the logistics of keeping me hidden forever are formidable...  'You'll' reconstruct?

    "If you're wondering about how you'll spend it — eventually, if I decide you can be trusted to some degree, you'll be allowed out with company.  But that's going to take a lot of work on your part.  Call it a goal to work towards."

    Lie.  Maybe.

    "There are places in India — palaces which the government can't touch — where the maharajahs have "private" scientists who make drugs for them.  You'll have the same status.  I promise fair treatment as long as you cooperate.

    "And I suggest you start working fast, and cooperate fully.  I'll give you a team to head up, and they'll be monitoring your work.  I don't know how large you wish to be, but you must want to end the growth at some point.  You can't just stage a strike and refuse to build the second virus.  You may want to sacrifice mobility for —" his face momentarily betrayed his disbelief of the next word "— beauty, but how far did you intend it to go?"

    Sadira thought about her next words carefully.  "Then I'd better start working.  When can I meet Jason and Pamela?"

    The reply was automatic.  "You'll have to earn that —"

    "Why?  They were working with me on the second virus."

    "Lie.  The second virus was finished when you used the first.  You had the data on another computer, or remembered to erase it beyond the recovery of a file utility."

    Sadira didn't react, she role-played, seeing Nigilo's perspective and working within it, gathering the information she needed.  "Fine," with just a hint of a resigned sigh:  you're too smart for me, I give up.  "But I still have to recreate it, and I need the partners who were helping me refine the virus.  I may be smart, but I don't have eidetic memory — with my metabolism so high, I'm running a small fever all the time."  Bluff, bluff, make it sound like a real concern, like I'm scared of what he might do — not exactly something I have to fake...  "It makes it hard to concentrate sometimes."

    Nigilo said nothing.

    "You don't have them here, do you?"  A small break, but still in character.  Alive, oh please, alive, even if they're all stuck here, Jasmine too...

    "No," he said heavily, "I don't."  He stood up.  He loomed over Sadira, a former football tackle who hadn't let himself go to seed:  his width was imposing.  "They were killed when they tried to keep you from being taken, and the shots put holes in the computers.  The data was lost.  I wanted to take you all alive, but they made things difficult."

    Sadira felt the blood rushing away as the room began to tilt and shift, disbelief and denial trying to work together, clashing with the dead factual certainty of Nigilo's tone...

    "Now see what you've done," Nigilo said softly.  "You've gone and killed them all.  I guess there's nothing left but the work." He stepped around the desk.  "Whenever she's ready to move again," he told Carmody, "take her to the lab and introduce her to her partners."  Nigilo left the office.

    Sadira had forgotten Carmody was there.

    "Would you like some privacy?" he asked.  There was no sympathy in his voice, just a question.  "There are cameras in the office, but I can step outside."

    "No," Sadira said, and started the slow process of getting up properly.  She thought she was up to about forty extra pounds (no scale in the bathroom):  still mobile, but she had to be very careful.  Her back twinged anyway.  "I don't believe him."  Dead.  They might all be dead.  All dead...  "And I need to get to work."

    Carmody put his hands under her arms, helping her up.  She allowed him to assist until she was standing.  He let go.

    Sadira turned, ready to head for the door.  She took one step, placing her in front of Carmody, who was about to step aside —

    — a right jab went directly into his stomach.

    He doubled over so fast that his descending upper body nearly hit her:  she stepped back just in time.

    The guards, whose portable screens had been tuned to the office, rushed into the room, weapons drawn and pointed — but didn't fire.  Sadira just stood there quietly, arms raised, hands open.  Carmody gasped, trying not to throw up.

    "He touched me," she explained, "and he's never going to do it again."  She stepped towards them.  The guns swung to cover her.  "Now where's my lab?  I have work to do."

    The guards waited for Carmody to recover before they all left the room.

    Sadira carefully memorized the path as they walked.  I am going to use this team to build the second virus, she decided, and then I'm going to use it.  And then I'm going to get out, and I'm taking the data with me, or destroying it before I go.

    I don't know what kind of projects they're testing in Mexico, but they may be giving potentially fatal organisms to people who might not understand the consequences.  They're treating humans like lab rats.  I'm not going to contribute to those projects.  Someone has to stop them.

    I wouldn't commit suicide from a disease, not if I could try to find a cure —

    And that was how the decision was made, with a simple realization of fact.  It'll have to be quick, something they can't fix.  They're watching me all the time.  I can't cut my wrists:  they'll sew me back up before the blood loss became dangerous...

    She wouldn't live as a vegetable, and she wouldn't live as a slave. 

    If there was no rescue coming, and she couldn't escape, she'd kill herself.

    And she'd take the data, viruses, and building with her.

 

    Nigilo caught up with Carmody an hour later, in the cafeteria.  Carmody's appetite was just starting to return.

    "Is she working?"

    "She went into the lab, asked the rest of the team a few questions, and began reviewing their data.  They were discussing sequences when I left."

    "Good."  Nigilo sat down.  "How's your stomach?"

    "Recovering."

    "You shouldn't have let yourself get that close.  Women fake weakness.  They use it as a lure.  Let it be a lesson to you."

    "I won't forget it, sir."

    Nigilo thoughtfully chewed his ham sandwich, swallowed, and said, "Do you think we should hypnotize her to enhance her memory?"

    "No, sir," Carmody immediately replied.  "Hypnosis only works when the subject is cooperative.  I believe Ms Archer still has a core of resistance."

    "Agreed," Nigilo reluctantly said.  "I'm not drugging her because it might affect her mind, but I'd thought hypnosis might work.  Well, she's got her incentive.  Work — or not work."  He took another bite.  "Now, the others..."

    Carmody waited while Nigilo ate.

    "They'll be waiting for us," he finally said.  "They'll expect another raid.  Save the data, destroy the computers, shoot anyone who walks through the door.  If we go after the data again, some of our agents might die, and that might be a little hard for them to explain —  but it could backfire on us.  I don't want to drag the police in when no one's called them yet."  Carmody, posing as a reporter, had gotten a copy of the NYPD's activity ledger for Alphabet City faxed to an employee's house.  No one had reported the shots.

    "Now, we might need that data," Nigilo considered, "but we're not going to get it.  Pterros may be dead.  If so, that leaves Shaw and the dancer.  So we have to decide what to do about them.

    "If it's profit, Shaw may decide to cut her losses.  Who knows what she's going to do with the lab rat?  But if that little 'experiment' in college resulted in an emotional attachment on Shaw's end — and Pterros is still alive..."  Another bite, chew, swallow.  "We can certainly lie, deny, cover, fabricate evidence that could refute any charges they might decide to bring, but it wastes time, and there's always the chance that something might stick.  If they're stupidly involved, then they may do something stupid.  They may try to find her — although I don't think they can — and come after her.  And they do have that data.  With Archer present, I can talk to the investors, get more backing..."

    He ate.  Carmody waited.

    "I'm going to call an acquaintance in New York," Nigilo decided.  "I have a job for him."

   

25

72:  New deal

 

    Pamela looked around the corner, gun ready.  The apartment had been clear, but the lab was going to be harder to search.  Jason and Jasmine followed her in, their own weapons drawn.  Pamela had given the Princess a brief lesson in gunplay which, simplified, translated to "This end towards enemy."  Each one took a third and began the hunt.

    There was no one else in the lab, and no one had been there since they had left.  They converged at the door.

    "Well," Pamela said, "all the data's on the computer, and no one broke the hairs."  She'd used a trick dimly remembered from an espionage novel:  taking small strands of her hair and invisibly taping them across the keyboards and access ports (not to mention the doorways, locks, Jasmine's facial powder spread on the floor to catch footprints...), so that any attempt to use the computer would break several.  She'd thought about hauling the entire system out with them, but had concluded that if anyone stole the information, it would go to Sadira, who needed it.  She'd made copies of everything important before leaving the lab, in case they decided to take and erase.

    "Fine," Jasmine said.  "Now what?"

    Jason looked at the computer.  "We make a decision.  Do we try to finish the virus — and it's going to have to be or include the metabolic brakes, to avoid possible burnout when the growth stops — and then try and get her, or do we head out immediately?"

    Pamela looked at Jason.  "Take a step."

    He shook his head.  "I'm moving more easily —"

    "— and getting worse again.  You healed quite a bit overnight.  Any time you're not moving, you heal.  When you move, you risk re-injuring yourself.  You're still not up for a rescue operation.  And you're going to need a cure first.  Sadira probably won't be able to work on it:  she doesn't know about the burnout possibility, though she'll probably deduce it fast enough.  But they'll make her focus on the growth stop before they let her tackle her own problems."  Her brow furrowed.  "I think.  I'm not sure.  Damnit!"

    "No, that makes sense," Jason told her.  "They'd probably want her eternally hyper.  She could do more work."

    "Twin projects," Jasmine said.  "We work on the metabolism, she works on the growth."

    "We hope."  Pamela turned to Jasmine.  "If you have any mystical twin telepathic connection to Sadira, this would be a good time."  Jasmine briefly closed her eyes.  It was either frustration or she was giving it a try.

    "So," Pamela decided — tried to convince herself that it was the right decision — "Sadira stalls and works.  They'll probably put her with a team:  she's got better equipment than we do right now.  We put together the metabolic stop as fast as we can.  In the meanwhile, we start finding out where she is.  And when we finish and get the Mouse cured, we go after her."

    "Why not call the police?" Jasmine asked.  "This is a kidnapping:  they'll get involved."

    "Why not the FBI?" Pamela shrugged.  "They probably took her across a state line."  The idea was enticing, but she knew the answer.  "Because we can't prove anything.  We tell the truth, they lie.  Get a search warrant for the Helena building, she's probably somewhere else.  And in the meantime, with the barrage of legal investigations, denials, counter-accusations, we lose more time.  Same thing for the media."

    She looked at Jason.  "You're right, Mouse — again.  I can go rushing off madly, but you could die.  Sadira's safe as long as she's working — but the instant we go after her, she's at risk.  And if we spend time getting her before we have a cure, then we have to bring her back and keep working — we lose the time for two trips instead of one."  They won't hurt her.  They can't.  I know that.  Why is it so hard to believe?

    Jasmine smiled.  "Hit him."

    "What?"

    "He won't 'burn out' as long as he's healing, right?  If the leg gets completely better, hit him a few dozen times."  Her elbow nudged Jason's ribs.

    Pamela stared at her, then started softly laughing, a low-pitched funeral chuckle.  "It's an idea," she admitted.  "We just might have to do that."  She looked up at Jason, who was wincing in anticipated agony.  "Kind of a variation on 'You always hurt the one you —'"

    The intercom buzzer went off.

    They all looked at it.

    Jason went to the tinted window and tried to look straight down.  As with most genetics labs, Pamela's windows didn't open:  one of the former bathrooms had been converted into an closed environmental lab for working with airborne viruses.  "I can't see anything," he said regretfully.  "There aren't enough of them standing in line to reach the edge of the sidewalk.  No police cars on the street, though."

    The buzzer sounded again.

    "It's nearly two," Jasmine said.  "There's lots of people around to witness things, and even if they were that stupid, why would they buzz first?"

    "Because they're that stupid," Pamela replied.  "It might just be a desperate scientist looking for a little extra help.  I'm going to have to say no..."  Another buzz.  They weren't going away and they might decide to come in.  She looked at Jasmine.  "Follow me and stay in the shadows." A quick glance towards Jason.  "Back us up from the stairway.  If things get weird, I'd rather not let people know you're alive."

 

    Pamela could hear the buzzer outside the door, sounding every twenty seconds or so.  She couldn't see the person on the other side:  the front door had no security port.  A ridiculously obvious oversight that she was going to correct.  Later.  If there was a police officer on the other side, one who had decided to walk into Alphabet City without benefit of a getaway vehicle, she was about to be in serious trouble.

    Pamela pulled the door open with her right hand, bringing it in across her body as she took a step back, and thrust the left hand forward, keeping herself well within the hallway, out of casual sidewalk viewing range.

    The man in front of the doorway took a step back.  He was somewhere between twenty and forty — the face had too much time in it.  He was wearing a Knicks sweater and carrying a small briefcase.  Possibly a scientist.  "Hi," she said.  "And you are?"  The gun didn't waver.

    "You have to be Pamela Shaw."  He had recovered quickly.

    "Yeah, I have to be.  No one else wanted the job.  And you are?"

    "Somebody with information and a need for more."

     Paranoid scientist who really needed help was not an option.  She double-checked the safety:  it was off.  "No name?  Really?.  Let me come up with something."  Pamela considered.  "Okay, asshole, what do you want?"

    "I want to show you something."  He was a professional asshole:  he opened the briefcase so she could view the contents, reaching around from the back to lift out the envelope.  "It's rather important.  You'll want to examine it closely."  He pulled out a single sheet of paper.

    Pamela watched it emerge:  a good fax copy of a photograph, taken from a security camera, with time and date in the upper right corner —

    — Sadira, in deep discussion with three other people.

    She reached for the paper.  He pulled it back.  "If I don't report back, things happen," he said smoothly.  "And if you take this, I won't report back."

    "Where —?"

    The look said You know better than that.  She did.  It had still been worth a try.  "The status you see.  That's all the information that I have.  However, I also have a proposal."

    She could see tendons standing out on the hand clutching the gun.  "Speak."

    "You were working on the project.  A certain party would be interested in purchasing your data.  It could be helpful in the long run."

    "And what happens if I don't?"

    "Nothing.  As long as you do nothing."  Pamela waited for clarification.  "You have the potential to be competition.  You also might be thinking of trying to recover lost data.  Neither option would be beneficial to the long term survival of your business."

    "Or my survival?"

    "I wouldn't say that.  A mutual hands-off policy between our two businesses might simply be the best course to pursue."

    Pamela gave up.  "I'm not wearing any recording devices.  I cannot play back this conversation for anybody else.  Speak clearly."

    He shook his head.  "If you stay away from our territory, we stay away from yours.  If you pursue your current line of interest, your business could suffer, as could the value of —" he nodded at the photo "— your real estate.  It might crash through the basement.  It certainly could if you attempted to recover full market value.  I wouldn't seek consultants either.  You're better off doing something else entirely.  It befits a small business."

    Pamela's mind translated:  We're not sure how to keep you quiet.  We thought fear might do it.  So if you try to come after Sadira, we think about hurting her.  If you go get help from the police, media, anybody, ditto.  We also don't want you selling the viruses.  And by the way, would you mind selling us your soul?

    "If I give you the data, does it get put to good use?"

    "It results in maximum benefit for all parties."

    "Could you give me a moment to think this over?"  Good, nice and calm.

    "Thirty seconds," he replied, voice oil-slick.

    She closed the door and walked slowly down the hall, trying not to alert the man with rapid footsteps, then pitched her words low.  "No questions.  Mouse, hide on one of the empty floors.  Princess, get up to the lab fast and quiet, find a good place to hide, and cover me.  I'll explain later."  A pause.  "And if he kills me, I will haunt you."  She walked back to the door and opened it.

    "Deal," Pamela said.  "Can you come in?"

 

    He watched as she copied the files.  He'd brought an advanced zip drive with him, and the data was being imprinted on the cartridges.  "Where's the second half of the project?"

    "We don't have it because it doesn't exist.  I'm giving you all the avenues we were pursuing."  She was including the metabolic data:  maybe Sadira would have a chance at it.

    "My employer isn't going to pay for partial results — or for deliberate withholding of information."

    Pamela straightened up and looked at him.  "Your employer seems given to flights of fancy and illogic.  I want to help, so I'm giving you every piece of information I have.  I feel it's essential that the new team receives it.  I'll copy out the entire hard drive for you.  You can copy out the entire hard drive.  But I can't give you what I don't have."  She stepped away from the computer.  "Go ahead and look."

    "You could have taken out the essential data first —"

    "I'm not taking that risk."  She nodded at the briefcase.  "And when would I have had the chance?  I didn't know you were coming."

    He made sure she was out of punch and kick range — but still in sight — and took her up on the offer, examining the hard drive carefully, checking for hidden directories and deleted files.  He was good.  If there had been any, he would have found them.  He finally looked up.  "'Flights of fancy and illogic?'  That sounds about right."  Her eyes were met.  "You really don't have the data, do you?"

    "No.  Would you like to tell him she didn't trust me with it?"

    "It's an option."  A twitch was twisting the left corner of his mouth.  It might have been an attempt at a smile.  "Or you had bad sectors.  I was given payment to get everything you had.  It's hardly either of our faults if you didn't have everything desired."

    "You don't sound sympathetic."

    "I obey orders to the letter.  If I'm not provided with enough letters, it's the fault of my employer."

    "Then tell what I need to know."

    "That was prohibited in the letter."

    So much for bonding.  They copied out the hard drive.  He reached into the suitcase again, put in the zip drive and seven filled cartridges, then opened a second envelope.  He gave Pamela the contents.

    She glanced at it.  Bearer bond, probably passed off through a series of banks, completely untraceable.  Pamela put it on top of the Mutator.

    "Thank you for your cooperation."

    Pamela looked at him.  "You're welcome, Citizen."  He didn't get it.  She hadn't expected him to.

    She escorted him out, and gathered the troops on the way back.

 

    "So now Sadira has all the data we had," Pamela said, "and we were paid for it.  Nigilo seems to think he can either threaten or purchase anyone he pleases.  This was a combination of the two."

    "How much?" Jasmine asked instinctively.

    Pamela blinked.  "I didn't even look."  She walked into the maze, heading for the Mutator.  Jason and Jasmine watched her go.

    Twelve seconds later, they heard a very quiet "Jesus fucking jumping joker Christ."

    Jasmine reached her first and looked at the bond Pamela was holding in limp fingers.  "One hundred thousand..."

    "Yeah."  Jason limped up.  Pamela kept staring at the number.  "Wow.  When he buys silence, he goes for the expensive stuff."

    "So now what?" Jason asked.

    "Same thing.  We find a cure, find Sadira, and go get her."  Pamela closed her eyes.  "I read between his lines.  She's safe as long as we stay away.  Nothing will ever touch her again — including fresh air."

    Jasmine shook her head.  "And if we screw up — if they even know we're coming — they're going to kill her."

    "Maybe.  She's valuable, but they might try it."  Her hand crumpled one corner of the bond.  "I know her, Princess.  So do you.  Given a choice between slavery and death, what does she pick?"

    Jasmine didn't hesitate.  "Live free or die."

    Jason slowly, painfully, nodded.

    Pamela closed her eyes and let her heart fall apart in silence, then opened them and looked at the bond.  "So we're going to do it right."  The snow leopard manifested.  "And Nigilo's going to pay for it in every way possible."

 

    Temperi walked over to Sadira.  "You had this sequence, right?"  He handed her a piece of printout.  She leaned it against the disposal oven and made a few corrections.  "Thanks."  He left.

    Sadira watched him leave.  Temperi had been on the leukemia project:   they'd shared data before.  She didn't like him.  Sadira had caught him giving her odd, almost guilty looks before the accident.  She was normally outside the rumor mill, but one had reached her:  Temperi supposedly liked his women six to ten years short of the term.

    She hadn't believed it at the time, but it did explain the strange looks:  Sadira had been as flat as the average eight year-old.  And there hadn't been a single one of those looks since she'd walked in.  If anything, he seemed to be avoiding her.

    Jonas was just creepy.  He was on the addiction project, so they'd never met in the lab.  He would just flow through the cafeteria every so often, the crowd parting for him, avoiding contact.  It had taken two minutes of working with him to find the perfect description:  ghoul.

    The third man was new to her:  small, strongly built, prematurely bald.  He'd introduced himself as Calvin Menken in a voice that sounded rusty from long disuse, and hadn't said anything since.

    She hadn't given much thought to recruiting help from her co-workers on the way in.  She'd completely discarded the idea within three minutes of entering the lab.

    They had equipment, at least, top of the line and plentiful.  Sadira had access to the central computer — but the modem was passworded:  if Sadira wanted data from another source, she had to ask one of the others to get it.  Her partners had even made some progress on the stop virus.  They'd managed to eliminate several possibilities that the New York team hadn't gotten around to examining.

    Still, according to Temperi, they had been working with ninety-five percent of her original data, and they hadn't been able to recreate BE-1.  She'd filled in the missing pieces with a glance, but she hadn't put them to use yet.

    Sadira wasn't sure how to go about playing for time.  Nigilo was convinced that she had finished both viruses, and was trying to recreate her work from memory.  It therefore made sense to finish BE-1 quickly and take more time on BE-2, for which she had no data to build on — but how much time could she take, if she was waiting for a rescue?  (If her rescuers were alive...)  Every day was another four inches.

    And if they did complete the second virus, and she used it on herself, then Nigilo would begin manufacture and outside testing almost immediately.  Some of the samples would be out of reach.  And if she was allowed to live, she'd be shifted to another project, something with deadlier implications...

    If it was a game, then her life was serving as ante.  And there were some victories that would result in everyone forfeiting the pot. 

    Sadira worked and plotted, rejecting dozens of scenarios, trying to find the foolproof way out of the fort.

    Some of those plans turned into fantasies, where she broke out, cured and triumphant, to find an eager biohazard agency, ready to dive past her and arrest all of GenTree, and friends and family right behind, waiting to hug her.

    And some of those fantasies turned into nightmares, as Nigilo stepped out of the wreckage and shot them all.

    She kept revising the plans, editing the contents of the fantasies.  Sadira was going for a happy ending — or a tragicomedy that would bring down the house.

   

26

81:  Dear Kay,

 

    Sadira looked at the notebook and thought hard.

    They had, after a quick session with Carmody, put a computer system in her room, but it was what used to be called a dumb terminal.  Sadira had thought of several worse things to call it.  It connected to the central computer, but the only thing it would let her do was work within the database.  No modem line, no access to building systems, nothing.

    Given a few minutes to learn a program, Sadira could warp it in interesting ways, but hacking wasn't a skill she possessed — and she didn't see any real way to get into the other systems from the database even if she had the skill.  The computer just didn't have the capacity.

    She had also asked for, and gotten, a large supply of pillows, which was the reason she was able to write comfortably:  she was on her stomach again — on her breasts, really — diagonal across the bed, breasts lying comfortably between columns, pillows taking the weight.  It had taken a lot of awkward arranging and a lot more pillows than Pamela had used.  It also wasn't as effective — there was a larger center area to compensate for — and she wasn't looking forward to moving again.

    They still hadn't given her bras.  They had given her painkillers, but they watched her take them.  No overdosing allowed.  It had been hard to convince them that the amount she was taking was a normal dose.

    And she had the notebook.  And she couldn't think about BE-2 anymore, because she'd been working on it for nearly fifteen hours straight, and whenever she tried to focus on the sequence charts, they rearranged themselves and became dancing stick figures.  She'd pleaded exhaustion and tried to go to sleep.  She couldn't do that, either.

    If she thought about something else for a while — if she got all the thoughts out of her head and on paper — then she might clear out enough space to let sleep come in.

    Sadira looked up at the cameras.  "Notes," she told them.  "If I come up with anything interesting, I'll let you know."  But the project was out of reach.  She was going to write a letter — a letter that would probably never be mailed.

   

    March 27th

    Dear Kay,

    I want to start this letter with two apologies, one minor, one major.  First, I'm sorry I can't come to your wedding.  I appreciate the invitation — it's nice to get good news from family once in a while.  But it was really a formality for both of us:  you can't afford too many guests, and I could never get time off from work to come — especially now.  I hope you and Rick are doing well.

    Second, I'm sorry for the way I acted when you started developing.

    I know you noticed, even though you never said anything.  You just looked hurt that last time we visited, just before I went to college.  Before that happened, I looked forward to those occasional summer weeks in England, visiting family.  Visiting you.  You were a wonderful alternative to Jasmine, open and loving, and you never resented me for being smart.  I thought of you as a little sister for a while there — God knows you were preferable to the real one.

    And then you started growing, and I stopped talking to you, and writing those seasonal letters.  I cut you out.  I couldn't stand the thought of another "true" Archer blossoming while I stayed at zero forever.  And with me on top of everyone else at that stage — believe me, I'm learning about it now — it must have hurt.

    I started writing again after Pamela (you remember her) adjusted my attitude for me, and you picked up the correspondence without a word.  But I never apologized, and this might be my only chance — even if you never see this...

 

    Sadira stopped and wiped away the tear that had splattered on the page.

    It took several pages, even in summary, to tell Kay everything that had happened from the fifteenth up to Monday, with some background information added.  Sadira held nothing back, including the more embarrassing details.  After all, Kay was probably never going to read it — and if she did, then Sadira had gotten out alive, and embarrassment didn't matter.

    You never really said why you retreated to working at home, or that you wanted a reduction — although I just guessed:  I read between the lines a little.  Everyone knows I go nuts when someone says "surgery."  I would have tried to talk you out of it.  And then a few months ago, in your last letter, just before the wedding announcement I got on the fourteenth, the tone changed.  You were at peace with yourself.  You'd found someone who loved you — and you were getting support from new friends, and this new source of income you found — I think you were avoiding telling me exactly what it was because you know how I feel about Jasmine.  If I've guessed right (took me long enough), you're forgiven.  Nothing to be sorry about.

    You didn't say much about Charlotte, but I'd like to meet her one day, and Rick.  Anyone who could turn you around is someone worth talking to.  I could probably use some time listening to them myself.

    Not that I'm going to get a chance.

    Well, judging from your last picture, I've passed you in size now, and I've been getting first-hand lessons in how I can expect to be treated from now on...

 

    Sadira recognized the woman delivering lunch:  Lisa, from the Accounting department, who always took so much pleasure in her (lack of) social life.  She was built along the Cosmopolitan lines:  rich blond hair, a classic figure, long legs, a sculptured face, and an attitude which projected eight feet from her actual body.  It begged the question of how she'd wound up in Accounting in the first place.  Most people thought she just liked rejecting things: budgets, raises, all of her co-workers...

    "Lunchtime," she said distastefully.  "Aaron snagged me in the corridor and force-fed me this.  Come and get it."

    Sadira, whose movement was still slowing (especially without the bra), got there last.

    Lisa looked down at her and indulged herself with a long, satisfied smirk.

    Sadira reached out for the bag.  Lisa lifted it over her head, well out of Sadira's reach.  Jumping wasn't an option.

    "Drop it," Sadira spat.

    "Why?" Lisa teased.  "I didn't listen to you when you were the Flatty from Flatbush.  Why should I listen when you're the Bovine from Brooklyn?"

 

    ...and I was standing in front of her thinking When I was flat, this woman made fun of my chest.  And now look at me.  And what does she do?  Right.  Pamela had it called to the last pitch.

 

    Sadira prepared to kick Lisa in the shins, hoping she didn't lose her balance —

    "Give her the food, Trevor," the passive voice said.  "Mr. Nigilo would be very upset to learn that Ms Archer isn't receiving proper nutrition."

    Lisa glared down at Sadira, and handed her the bag.

    Saved by Carmody.  She was, anyway.

    He's been my go-between with Nigilo.  I ask him for something, he goes and gets it — within reason.  I don't think I can get a gun.  I wish I could get bras, but no one's thought of it, and I keep missing chances to bring it up.  Figures.  Whenever Carmody shows up, I think of a million other things to complain about — and they're so important that the pain in my back gets forgotten.  I've been seeing him twice a day:  you'd think I'd manage to remember.  It's just that the work always seems to take priority.  (And I think Nigilo would tell him to make the answer no.)

    Maybe they're afraid I'll hang myself with the straps.  They'd certainly be strong enough.

    We have been making some progress, and not just in eliminating things.  Temperi of all people proposed a new avenue that we've been chasing down, and this one doesn't seem to be heading for the usual dead end.  It's complex — a lot more complex than the start sequence, so it'll take longer to find out it's not going to work.

    Or maybe it will.  Temperi is very dedicated.  Glance back at the rumor I gave you:  I think he's afraid of any woman who doesn't look like she just came out of the uterus, and I'm getting farther from that every day.  He has to work in the same room.  I think he's getting desperate.  It's pushing him to new levels.

    I've seen some of that from other people.  There aren't a lot of women in here — there weren't a lot in GenTree, period.  Nigilo, probably.  Some of them look away.  A lot of them stare.  One licked her lips.  The men are pretty much the same.  The best I get is quiet acceptance, like I found in the club — or, from Carmody, disinterest.

    I've seen Nigilo twice, briefly.  The first time, he popped his head in and looked around for a second.  Today, he came all the way in and asked me if I thought my metabolic rate could be imposed on someone else separate from the breast growth.  I told him I thought it was possible.  I didn't tell him that I already had the sequences.

    He went over to the computer and called up some new files — but I'd seen them before.  They were from Pamela's computer.  He said a team had been sifting through the wreckage and reconstructed some of the data.  He sounded mad about it, like he'd been expecting a lot more, and then he looked at me and said, "You don't trust anyone, do you?"

    It didn't make sense.  But not much about him does.  He left after reminding the others to double-check my work.  And the metabolic enhancer is officially our next project.  I'm glad he didn't decide to shelve BE-2 in favor of it.  This one could go into general testing without much fuss from the government.  The hospitals, the military — everyone would love it.

    So I have some more data, and I have to wonder how they got it.  I never heard of someone getting files after a computer had been shot.  If Jason, Pamela, and Jasmine are still alive, they may have abandoned the lab.  I don't know where they could have gone.  Maybe they're looking for me.  Maybe they're still working on a cure...

 

    Pamela examined Jason's leg.  The scar, a thick, bright red on Tuesday, had faded to a quiet pink.  "Take a few steps."  He did.  His motions were becoming increasingly natural:  there was hardly any limp now.  "Put your pants back on."

    Jason recovered the jeans and pulled them up over the boxer shorts.  "That bad or that good?"

    "Both.  You'll be completely healed in another day or two.  After that, I don't know where the energy's going to go."  She gave him a small, wry smile.  "Maybe I should start beating you now."

    "Maybe Jasmine knows a professional attacker."

    "Dominatrixes and feature dancers don't mix," Jasmine called out from her desk.  "And you're too innocent to know about that stuff!"

    Jason blushed.  "Heracles had a magazine."  He looked at Pamela.  "How's your end coming?"

    "Not well."  They walked over to Jasmine's desk.  They'd both learned a lot about the dancer's intelligence level over the past two days.  While Jasmine couldn't master the full field in forty-eight hours, she'd picked up the basics from her reading.  Her eclectic perusals had given her a little knowledge in a lot of fields, all of which she put together to make suggestions, ask questions, and provide more help than nuisance.  Her specialty was spotting whatever they'd overlooked, such as the idea for a solo metabolic slowdown.

    At the moment, she was reading over a file full of pregnancy data with a huge dictionary at her elbow, looking up every third word, struggling through the text.  She glanced up as they approached.  "Back to work, you two.  If I find anything, I'll let you know."

    Pamela snapped off a salute.  "Yes, your royal highness!"  She quick-marched back into the maze.

    "I want to go out to one of the Internet cafes," Pamela told him.  "We should give your idea another try:  find a hacker and get into GenTree's systems.  You don't think they're keeping her in the main building?"

    Good.  That'll get you out of the lab.  They'd switched roles:  Jason now had to remind Pamela about eating.  She got up too early, worked too late, and slept too little.  "A branch operation," Jason replied.  "I know about one in Kansas — the agricultural labs — and there were rumors of a few others.  Michigan, Mexico..."

    "So we need to find out exactly where she is, and plan an attack.  Download the blueprints if they're available, get the security codes — whatever's available.  A good hacker could do it."

    "And you think we can find one this time?"

    "Whatever it takes."  She grinned.  "We're going to give some of that excess energy a new outlet.  And my other idea might come through."

    "You heard from him?"

    "The number was a message service:  someone forwarded it.  He'll be in town on Friday.  If we finish before that, we find a backup and leave without him.  But Sadira said she liked him, and I think she'd like my throwing him a very big bone.  Even if I had to lie to get him here."

    "I still think you should have gone with a professional."

    "He is a professional.  I've seen his work —"  Pamela stopped.  Jason was giving her one of those smiles again.  "At least he'll get the lighting right."

    ...if what I think is happening is what's happening, then —

    I love Pamela, as a friend and something more than a sister.  And as a lover.  She reverts a little in bed, becomes a big playful kid who's basically interested in how fun this is — but there's a lot of tenderness there, too.  And now I finally know why she was so sad that last night on campus, beyond roommates separating after four years together.  She's in love with me, and it took the first remembered dream of my life to figure it out.  Some genius, huh?

    Jason is a good friend — you couldn't ask someone to go through what he has for me.  (If Rick's like that, then lucky you!)  That's the way Pamela started out, and I think — I think he's in love, too.  I'm starting to believe that Jasmine can't get to him, and I can keep believing that until I see evidence to the contrary.

    And, adding all up, I think they both know about each other.  There's some sort of truce drawn up, to keep from upsetting me — that might be why Pamela avoided touching me again.  She honors her promises, no matter what.

    It's funny.  I never thought I'd have anyone love me like that, and two of them were right in front of me the whole time.

    In my defense, it's becoming very hard to see things which are right in front of me.

    If I got out, and they were waiting for me, what would I do?  Can I make that choice?  Because I do love them both, in different ways — but those ways are converging.  I don't know what to do:  this isn't something I have any experience with.

    I don't think I'm gay:  I chased boys in school with too much devotion for that.  Bisexual, probably, although Jasmine wouldn't be surprised to find out that I'm still a virgin with men, and I've never felt this way about any woman but Pamela.  So that's no help.

    So what do I do?

    I wish this was a chat room, and you could write back to me within seconds of reading this, because I have no ideas...

 

    Carmody looked at the screen.  Sadira continued to write, all her attention focused on the paper.  The hand movements were too regular for formulae:  she was working on something else.  A diary, possibly.  She'd arranged the pillows as a blockade, gaining a measure of privacy — but the camera could zoom in and magnify:  even with the awkward angle, he could try to read some of the words if he wanted to —

 

    I tried to suck my nipple last night.  (Even though I'll probably never get to mail this, I still can't believe I just wrote that)

    It was the best thing to come out of this.  My nipples got a lot larger, and they also seemed to acquire more nerves than size.  I had a nipple orgasm:  I thought that just existed in woman's magazines, too.

    Last night, I was in the bathtub, and I was looking at the cameras.  I can't tell you how much I hate them:  bad enough that they have to follow my every movement, even worse that those movements include the bowel variety.  They watch me at every moment:  nothing is private.  They might even be able to read these words, but I used the pillows pretty well, and none of the cameras are directly over the bed.  My thoughts are safe for the moment, even outside my head.

    Anyway, I was washing, looking at the camera, and having it there was, right then, being naked in a crowd.  I'm stared at all the time, every second — and I just thought So watch this, assholes! and tried to orient my right nipple for sucking.  I don't know what I was really thinking.  Maybe I just wanted to shock them.  Nigilo already thinks I did this to myself deliberately:  I don't mind him thinking I'm a bit deranged.  If he saw this, he'd probably think I was writing it to mislead him.

    Well, I tried to get my nipple to my mouth, and I couldn't.  My breasts are too big now, and too firm.  Maybe if they were more floppy, I could do it — but there's too much flesh between me and the nipple, and while it compresses, distorts, and jiggles, it doesn't really bend very well.

    I must have been a hilarious sight.  I did everything I could to get to it.  I tried to slide one breast under the other...  I even lifted my breast up as far as I could — I thought that if I just tilted my head back far enough, my mouth and the nipple would meet eventually — and I wound up realizing that my breast is a lot bigger than my head.  (I didn't really think about it until I had a direct comparison going.)

    And they thought I was attempting suicide by suffocation and broke in on me.

    You would have enjoyed hearing me try to talk my way out of that one.  I was very creative.

    My breasts have reached past my waist now, but they're projecting forward faster than they're descending at the moment.  I don't know why:  maybe there's some sort of automatic change in the genetic program that triggers at this size.  My nipples are about two inches long erect, and an inch across.  I don't have any Band-Aids here, and the muu-muu isn't much of a help.  Taken on a straight line, I'm out past my elbows even without the bra — and any bra is going to have to be very interesting to let me do much with my arms in front of my body at all.  Pamela's keyboarding lesson becomes more important every day:  I'm doing a lot of things sidesaddle now.

    Jason told me that if my genes had triggered naturally, I would have been pretty big — maybe to Jasmine's scale, maybe even to yours.  It's hard to believe I would have gotten this big, though.  Still, I'm starting to realize even if this isn't normal for me, it's closer to the normal I would have been than the normal I was —

    I think what I mean is what Pamela said earlier:  I got ten extra years of sleeping on my stomach, but that's not how I am now.  I was supposed to be large-breasted, but now I've caught up and passed that level.  I think I'm officially at huge, or somewhere past it.

 

    Sadira stopped and stared at the paper for a long time, using the whiteness as a blank screen, watching the movie play again.  Eventually, she resumed writing.

 

    When I was eleven, they operated on me, after the bone marrow transplant.  All the treatments were working, and the leukemia was going away.  I don't even remember why they took me into surgery.  It might have been exploratory, or some small tumor that they wanted to examine, the disease running off-course — I've blocked that out.

    What I remember is the eyes of the anesthesiologist as he lowered the mask over my face.  They were very, very bright.

    He had access to the hospital pharmacy.  He used most of it.

    The anesthetic wore off in the middle of the surgery.

    I woke up on the table.  They'd strapped my limbs down to keep my position stable, so no one would brush against an arm against me and knock another doctor's scalpel off course.  That was the first thing I realized when I woke up.  The second thing was that those scalpels were cutting into me.

    Everything else was pain.

    The hospital admitted what had happened — they didn't have a choice:  they were working on me with students watching.  One of them freaked, ran out, and found my parents.  Mom and Dad sued, and won, but awards weren't so big back then, and we didn't exactly get a sympathetic judge.  The hospital offered to pay for all the bills plus a million more.  After all, I'd lived, and they'd fired the anesthesiologist:  what more did he want them to do?

    Nothing, as it turned out.  So we got the million, and Dad lost all but a hundred thousand of it in the S&L scandal, tried to invest the rest, and lost that.  So the scholarships were all I had.

    I know where my phobia comes from.  It doesn't help me deal with it.  I start shaking when I think about reduction surgery — any surgery.  If I do live through this, then, as Jasmine said, I'm stuck wherever it leaves me.

    So it helps to think that I was always supposed to be this way — maybe even to this degree.  And if I get out, I'll write more to this letter, and send you the happy ending, and maybe even come visit to compare notes.  I owe you a hug along to go with that apology, and Pamela taught me how to do it, although I'm not sure how much longer it'll work.

    But if I don't, then maybe someone will find this and take pity on me by sending it.  And if that doesn't happen, it still felt good to write to you again, and let someone in on what I was really feeling.

    I wish I was with you right now, free.  But I'm with you in spirit, always.

    Don't forget me.

Love,

Sadira

27

83:  Plots, plans, parallels...

 

    Jason woke to find Pamela coming out of the bathroom, already fully dressed, absently munching on an apple — from the stem down.  She saw him and stopped moving.  "Good," she said.  "Bathroom's yours.  I'll wake up the Princess."  All the words were uncertain, as if she had to concentrate to string them together.

    Jason sat up and got a good look at the clock.  Four hours of sleep.  "Wrong."

    Pamela stared down at him.  "Fine, if you don't have to go, the Princess can use the bathroom first.  Frankly, though, you could use a shave.  Get in while it's free."  The apple fell from limp fingers.  She didn't notice and brought her left hand up to take another bite, then stared at the empty appendage in confusion.

    Jason slowly stood up, letting the blankets fall to the floor around his feet.  Jasmine stirred, becoming aware of the noise.  "We worked past midnight yesterday," he reminded her.  "We never went to the Internet cafe.  You barely ate.  And now you've barely slept, and you haven't gotten much sleep over the past three days.  Neither have we," he added, indicating Jasmine.  But he was dealing with it fairly well, and Jasmine was napping at her desk.  Pamela — her jacket was on backwards —

    "I'm up," Pamela argued.  "I can work.  I'm going to —"

    Jason took a step forward.  "Bed."  He took her right hand and started pulling her forward.  She was too tired to resist.

    Physically resist, anyway.  "We have to work.  We have to finish the virus.  I can go to the lab and wait for you if you're tired.  No one's chasing us now."  Pamela tried, and failed, to fight off a huge yawn.  "I'm fine."

    A few steps brought them to the bed.  Jason pulled back the sheets, then began lowering Pamela onto the mattress.  "No, you're not.  You're exhausted.  You've been pushing yourself too hard.  You'll burn out before I do, or start making mistakes."

    "But —"  Another yawn just as her head touched the pillow.

    "No argument.  Now close your eyes, and I'll wake you up in three hours."

    "I can't."  Her eyes were open, but they didn't seem to be seeing him.  "It's my fault, you see.  I didn't kill the man in the park.  If I had, they wouldn't have found us."

    And she'd been pushing herself, working extra hours while the belief built and festered...  "You don't know that," he argued.  "We could have been spotted by someone else."  It was possible, after all.  Not likely, but possible.

    Still, he forced belief into the words.  Pamela had to believe it, even if he didn't.

    "No," came the tired voice, beginning to fade.  "My fault...  want a second chance..."

    Jason was out of words, except for the one that she still might respond to.  "Ivory —"

    Pamela's eyelids flickered as she whispered, "Sadira calls me Ivory —" then slowly fell shut.  Jason pulled the covers over her and went back to his makeshift bed.  Jasmine's movements slowly subsided as the silence closed in.

 

    Sadira stepped into the bathtub, and looked over her shoulder at the mirror.  There was definitely more flesh showing past her sides than there had been.  Was there a focused side expansion occurring, or was she just now noticing it?

    She kept looking.  Her back wasn't showing any real signs of the strain it was under.  Judging from the feel of it, she'd almost been expecting a harsh red streak, or a deep tear —

    — there was an indentation.  It wasn't all that deep, but it ran down the center of her back, following the spine.  It was from —

    Now how did that happen?  And when?

    Sadira had always been in good shape, and had worked to maintain it — with her love of chocolate, it was called "staying thin."  Her workouts had been designed with that goal in mind.  They were never meant to produce this result.

    Fresh layers of muscle were just starting to become visible, forming on her back, shoulders, and pectorals.  She looked down to the side — straight down hadn't been an option for well over a week — and tilted her right leg out a bit, bracing herself on the wall.  Her calf muscles were somewhat better defined.

    She wasn't stronger just because there was more energy available to power her efforts — a nuclear adrenaline burn whenever she needed one, as long as the calories held out.  She was stronger, period.

    It only took a second to figure out.  As long as the virus was active, injured cells would be replaced by healthy tissue at a highly accelerated rate.  Muscle development through exercise was the ongoing process of causing small injuries to the tissue so that when it healed, it would be stronger than before, with additional cells forming at the damaged site.  With all the extra weight she'd been acquiring, most of the muscle groups in her body had been stressed, injured — and thus, new tissue.

    If I didn't know better, I'd think my body was trying to compensate.  But it's just a side effect of a side effect.

    The injuries were still occurring faster than the repairs — but the repairs had been taking place.  If she was careful, the pain might even level off.  It was now a race between muscle and breast development — but her breasts had a huge head start.  The gap couldn't be closed until the growth ended:  she had to keep the lead from getting wider.  With her metabolism and her increasing resistance to the medication, she was up to thirty pills a day.

    Why didn't I notice this before?  That one was easy:  she'd had a lot on her mind, no one at GenTree would bother to point it out, and it hadn't been visible the last time Pamela had seen her naked.  Also, she'd (and probably everyone else) spent a disproportionate amount of time focusing on her front.  If I can find some way to work out my arms, it might help me fight my way out if an escape plan goes wrong.  But if I try to deliberately work out my back beyond what Pamela taught me, I could really hurt myself.

    But the arm workouts were still an idea, one more thing that might help her escape.  All she needed was something which she could lift repeatedly in a short period of time without arousing suspicion.  And she had to start testing things, working on plans...

    Sadira turned to the shower controls.  She'd been examining herself for about two minutes:  she hoped none of the people watching the screens had picked up on her discovery.  Probably not.  They'll just think I'm vain.  And they never saw me naked before I came here.  She turned on the water.

 

    Pamela handed the bond to the bank teller and waited.  It was visually examined, held to the light in a search for watermarks, and taken to the back room for further identification.  Eventually, she came back.  "And how did you want that?" she said with new respect.

    "Cash," Pamela replied, giving her the slip.  "Twenties, fifties, hundreds, thousands, a fourth for each."

    Jasmine watched as the money was counted out, unconsciously licking her lips.  Pamela spotted it and glanced over.  Jasmine stopped.  Pamela shook her head.  "What is it with you and cash?"

    "Did you see Indecent Proposal?"  Pamela nodded.  "Remember the scene in the bedroom where they're lying down in the middle of a million dollars?"  Jasmine grinned widely.  "It feels pretty good with a few thousand, too."

    Jason looked around, noted that the people who were currently staring at Jasmine had been staring at them since they'd walked in, and turned his attention back to the teller.

 

    The cliche was true.  The bank really did give out briefcases when someone was removing a large amount of money.  It wasn't a very expensive briefcase, though:  Pamela resisted the urge to swing it back and forth.  The handle wasn't attached very well.  "Nigilo will pay for everything," she said gleefully.  "This is the insecurity deposit."

    "At least we got that done," Jason said.

    She nodded.  "I was preoccupied."  She had woken to the smell of frying bacon, sat up, given Jason one long nod, then had breakfast.  "And we will knock off work at ten and go looking for hackers tonight."  Pamela glanced over to Jason as they approached the car.  "And maybe a dominatrix.  You're moving too well."

    Jason glanced at his leg and nodded.  "I really don't feel like being beaten, though — even by a professional.  If it's the only solution, fine, but isn't there something else we could try?  A high-energy activity that would drain the excess?"

    Jasmine looked up at him.  "Well, unfortunately, you've eliminated one source of energy use.  One good —"  Jason was blushing.  She smiled, goal accomplished, and waited by her door.

    "Watch it, Princess," Pamela told her.  "You're backsliding."  There was only a little malice in the words.  "Besides, I saw him first.  I'm the one that gets to make him blush."  She unlocked the door, hit the release for the other locks, and they all got in.  "High-energy activity, sure, but remember what happened to Sadira on the train?  If you exhaust yourself too completely, you'll slip to a level where hunger won't wake you up."  She looked across at Jason, who, after days of fiddling, finally had the passenger seat where he wanted it.  "And believe it or not, I really don't want to see you hurt.  So what do we do with —"

    They waited for her to finish, realized she wasn't going to, and followed her gaze.  She was looking across the street, at the entrance to the World Gym.

 

    Sadira opened the notebook and jotted down a few symbols.  She had decided that if she kept it with her, there was less chance of having the letter discovered.  She didn't think anyone would hesitate at searching her trash.  A quick glance at the clock:  1:38 p.m.  They'd already had lunch.

    She put a puzzled look on her face and stared at the notebook for about thirty seconds, feigning confusion, then picked up a folder and feigned a little more.  Finally, she looked at Temperi.  "Can I go down to Chemistry?  I need some hormone samples."

    Temperi looked up from his workstation.  "What do you need?  I'll send someone down for them."

    Her brow furrowed with carefully-faked thought.  "I'm not sure.  I've got an idea, but it's not quite coming through.  I'll know it when I see it."

    To Sadira's concealed relief, he did not start reading off a mental list of human secretions, send out for a book of protein structures, or examine her motives closely.  Sadira had guessed correctly:  he was nervous around her, didn't particularly like being in the same room with her, and was happy to do anything which would get her out of the area for a few minutes.  "I'll call for an escort."

    "Okay.  I just have to use the bathroom first."

 

    Sadira was accompanied by three guards.  She'd made sure her entire team was deep in work before proceeding.  It was now a question of how many guards went in the chemical storage area with her, and how closely they watched her.

    She was also trying to memorize the layout of the floor.  She thought she had only seen a fraction of the building, but her money was on underground.  There were no windows anywhere.  Air vents in a genetics lab always sounded a little odd — it all had to go through so many filters — but this was louder, more forced.  On Wednesday, she'd rapped on what she'd thought was an outer wall, pretending to beat her fists in frustration.  (Not much of a stretch — and she did want them doubting her sanity)  Although it was probably too thick to get an accurate sounding, Sadira thought there was solid matter beyond.

    And if she was underground, the question became just how deep she was.  She'd have to work her way up and out, instead of just making a dash for the front door.  Guards on each floor, security systems everywhere...

    Call the gaming companies.  This is a dungeon crawl.  And she'd better work it out before crawling was the only motion she was capable of.  If her arms even reached the floor at that point.  Her breasts might occupy all the space in between...

    They continued moving through the halls.  There were no real landmarks to pick up on, just the occasional researcher passing through.  Sadira continued to utilize the smile-and-wave theory — the freak-out effect on the staff was increasing.  One man waved back as he wheeled himself past the group.

    "How much farther?" Sadira asked the guards.  They said nothing.  They were just large, silent, practically omni-present.  Sadira had spotted six of them, taking different shifts.  They also seemed slightly annoyed, because Sadira was walking very, very slowly.  It was partially deliberate:  more time to memorize the walk — and she wanted them bored.  She occasionally glanced at her folder in an attempt to forestall suspicion.  The notebook was tucked inside.

    She'd made some adjustment on her standard belt pattern while getting dressed.  Her breasts were now very tightly tied to her body — too tightly:  she could acutely feel the straps cutting in.  But for what she was planning, she had to try and eliminate any possible shifting.  Anyone watching would hopefully decide she'd just been trying a new arrangement — and perhaps even be inspired to buy her some bras:  Carmody had yet to show up.

    Eventually, they reached a door with smoked glass and embossed silver letters:  Chemistry Supplies.  Sadira waited while the smallest guard used his handprint — All the exits are probably handprinted.  Can I take another hostage? — and then tucked the file under her left arm and walked in, hoping no one followed her —

    — wrong.  Two guards stayed outside.  The largest came in on her heels.  Sadira mentally groaned.  If she hadn't hit Carmody in the office, they might have given her some time alone...

    Don't worry.  They might let me come back.  If I can't find what I need, this is a scouting trip.  Maybe.  Nigilo might chew them out for not bringing one of the scientists along.

    She looked around quickly as they entered, getting an idea of the contents.  GenTree was at heart a genetics lab, but no science can stand alone.  The chemical supplies were extensive, rivaling what a pure Chemistry lab might have on hand.  Besides extensive collections of hormones and biological reaction agents, the room also had a good selection of basic elements arrayed in small vials and other containers, and a wild assortment of oddball chemicals.  Some of the scientists at GenTree had very esoteric specialties, and there was no telling what a virus might be asked to react to or survive in:  the proposed oil-spill cleaners had to exist in a very hostile environment...

    What it meant to Sadira was that there was a lot of stuff available, some of it very useful — but the problem was in taking any of it with her.  Most of the really good chemicals were locked away.

    One guard inside, two outside, and they can watch what's happening in here.  Possibly a central surveillance area with more people watching monitors.  The guard, keeping her in sight, was unlocking the hormone storage area, which was right next to the door.  Sadira pretended to be bored and wandered away, looking at the rest of the room.  Other locked cabinets held the drugs for the addiction-break project, accompanied by various agents to which the body reacted badly and the labs were trying to produce immunities to.  All very handy.  All very inaccessible.

    The only things in the open were the elements.  Sadira glanced at them.  Vials of the liquids and gases, containers for the solids, multiples of everything nicely arrayed on a large rack which took up most of the center table.  It was a holdover from a seventh-grade science class:  practically every chemistry lab had one, a cherished memory that, even in a building dedicated to genetics, saw a fair amount of use.

    She took a closer look.  Hydrogen, helium, lithium, and so on across the periodic table.  A basic assortment, no radioactives.  Standard glass or plastic vials according to the element.  The setup was a virtual duplicate of the one at GenTree's main building.  She hadn't expected looser security here:  the element rack was all she had to work with — but she still hadn't thought of a distraction, and this might be her only shot.  No one paid much attention to the basics: they probably weren't even counted.  She'd taken a vial of silicon for the joke she'd played on Jason in January: no one had ever missed it.  None of the cameras could directly scan the interior of the rack.  Still a chance...

    The observations had only taken a few seconds, and the lock was being stubborn — but the guard would have it open soon enough.

    Think.  This is a game.  I caught a break from the lock.  If Pamela gave me this scenario, I'd already have the treasure.  There's nothing at stake but a few admiring glances from the other players when and if they show up.  The only difference is that there's no dice to roll. What's the answer?

    Another glance at the rack.  Distraction.  They all know I'm clumsy.  I dropped a few things this morning in case they'd forgotten.  These might be shatterproof — but I can 'accidentally' knock something across the room pretty hard.  They might get suspicious — but I do have that reputation.  One vial without pushing my luck too much.

    Lithium:  no good unless I got it in skin contact, and that container looks secure.  Chlorine:  that might be a good concentration — dangerous to both of us if it breaks.  Sodium:  I don't have any water —

    And there it was, a flash of inspiration combined with the small touch of insanity that goes with genius, and a frantic defiance of odds...

    The guard almost had the lock open.

    Sadira prayed her dexterity had improved as much as she needed it to.

    Her arm eased away from her body, letting the folder tilt back and out — and it fell, scattering papers across the floor.

    Sadira felt acute irony.

    The guard didn't notice:  he was still having trouble with the lock.  This was for the benefit of the people outside.  Sadira stepped away from the mess so that she could see it more clearly.  The scatter wasn't too extreme.

    There were no women on staff who even came close to approaching Sadira's size, and all of the guards were male.  With even more luck, no one would know (or deduce) that the best way to pick something up for a woman carrying a guestimated forty-plus extra pounds on her chest was to step back, then kneel.

    This part could really, really hurt.

    Sadira, in a display of imperfect logic, took a visible look at the rack.  She'd already seen that it was bolted to the table, but she noticed it for public view.  She grabbed onto one of the lower shelves, using it as a brace, and began to bend over, reaching out with her other hand.  After all, she'd need help to straighten herself out.

    Lower, lower — the straps were holding — her back began to throb almost immediately — the next part was going to be easy to fake.

    Sadira yelped in pain, and partially lost her grip on the rack, clutching for a handhold before she went down completely, trying to brace herself against the floor with her right hand, her left trying to find purchase —

    Dexterity, and agility, and luck.

    She grabbed a vial and flung it, forward and down and hard, just over her head, got a solid grip on the rack, and pulled herself up and back with every bit of energy she could channel —

    — and screamed, long and loud, as her back, stressed beyond endurance, went out again.

    The guard spun just in time to see the vial break on top of the papers.

    The phosphorus, exposed to air, ignited immediately.  The paper quickly followed.  Smoke began to billow up.

    The guard, working on instinct, ran towards the fire extinguisher, as Sadira braced herself on the rack, for real this time, trying not to fall over as the pain cascaded across her body, making it hard to think...

    The guards outside would be inside at any second, but at the moment, she couldn't hear them moving, they were probably looking at the fire on their screens.  It was the nature of flame:  people were taken in by it, almost hypnotized, firefighters had been known to give in to the sensation — Concentrate, they won't stare for more than a few seconds at most...

    She clutched at the rack, the pain which she'd hoped to fake all too real, and got two small vials concealed in her hands, then straightened up, another scream of pain escaping, fists closed with need and agony.

    A yell of "Fire!", inside and outside, and the other two guards rushed in...

    Sadira put her hands at her sides, where she'd left the muu-muu hanging loose after her visit to the bathroom, and slid them under, up, and in, trying to get them in a position to push on vital muscles, either insanely clutching at the source of the pain or making a desperate attempt to reset her back, moving wildly under the garment —

    — and then she withdrew and put her hands behind her back, pushing, eyes tearing from the pain, biting back the screams, staggering back —

    — just in time to get out of the path of the flame suppressant.  It was designed to deal with almost any kind of fire — including small, focused ones, so that it could put them out without damaging the lab.

    The chemical foam landed on top of the fire — and the guard with the extinguisher, who had just reached it.

    He sputtered and dived back, but the white foam had already covered his head and shoulders.  It was designed to be harmless to the eyes:  he didn't know that.  Neither did the other two guards:  they helped him over to the eye wash.

    Sadira didn't think she had another distraction:  anyone in a central monitoring room would be watching her again.  Even if they weren't, she couldn't take advantage of it:  the pain was still increasing, no longer suppressed by the need for action, and while she still had plenty of storage space left, she didn't think she could push her luck any further in reaching it.  So she braced herself against the table, gasping in pain, and waited for the guards to get around to her.

    They were too busy helping their partner wash his eyes and explaining the accident they'd seen on their screens.  He didn't take it well.

    "Goddamn clumsy bitch!" cursed the doused guard, shaking the water out of his eyes.  There was brown hair dye running down his forehead:  the chemicals had broken the bond.  "I could have been blinded!"   He turned and took a step towards her, hands clenched and shaking —

    — Carmody got to her first.  He ran into the room — including the disaster at Helena, it was the first time she'd seen him in any kind of hurry — and rushed to her side.  "Are you all right?"  The guard's fists fell open, and he stepped back to the sink.

    She managed to push a look of pure disbelief past the pain.  "No."

    For a fraction of a second, his face said that he was aware what a stupid question it had been, and then the neutrality was back in force.  "What do you need?"

    "Pills, and rest."  She tried to give equal emphasis to both, but it was getting harder to think, the pain was still increasing — "I can't work like this..."  She risked a quick glance at the guards' faces:  there was no suspicion there.  Just plenty of anger.  If no one thought to check the rack — if — The damage is worse this time.  I hurt so much...

    Carmody took a walkie-talkie from the guards and began quietly speaking into it.  The wheelchair showed up three minutes later.

 

    Carmody pushed Sadira down the hall, flanked by two of the guards.  (The third was cleaning out his locker:  he had been reprimanded for poor conduct and transferred.)  The scientist she'd seen in the hall apparently kept a backup on the premises in case something went wrong with the one he used.  This one wasn't motorized, but it was sturdy, and came with an detachable desk, which Sadira momentarily wished she could rest her breasts on —but the straps were doing their job, and once she got in, her lap provided plenty of support (even though her breasts were starting to overflow it).  It didn't lessen the pain.

    The scanner beeped as Carmody opened her door.  She heard someone push a tray up behind her.  "I'll take that," Carmody said.  "You two wait out here." Sadira looked up, startled.

    The guards immediately focused on their screens, and Carmody pushed the wheelchair into Sadira's cell, then went out and brought in the tray before closing the door behind him.

    "Going to take revenge for that punch?" Sadira asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.  Would the guards break in if Carmody tried to do something?

    "No," Carmody replied, pushing the chair next to her bed, then stepping in front of her.  "I am, however, going to try and help you into bed.  You're too badly injured to do it on your own.  This means that I have to touch you.  I won't proceed without your permission.  Do I have it?"

    Sadira thought it over.  "At least you asked this time."  He nodded.  She considered the risk.  "Watch where you put your hands."  She held out her arms, giving him a subtle encouragement to work with them, and waited.  He took the folder from her and put it on the nightstand, then began to help her up.

    Carmody went out of his way to avoid unwanted contact — literally:  Sadira was so large that trying to get any leverage while standing in front of her almost guaranteed contact.  There were some very awkward moments, and he wound up on the bed twice — but eventually, she was lying on the mattress, the covers pulled down to her feet.

    She looked to the left and finally saw the tray.  It had two IV poles and two attached bags — one ridiculously-huge, filled with calorie solution, and one small, unlabeled.  There were some sterile pads, rubbing alcohol, a blood pressure monitor, and a large, filled syringe.  The fear rose, and it started to verge into panic.  She could still swing her feet out and try to kick him, but she was on her back, which was still screaming, and sitting up was going to be a problem...  "What is that?"

    "Morphine, with a sedative mixed in.  As I understand the reports, if you're asleep and provided with a constant supply of energy, you heal very rapidly.  This will take away the pain and let you rest.  This provides the energy.  This should maintain the sleep for about eighteen hours.  You're not doing any more work today."

    "And you're going to give it to me?"  She was starting to wonder about the consequences of that punch again.  IV bags.  Needles.  Monitors.  Like an operation.

    "While we have a formidable number of doctorates on the staff, we have no actual doctors.  I have some experience with needles.  The data we acquired on your metabolism was used to calculate an effective dose.  Without that data, Mr. Nigilo would not have approved your pill consumption.  May I administer the medicine?"

    "I can stop you?"  Just barely deadpan:  the pain was surging again and the fear was approaching the surface.

    "You can say no, and I will leave."

    Sadira thought it through very, very carefully.  Given her normal state during sleep, it might be possible to search her without waking her, and if she was drugged, it was a guarantee.  But the pain was much worse than before, and if she didn't get a chance to partially heal, she wouldn't be able to escape.  And if she was asleep for eighteen hours, the straps were going to get even more uncomfortable.  And if she loosened them...

    "Sadira," Carmody said, the neutrality of tone even more perfect than usual, "I am not a doctor.  No one is going to operate on you, and this decision is entirely under your control.  I will not inject you without your express consent.  There is nothing to be afraid of."

    It was too close to be a guess.  She stared at him, looking for a change of expression, and found none.  "How do you know so much about me?"

    "Mr. Nigilo asked me to investigate your background before he gave you the proposal."

    He's not a doctor, anymore than I am.  I can inject myself — no, he'd never allow that:  what if I tried to put an air bubble in the vein?  I need the medicine.  But he's putting me to sleep...  "I'll just rest like this," she said.  "I can undress myself in the morning.  Could you look away for a second?  I have to adjust the belts."

    He turned away.  Sadira did all the work under the muu-muu, letting the belts out a few risky holes.  Her breasts slid to the sides:  she moved her arms away before they were pinned.

    "No one will touch you without your consent.  I will personally change the needles before your skin heals around them," Carmody assured her.  "May I administer the medicine?"

    She looked at his eyes.  There was no shine to them.  All she found was an infinite supply of patience.

    He wasn't a doctor.  She had to remember that.  They didn't want her dead yet.  She was being monitored.  It was just needles.  There were no scalpels.

    She was shaking.

    She wanted to scream.

    She had to escape.

    She couldn't escape if she couldn't move.

    The words were weak, barely audible, but somehow, when they were needed, the effort was made, taking more energy than anything the virus had done.  "Permission granted."

    Carmody rolled up her sleeves.

    He had some expertise:  she barely felt the needles.  Or maybe the back pain and fear were drowning out the lesser sensations.  He fastened the blood pressure cuff and stepped back, waiting.  "I'll take the folder back to the lab.  They can continue working while you sleep."

    The panic began to rise —

    Carmody extracted the notebook, put it on the nightstand, and tucked the folder under his arm.

    The morphine and her metabolism began to do their work.  Sadira felt a wash of pleasant numbness moving in from her right arm.  It was like warm water was supporting her from all directions, and the fear dissolved in it, she was under the sea and breathing normally, and she was beginning to lose her body, it was drifting away from her, somewhere off to the left, but she didn't care, she could always get it back later, the pain had gone with it, that was the important thing, and maybe while they were adrift, the pain would be lost at sea...

    One clear thought:  The drugs are working.  She looked up at Carmody, who was still waiting.  For what?  Well, he was the liaison, and as long as she was awake, she might request something.

    That was a good idea.  What could she ask for?

    "Carmody?"  Her voice was soft, and seemed to be losing cohesion, but he nodded.  "I need some bras.  I can't keep goin' like dis.  It's gonna happen again, an' worse, unless I've got some support..."

    "Mr. Nigilo had forbidden it," Carmody replied.  "He was saving it as a reward for good work.  He is meeting with the investors tomorrow, and has already left.  However, given the circumstances, I will attempt to contact him there.  You can't be expected to work with this kind of pain."

    "T'anks..."

    "He may not agree."

    "T'anks anyway..."  Her sight went away, came back.  She blinked up at him.  "Carmody?"  Another nod.  He was still there.  Good:  that made one of them.  "I wanna go home..."

    But the warmth was everywhere, washing away all pain and thought, and she went with it.

    Carmody watched her face as the pain slowly faded into artificial peace, then checked the monitor before pulling the covers over Sadira and leaving the room.

   

28

???:  ...and passwords

 

    The Casual Link had been designed with the hope of building an Internet cafe with a homey atmosphere, the sort of place you could leave your kids for an hour while you went shopping.  A computer playground, the electronic equivalent of the crawl tubes and slides found outside classier fast food restaurants.

    It had been a valiant effort.  It just hadn't worked.

    People liked to surf in private — they would call sites from the Link that they wouldn't call from home.  So the computers had to be shielded.  And they didn't want to be interrupted, either.  The result was a imperfect grafting:  a diner in the middle, and cubbyholes filled with computers and users around the perimeter.  The two halves mostly ignored each other, but it was like looking at the graft points on Frankenstein's monster:  you knew this was supposed to work together, but it was hard to see how it could.

    At ten-twenty on a Thursday night, the center section was almost deserted.  But the little nests were full of birds, and the rat-a-tat of woodpeckers on keyboards filled the room.  If there was any feel of home about the place, then the home had been broken, and the residents needed therapy.

    Pamela walked in, took a look around, and was tempted to give up on the spot.  Anyone who would frequent this sort of place might barely be able to manage electronic contact, let alone human.  The flip side of the argument was that if they found a hacker in this place, he would almost have to be extraordinary.

    No one looked at them.  They were all lost in the Net worlds.

    "Want to go to the next one now?" Jason asked.  "This doesn't seem like a place any self-respecting hacker would work from."

    "I know," Pamela replied.  "That's why it's perfect.  No one would look for a hacker here.  So there's one here, because he doesn't want to be found."  She grinned.  "It'll make sense if you think about it long enough.  Ready?"

    Jason began to shrug — then stopped.  By his estimation, his leg was up to about ninety percent of normal capacity:  the intense workout Pamela had signed him up for might have come just in time to prolong his life.  The excess calories were now going to repair the damage he'd done to every muscle in his body.  Pamela had gotten that one right.  But this one felt a little crazy.  It was the exact opposite of everything sensible.  That was why Pamela thought it would work.

    However, it was Jasmine's idea.  Pamela had just agreed to give it one shot.  For some reason, that worried him.

    Then again, his idea hadn't worked the last time...

    "Ready," Jason said.  "But if this fails, I'll die heroically defending the two of you, go to Heaven, and I won't be able to haunt you..."

    Jasmine shook her head.  "Sometimes the best thing to do is the stupidest one.  People don't know how to react to it — so they act exactly the way you want them to."  She took off her jacket, handed it to Jason, and walked to the center of the room.  Both of the people eating there watched her.  She looked around, making sure she could see everything with a quick rotation, checked the nearest table for surface strength — then climbed up on it.  Jason and Pamela flanked her from ground level.  The waiters stopped moving.

    "Your attention, please," Jasmine called out, then "Hey, over here!" at top volume.  A few people looked away from the screens.  They kept looking.  The reaction began to run around the circle.  More people turned their chairs, staring at the center of the room.  They might have been reacting to something pheromonal, just beyond the senses they knew, but most of them were turning to look — and once they were looking, they didn't look away.  It might have been the tightness of the blouse, the woman filling it out, or the legend Free Eats! printed on the front, but for the moment, she had their attention.

    "I need a hacker," Jasmine told the group.  "A great one, the best available.  If any of you qualify, or know someone who does, please step forward."

    Jason and Pamela waited.

    A young black man with closely-shaved hair, wearing a dark sweater, faded jeans, and a backpack, stepped away from a occupied cubicle and took a step towards the center.  "Lady," he observed, "you are nuts."

    "And that would make you a hacker, then?" Jasmine replied.

    He stood still.  "You're too stupid to be Feds —"

    "We wanted to make that clear from the start," Pamela interrupted.  "Answer the question."

    The young man considered.  "Outside," he said, and they followed him to the sidewalk.  Once they were all clear, he took a long look at the trio.  "What the hell are you three doing in the Link looking for a hacker?  Why not just go down to the computer room at Bronx Science like everyone else?"

    "If you're not what we're looking for, we'll go there tomorrow,"  Jason assured him as he internally groaned.  We should have checked the colleges...

    "You know I could be lying," came the reply.  "I could say I knew someone and be setting you all up."

    Pamela unzipped her jacket and let it fall open just enough to reveal the handle of her gun.  "You could," she agreed.  "We could be doing the same thing.  But neither of us are, right?"

    He looked at her for a long moment, then took one step towards Jason and put out his hand.  "The name's Cypher.  And you three are either crazy, desperate, or brilliant."

    Improbable, impossible, and it might have just worked.  "Three for three," Pamela said.  "You're a hacker, then?"

    He dropped his hand away from Jason's rising arm.  "No, they call me Cypher because my parents love cryptic crosswords.  Of course I'm a hacker.  Man, white —"

    "— wait."  Pamela restrained herself.  The hacker was just feeling them out...  "You're about to make some joke about how white people are dumb, and how that must make me the biggest idiot around.  Right?"

    Cypher winced.  "I shouldn't run the dozens in front of someone who knows the grosses.  Especially when they might pay me."

    Jasmine smiled.  "It's possible."

    "It had better be."  He shrugged.  "Okay.  Let me go inside and finish my shift.  I'm off in six minutes."

 

    They wound up at his apartment, which he shared with three roommates, one of whom was out, and two of whom were passed out.  Pamela suffered an envy attack when she saw the computer system:  it was worth more than the apartment.

    Cypher grinned.  "You like it?"  She nodded.  "Had to build most of it myself.  Computer science scholarships don't leave a lot of free money.  I work at the Link teaching people how to surf.  Occasionally, people get sent there looking for me.  No one ever approached it like that before."

    Jasmine smiled.  "It worked, didn't it?"

    "Yeah.  The boss couldn't believe it, though.  He thought I was just showing you out.  Wasn't too happy when he figured out I was admitting my reputation."  Two patrons had come outside to chide them for making Cypher blow his cover — and at the same time, had confirmed his abilities.  He turned on the system.  "But for three thousand, I'll go anywhere you need and get a new job." They had discussed terms during the walk over.  Jasmine had done the negotiations, an expert, almost vicious job:  three grand for everything they asked for — whatever that might be, less money for weaker results.

    "You'll get it if you deliver," Pamela promised.  "We need you to break into the main system of a research firm in Montana called GenTree."

    "We need you to look at their Email system," Jason told him, "and get into the database.  We're looking for information on one of their genetics projects.  We're also going to need blueprints, and security passwords for the buildings."

    Cypher twitched, a surge of nervous energy that never managed to get anywhere.  "Genetics!"   More softly, "No one ever asks for anything legal..."

    "It's for a good cause," Pamela told him.

    "How do I know that?  It might be some kind of medicine — but you could be stealing some bug that'll wipe out the country just as easy.  Most people just want me to change their work history, or get them on Welfare."  He turned and started at Pamela, conviction overriding the fear in his eyes.  "Pull any weapon you want to, but I'm not going to help you with that shit."

    The trio spent some time looking at each other.  Cypher broke up the stare session.  "Look, I usually don't make judgement calls.  You three want to do a little industrial raid, fine by me.  You don't want to tell me that much about it, I can understand:  less I know, better off I am.  But this stuff can kill people, and I don't do that."

    "And I always thought 'ethical hacker' was a contradiction in terms," Pamela said softly.  She looked at Jason.  "How much do you want to tell him, Mouse?"

    Jason smiled wryly.  "How much would you believe?"

    "Don't look at me," Jasmine said.  "I still don't believe any of it."

    Cypher stared at them.  "You guys into cloning?  Like that sheep thing?  That I'd be willing to do."

    "No, thanks," Jasmine answered.  "I've already got a twin."

     More looks.  All three had experience with computers — and knew the nature of the Information Age:  knowledge was a virus.  It spread.  What one person knew, everyone else could find out, because it all got posted eventually.

    Pamela had run him through a few technical questions outside the diner, based on what she knew of her own system, and Jason had presented some dimly-recalled problems his roommate had dealt with.  Cypher had solved the problems before they had finished detailing them.  They had all been so excited about finding an expert, they'd forgotten that he would have to be trusted — and for all three, it had become hard to think of trusting anyone.

    Cypher wouldn't be able to recreate the work — but if he really wanted the money, he could contact someone who could.  Or call Nigilo and tell him someone was making inquires.  They would have the same problem with every hacker but Jason's former roommate, who was working somewhere in Tokyo.

    They had to trust someone.  They couldn't afford to trust anyone.  But Sadira needed them...

    "Oh, hell," Pamela said.  "You're not going to believe a word of it, anyway."  She left the room — then came back dragging a chair behind her.  She sat down.  "Want to hear a really weird story?"

 

    Pamela originally thought it would take five minutes to work through the details.  It took almost half an hour.  Cypher was dubious at first, then outright disbelieving, which wavered into skeptical, and finally, convinced.  There was something in the starkness of her voice...

    "No shit?" he said at the end of the story, the last shreds of doubt emerging with the words.

    "Only the people running this thing," Pamela said.  "Will you help?"

    Cypher nodded once and turned to the computer.  "Got a main number?"  Jason gave it to him.  "I'll take out every file in the system and gift-wrap it for you.  Any back doors I should know about, worked once and needs to be avoided?"  Jason didn't know of any.  "How about key words, things to search for in the text documents?  Archer, breast, enlargement..." He turned, waiting for suggestions.

    "Enhancement," Jasmine said quickly, showing off her recently acquired knowledge.  "Metabolism, metabolic, ATP carriers."  Her brow furrowed.  "CTGX27..." Jason and Pamela looked at her.  She shrugged.

    "The science files would be from Sunday on if Sadira was working on them," Pamela said,  "But there might be memos in the system about the plot, things we can use as evidence."

    "Kind of hard to do that if you steal them," Cypher pointed out as he began tapping keys.  "Windows, Unix, other?"

    "Windows," Jason replied.

    "Who said it has to be legal confrontation?" Pamela asked rhetorically.

    "All right.  Let me send out a scout."  Cypher frowned.  "Let's see how paranoid these guys really are..."  His fingers seemed to blur as he began typing, occasionally switching to a little mouse control that looked like a pencil eraser embedded in the keyboard.

    Letters, numbers, and symbols flashed across the screen, too fast for any of the three to make out, but Cypher could read them:  he processed the information and used it, inventing new avenues of attack and defense.  He said nothing as he typed, and the increasing chatter of the keyboard was the only sound in the room.

    The border of the screen began to pulse through colors, black, then up through the spectrum, a fresh hue every five seconds, then went past violet to white —

    — and stayed there for a second before the screen went black —

    — a single word with prompt appeared on the monitor:  Ready>

    Jasmine saw the reflection of Cypher's smile in the glass.  "Security Clearance Ultraviolet," he said proudly.  Pamela's spine straightened in surprise.  "And we are in."  A quick shrug.  "Tough stuff.  Might keep out the casual visitor, but I had a need.  So what's first?"

    "First," Pamela said slowly, "if I ever put another Paranoia gaming group together, you've got a standing invitation."

    "Second," Jasmine said, "let's search those files."

 

    Good news and bad news.  Mostly bad.

    They were able to quickly confirm that GenTree still had control of Sadira — not that they'd had much doubt.  Sadira was never mentioned by name, but it was easy enough to read between the lines.  All of the memos were signed with an initial:  they all read the ones signed N very, very closely.  No one saw Pamela's fists clench.

    There were blueprints available for every GenTree installation — security maps, really.  There were also security override codes, some of which could be used at the handprint terminals, and a few that had to be entered through direct system access.  Each building had its own codes — but they were all kept on the central system for backup.

    Jasmine looked at Cypher.  "We'll buy you a beeper — no, a really good cell phone, one of those systems that can get anywhere.  When we get to the site, we'll keep you updated, and you turn everything off and on when we need it."

    Cypher nodded.  "It's a plan," he said.  "But first we have to figure out which site it is."

    GenTree was a lot bigger than Jason had ever seen or imagined.

    There were three buildings in Montana, the state for which the corporation held citizenship.  One each in Mexico, Kansas, Michigan, Hawaii, and Nevada.  Two apiece for Texas and Canada.  Not all of them were called GenTree, and some of them weren't visibly connected with the company — but they all worked for the same people.

    One of the sites had Sadira under close guard.  It was not mentioned by name anywhere on the system.  They got the addresses and phone numbers of the sites through a central address directory — but in all memos, the sites were referred to as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and so on.  No direct links, and there weren't enough Greek letters to account for the number of sites on the master list.  Someone was keeping things quiet.

    "I can't match the computer addresses to real places."  Cypher groaned.  "No active communications, and the phone lines are shielded.  Everything is computer to computer, and it passes through about a hundred links on the way.  It's a new kind of program, using a modified phone phreak system to keep their bills down, can't run a trace through that..."  He clenched his teeth.  "I can't tell where she is!"

    Pamela was equally frustrated, but for once, was hiding it better.  "We've got the gateway in," she said.  "We can keep looking at the memos as they go up:  they're sharing information with us now, and someone might let the location slip.  We've got the maps and codes.  And put those numbers together with the memos, and that's some powerful evidence."

    The financial picture was on the system:  GenTree made money hand over fist — but they were small hands and tightly closed fists.  The company was surviving, but needed a major financial boost soon if they wanted to expand again.  Thus, the interest in what Nigilo had at first termed the Broken Arrow project.

    Pamela had seen a movie where Broken Arrow had been the code for a stolen nuclear bomb.  She thought the term was a little ironic.

    The current project was called Esteem, and the next one was Sixth Gear — Jasmine guessed they were going to work on the accelerator — and both of them were going to make the company millions of dollars.  The accelerator was by far the more lucrative project, according to the profit projections, but they were going to solve the breast enlargement problems first anyway.  Several sequences were mentioned by name.  Jason automatically wrote down everything that had been eliminated.

    The search word "enhancement" led them into another project — and Jason and Pamela found out what GenTree really was.

    They asked Cypher to leave the screen up for a while,  and they all read through it, until Jason covered his eyes in pain, and Pamela simply focused on a single word.  "Expendable," she said clearly.  "They were testing things on poor people, pregnant women, drug addicts because Nigilo thought they were expendable."

    Jasmine's eyes closed, and Cypher stared at the screen in fury.  "Free," he said.  "You get this for free.  Anything I can do —"

    "No," Pamela told him.  "You did the work, you get paid for it."

    "You can't keep me out of this.  I want them taken down."

    "Welcome to the club," Jason said, the pain reaching his voice.  "Look at the building plans again.  What's secure?  Where could they hide someone without people asking questions?"

    "Anywhere," Jasmine said softly.  "They're all corrupt minus two."

    Jason shook his head.  "There's some good people at Helena to go with the scum.  So she's not there:  they all know her.  Someone might ask questions."

    Pamela glanced at him.  "With that 'purchased bond and left' memo Nigilo distributed?  He could just stick her in the basement."

    "They still can't take a risk on having one of them see her.  Eliminate the Helena site.  Which of the buildings is good for hiding someone?"

    The group looked at the blueprints, and reluctantly concluded that all of them could be used as a prison with varying degrees of success.  The memo post times were no real clue:  the time between "Retrieval begun" and the first new piece of data on the system was sufficient to allow air travel to any of the sites.

    "Those four — Mexico, Texas, the second Montana site, and Nevada — are mostly underground," Cypher pointed out.  "That would make things easier.  Nobody jumps out a window."

    "A lot of genetics labs don't even have windows," Jason told him, "but you're right.  Montana makes some sense:  keep her close to Nigilo."

    "Who would relocate to keep an eye on her," Jasmine argued.

    "We only get one shot at this," Pamela reluctantly agreed.  "We need to be sure."

    More searching, and files were saved.  And then they found Sadira.     

    Jason knew Sadira always initialed her work, written and typed, just to make sure the feedback came to the right person.  Pamela knew she'd almost had a project stolen by the Tri-Delts in her junior year, and that was when the practice had started, special ink that soaked in like a watermark.

    There was a series of notes in the computer, calculations and eliminations, and at the end of all of them was S.S.A.  No one had deleted it.

    They didn't know where she was.  But at 12:30 p.m. Thursday, she had been alive.

    "I'll keep running the tap," Cypher said.  "I'll look at the new stuff as it comes through, send it over to your system, hope for locations, and ask my friends about running phone traces through that kind of system.  I'll kept it general and quiet."  He turned to Pamela.  "Too much risk for her if too many people know about this shit."  She nodded.  "You've got yourself a hacker."

   

29

86:  Further developments

 

    Sadira woke up to find the tubes removed, her back in somewhat better repair, her breasts larger and again pushing against the straps, and her bladder uncomfortably full.  She carefully eased herself into a sitting position and looked at the new wheelchair sitting next to the bed, accompanied by a very large board for her lap, to rest her breasts on.  There was a folded note on the nightstand, and a large bottle of pills.

    She considered the amount of damage she would do to herself if she gave in to her impulse and ran for the toilet — then suppressed the urge and picked up the note.  The handwriting was smooth, even and easily legible.

 

    Sadira,

    I attempted to contact Mr. Nigilo at his hotel, but was unable to reach him directly.  He has not returned my calls.  I have taken some measures which did not require his permission.

    I was able to procure this wheelchair.  I will understand if you are reluctant to use it, but your back will heal faster if you put less strain on it.  It is motorized, and the chair lifts up two feet from the base so you can reach shelves.  It may inconvenience your work, but it will reduce your pain.

    The pill bottle contains procaine.  It is a prescription drug that interacts well with over-the-counter medications.  It does not influence or inhibit thought.  Your body should have no resistance to it.

    While you are out of your rooms, technicians will be installing rails in the bathroom, similar to those in handicapped stalls.  You are a very sound sleeper.  My replacement of the needles did not disturb you.  However, even with the drugs, I felt the noise of construction would have woken you up, and you needed your rest.  You will find temporary measures in the bathroom to aid in its use.

    I have also bought an exercise machine that will allow you to gradually build up your strength once the growth ceases.  This will also be installed in your rooms while you are on shift.

    I will continue my efforts to contact Mr. Nigilo and obtain permission to purchase bras.

    My extension number is 832.  Call me if you have further needs.

Carmody

 

    The wheelchair could be adjusted for width, and had drop-down armrests for easy access:  Sadira carefully worked her way into it, spent a cross-legged minute becoming familiar with the controls, then rolled for the bathroom.  There was just enough room inside to drive and rotate the wheelchair.  She boosted herself with the temporary grips Carmody had glued to the walls and used the facilities, for once too desperate to notice the cameras.

    The tricky part came when she took her bath — but her back injury actually aided in the deception.  She couldn't use a normal range of motion:  anything that looked unusual would be attributed to her pain.

    She ran the bath first and dumped in a liberal helping of bubble solution, letting it run until the white foam reached the top of the tub, then turned off the water and removed all her clothing but the belts.

    Sadira pushed her breasts inwards a bit, deepening her cleavage and centering the mass — then removed the belts from the bottom up, working slowly, fingers slightly hesitant as they worked the last strap.  She stepped into the tub as it started to come loose, using the handles to slowly lower herself towards the bubbles, arching her back slightly, trying to ignore the pain, dropping the strap on the floor as her ribs reached the water —

    — she was in, and while the bubbles weren't high enough to conceal the apex of her breasts, the bases were hidden when she leaned back.  Sadira stroked them, a little deception for the cameras (and she could still reach her nipples (barely):  the momentary contact felt good), then moved her hands towards the bases, sliding them between breasts and torso, right at the contact point.

    Slowly, hands out of sight beneath the white foam, she removed the vials and slid them down her body to the base of the tub.  Her breasts had pinned them to her torso without crushing them.  The straps had kept her breasts from swinging forward and releasing them — decidedly dangerous, considering the chemicals she had grabbed.

    However, the vials were leakproof and waterproof:  they would be safe enough in the bathtub while she washed.  She'd just have to keep renewing the bubbles, and if the vials rolled to another part of the tub, she could drop the soap and feel for them.  It might look a little odd when she tried to put them back, but another caress should take care of it.

    Sadira smiled, and began to wash her breasts — then had an idea.  There's no reason to wait for tomorrow to start arm workouts.  I've got something heavy right here.  She lifted her left breast, did some cleaning — lowered it, rested, lifted again —

 

    This time, Nigilo was in the presentation area.  The people he was talking to knew better than to shine lights in his eyes.  However, he had learned from Archer's performance:  there was a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket.

    "Most of you have been willing to come here based on my reputation, without asking for many details." he began.  No one had been told anything solid in those calls, and he'd borrowed the funds for the bond from them:  good faith money.  Most had simply been told to prepare for a pleasant surprise, and, knowing him, they'd come to the San Francisco hotel for the conference — but he'd used up all his good faith in doing so.

    Still, while the project wasn't finished, he had to start laying the groundwork for the next stage.

   "I'd like to thank you for that before we begin."  He turned on the computer and screen.  "This is Sadira Archer, our youngest geneticist.  The photograph is from our company newsletter, taken in June of last year, on the day she joined us." It was full length:  she was smiling, leaning against the sign in front of the Helena building.  "This photo was taken March 16th."  From the building security cameras, which that fool Stan had been too busy blowing his nose to watch.  The first photo moved to the side as the second image went on its right.

    One of those who had initially refused to provide funds immediately said, "So she had an enlargement.  Big deal."

    He was the exception in the room:  a man who held his position through family ties and nothing else.  Most of the others were starting to see it:  Nigilo wouldn't call them to view plastic surgery...

    Nigilo smiled.  "I regret that I have no photos of the intermediary stages — but this one is quite convincing.  It was taken March 27th."  The second photo vanished, and the third was placed in direct comparison with the first.

    Dead silence.

    "This is also from the 27th."  A surveillance photo of Archer in the bathtub.

    "Morphed," one of his regulars said, too fast, trying to make himself believe it — but he wanted to believe it was real, Nigilo could hear it in his voice.  "A computer enhancement.  Tons of those photos on the Internet."

    Nigilo shook his head.  "The amount of memory required to produce quality computer animation is considerable — even if the image doesn't look realistic.  Any change of a human body that requires maintenance throughout the film needs a thousand-fold increase in memory and processing power — especially considering the flexibility of breasts."  He inserted the videotape:  the bathtub footage played out in full color.  Archer was washing, lifting, moving, shifting...  "Thirty seconds of full human motion, and I have another two hours for you to view if you wish.  How many gigabytes does that take?  This is real, gentlemen.  A virus that produces a controllable increase in breast size."

    He looked at all twelve men in turn, and found fetishes in the expressions of two.  "Ms Archer has a small mental problem," he said, interrupting the tape.  A few more key taps, and a nude picture of the dancer was up.

    "While she can stop her growth," he lied — maybe, who knew with that crazy woman, she was probably delaying finishing the second virus on purpose "— she wishes to surpass her sister to an insurmountable degree.  She doesn't feel she's there yet."  He smiled.  He'd felt a need to explain her dimensions:  it wouldn't do for the men to think that her size was mandatory.  "A perhaps regrettable flaw in an otherwise brilliant scientist."

    The faces of the Japanese and Spanish men said they found that quirk to be an admirable trait.

    "I have the inventor.  I have the viruses, one to start, one to stop.  I will soon be ready to begin testing.  Ms Archer worked out the initial formula on her own genetic code," he lied, "and we are about to move from the specific to the general."

    He looked around the room.  None of the people there were geneticists, none of them had any in their employ.  They mostly distributed drugs.  They might have access to geneticists, but they wouldn't bother.  Nigilo had discovered that criminals were often lazy:  they wouldn't try on their own what they could buy from others.

    These men might have a touch of laziness, but there was also an unquestionable ability to gather and delegate authority.  They were so powerful that the law enforcement agencies didn't suspect their existence:  they could gather in safety.  Twelve years before, Nigilo had met one, partially through research, mostly by accident, and today was the cumulation of all his efforts.

    "I'm selling distribution rights, gentlemen," he said.  "What do you think an initial payment should be for the right to keep one-third of the profits from your local sales in perpetuity?"

    And the oldest, an Italian man, stood up.  "Nothing."

    Nigilo kept his reaction internal.  "The floor is open at zero," he said, inexpertly trying to turn it into a joke.  "Do I hear ten million?"

    "Nothing," the man said firmly.  "You see, while it is very difficult to make a woman appear so buxom with a computer, it is easy to make your extremely busty scientist look more normal for a brief photo."

    Nigilo stared at him.  He felt his hands begin to clench, fought it back.

    "While it is rare for a woman to be so well-endowed," the man continued, "it is certainly possible.  You have shown us no real proof that your virus works.  Always in the past, you have come to us with a completed project.  I can see no proof of your success here, only possible deception."  He stared back at Nigilo.  "What is your plan, Kyle?  To collect millions from each of us in advance, then use the money to hide from all of us?  Even your ten million multiplied by us all could not let you run that far."  He pointed around the table.  "Your game with us is always fragile, and you have only what powers we wish to give you.  Are you so tired of this life that you choose such a means to leave it?"

    Another man stood up, the Russian distributor.  "He is right," came the heavy voice.  "This is not proof.  Bring me a girl, let me watch her grow.  That will be proof.  This young woman is nothing to pay for —" he smiled "— though I suspect Carlos would pay your ten million for a night with her."

    Carlos laughed.  "My wife would extract that and more from my hide," he said.  "And she is beautiful enough for me."  The others laughed:  one of the central crime figures of the world was known to be terminally henpecked.

    "Mikhail is right," the old Italian said.  "If you had brought us a test subject, with your — "generic" virus, let us see the process from beginning to end, we would have believed you, and invested.  Now..."  Nods around the table.  "Perhaps this is real — but you know better than to approach us without truth." He turned his back on Nigilo and slowly walked to the door.

    He turned back just before he put his hand on the knob.  "You all know me," he said, taking a long look around the table.  "You all survive on my tolerance.  I say that Kyle has lost our trust today — and for that, he pays a price."  He examined Nigilo's unblinking eyes.  "We will no longer associate with you, Kyle Nigilo.  Nor will anyone else, for they know that price well.  This plot has failed — and there will be no further plots from you."  He met the eyes of the other eleven in turn.  "Do any of you wish to challenge my authority?"  He opened the door and stood aside.

    It seemed to happen very slowly to Nigilo, each frame of the film flickering, freezing in his vision, all of them but the old man walking out, their backs turned, never looking at him, their minds already dismissing his existence from their world.  He had lost it.  Everything was gone, and it was Archer's fault, Archer had done it to him, the damn woman had brought him down, the fucking bitch had —

    Only the old man was left in the room, and he turned to look at Nigilo.  "You may have your viruses, if they are real, and time to pay the money back," he said.  "You have lost more than that today.

    "But tell me, Kyle," he added softly.  "If she is so insane, so happy to conquer her sister, why does she look so sad?"

    He left.

    Nigilo never heard the last words.  He was listening to his own inner voice, and he finally gave it free rein.

    "DAMN YOU!  I'LL DO IT MYSELF!"  The scream echoed through the room as he drove his fists into the keyboard, shattering it.  "I'LL HAVE ALL THE MONEY!"  Somehow, there was a chair in his hands, and then it was in the screen as sparks hissed around him.  "I'LL —"

    He felt the eyes, and turned to see the bellhop staring at him.  "I'll pay for all the damages," he hissed.  "Send the bill to my room."  He stalked out past the stunned young man, full-length, straight-legged strides, anger driving his limbs, fury blinding his vision, rage drowning his thoughts.  Only one thought penetrated the storm, drove the winds faster and whipped the waves against the fractured shore.

    Her fault.  Her fault.  Her fault...

 

    It was a wonderfully cloudy day, so Pamela got to enjoy the walk through the parking lot at Newark Airport.  She was even able to ignore the looks focused on her breasts, and the other stares, the ones directed at her face...

    Sometimes Pamela thought of it as a successful paradigm shift, the ability to enjoy the grey clouds as much as other people loved to see blue sky.  Albinism extremis:  she could take the rays of the sun, at least for a few hours at low strength, but then the burns would begin, and the sun poisoning soon after that.  Generally, she gave herself no more than the minimal exposure needed for health, and took Vitamin D supplements.  She had adjusted.

    And there were other times, mostly in the summer, when she looked towards the beach, at the laughing people frolicking in the waves, and wondered what would happen if she applied every sunblock known to man, went out there with them, stopped hiding in the air conditioning, her layers too hot to wear, dashing from shadow to shadow when she needed to venture outside, just put chemicals all over her body and joined them, at least for a few hours...

    She had never tried it.  She knew she probably never would.  She knew how people would react.  Her strength had a limit.  The realization had hurt.  She couldn't fight the whole world at once, not like that, not alone.  Pamela went to the beach, and basked on cooling sand in the moonlight.  That was her life.

    One day, perhaps, with all the luck in the world, Sadira would rub those lotions across her skin, and they'd run into the water, laughing and splashing each other and not caring about the eyes...

    She looked up at the sky, and the thick grey blanket that shrouded her from the sun.  There was a strong chance of rain.  It was going to be a beautiful day.

 

    He saw the sign, saw her — and his face immediately lit up.  He hurried up to her, dragging his bags behind him.  "Ms Shaw!  A name highly honored in my field!"  Douglas Pollota put out his hand, and she found herself taking it.  The handshake was warm and firm.  "I must say, my chance meeting with Sadira has led me to more beauty than I had ever thought possible!"

    Pamela knew how Sadira had felt on the train:  the man was positively infectious.  His words might be as florid as his ruddy face — but there was the sense that he meant every word of it.  He was looking at her without shock or ridicule, but with frank admiration:  his face was that of a Van Gogh lover discovering a lost painting.  "Thank you," she said, a little overwhelmed by sheer force of personality.  "Are you ready to go?"

    "I am ready, eager, and woefully unworthy of my subject."  They began to make their way out of the terminal.  "When you called and told me Sadira was prepared to pose, it was one of the most pleasant shocks I have received in years.  Quite frankly," he said, sotto voce, "even with my persuasions and beggings, I had not expected to hear from her again."

    Pamela stopped moving.  Douglas immediately froze.  "Has she changed her mind?"  Pamela remained quiet, trying to find the right words to explain the unwanted action.  "Ah, the fickleness of fortune!  Even Lady Luck must be prepared to compensate for such a cruel blow..."

    "I'll tell you the details in the car," Pamela said, wondering how much she could say without driving him away — but if she said nothing, he might leave.  "Sadira does need you, but not to pose."

    He smiled, but part of the heartiness was forced:  something of Pamela's tone had gotten through.  "I wasn't aware that I had made such a connection to inspire romance.  Not that I would be unhappy with that situation —"

    "Outside," Pamela said more softly, and started moving.

    Douglas followed.

 

    She told him in the car, all the way through the traffic jam around the airport, onto the Turnpike and its own delays, and finished as they reached the line leading to the Holland Tunnel.  He quietly listened without interruption until she ended with their session at Cypher's.

    "Why me?" he asked quietly, all bluster gone.

    "Sadira told me about you," Pamela replied.  "I recognized your name.  She liked you.  She really liked you — and I trust her judgement.  I found your card in her jacket pocket:  she carries everything around...  You already know her, a little.  I thought you might care enough to help."

    "But what can I do?"  Even softer:  he almost seemed to shrink.

    "You didn't always photograph nude women," she reminded him.  "You used to be a war correspondent, one of the best.  I've got a book of your work at home."  And some magazines with your other work...  "We need someone who can record what's going to happen — news quality photographs, and protect himself at the same time.  We'll be too busy to do it — but you have the experience, and —" I hope "— the motivation."

    "I quit because I was tired of looking at dead bodies," Douglas said softly.  "There's only so much blood a man can see.  And who would have thought that the children had so much in them?"  A long pause.  "And now I look at live ones, and it's all I could have wanted.  To record life instead of death."

    "So —"

    "Wait."  He met her eyes.  "I want to preserve life, and beauty.  That is my work now.  And I will not allow beauty to vanish from the face of this poor Earth."  A slow nod.  "I will go back into harness for her, and return to the battlegrounds.  You have my support." Pamela started to turn towards him, and he raised a hand.  "But media exposure is not the best thing for her, even afterwards.  If the knowledge of creation was to escape —"

    "I know," Pamela said quietly.  "I was thinking of faking it."  Her smile leapt back eighty million years.  "To have them think there was the possibility of revelation, the connections to expose GenTree..."

    "And how do you propose to keep it from turning on you?"  Pamela told him.  Douglas smiled.  "Ambitious," he said.  "If we can find the site where they had done their testing on the project —" the anger came through in the word:  Pamela had told him about the "expandable" memo "— it would go better.  And I can do one other thing.

    "You are in a war.  I have some expertise in warfare, if only from proximity.  I can advise you."

    "I'm a gamer —"

    "I know the term.  It will be helpful.  But imagination and practice seldom bear resemblance, unless your dreams turn to disaster as a matter of course.  I can teach you how to minimize that possibility."

    Traffic started moving again, and Pamela gently pressed the gas pedal.  "Thank you."

    "Oh, I am motivated by extreme self interest," Douglas assured her, his normal joviality returning.  "I still wish for her to pose, and this is the only way I can assure that she will be available.  The tradition of the Archer family must be maintained."

    "Tradition?"

    "I cannot reach my bags at the moment.  I will show you when we reach our destination."  He smiled widely.  "I wonder how the Princess will feel about my presence?"

    "She accepts it," Pamela said.

    "I am glad to hear that."  They moved forward another ten feet.  "Tell me; should I ask you —"

    "— you can ask.  But I'm going to say no.  I can believe a Net newsgroup for an albino fetish, but I wouldn't go there unless I was telling them to get a life."  Which sounded a little weird to her:  she could sympathize with some of the breast fetishists, but not with skin tone interest?  "And there can't be a magazine."

    "What albino fetish?  You are lovely on your own merits."

    Pamela internally groaned.  There was something about the man that made it impossible to get mad at him.  "I may have to roll down a window to let some of this stuff out —"

    "— ah, you taught Sadira that trick."

    "No, she taught it to me."  Another few feet.  "I modified it a little, though.  I usually throw the source with the window closed."  He laughed, merry and booming, and Pamela allowed herself a single mental sigh.  She'd found someone else she couldn't intimidate.

   

30

91-92:  Construction work (column #6)

 

    "Shit!"  The file went flying across the room and nailed Temperi in the side:  the weight was negligible, but the impact carried more force than it had been thrown with.  He jerked upright as if he'd been shot —  and there was suddenly a guard in the room.  Their response time had been improving.

    Sadira turned to him as if pleading to the only sane authority available.  "This idiot finds an avenue that we spend four days running down before we find out it won't work!  MORON!"  She pushed the wheelchair four feet towards him.  The guard pulled his trank pistol.  Sadira ignored it.  "Think, ya fuckin' idiot, or we're gonna be stuck in the same room until I can touch ya from dis distance!"  Temperi recoiled, fear taking over his face, and Menken showed an emotion for the first time:  amusement.  She spun the wheelchair around and fumed her way back to the computer.

    The guard stayed in the room for a few minutes until he was convinced it had been a momentary outburst, then left.  Sadira furiously typed.  Only part of the outburst had been faked.  Four days, she thought, looking at the clock in the lower right of the screen:  11:00 a.m. Saturday, March 30th.  Sixteen inches.  She looked down.  The board was still helping, but she was going to overlap it in a few days.  At which point, Carmody would bring her a larger board.

    There had been no word from Nigilo on the bras.  According to Carmody, there had been no words from him at all:  he had been out of contact since reaching California.  Sadira wished him a plane crash from which he was the only fatality, with everyone else landing softly in an unclaimed gold mine — but she knew her luck wasn't that good.  If it was anywhere near that level, she never would have wound up here in the first place...

    Carmody had kept his other promises, though:  her cell now had handicapped adaptations, and the exercise machine had been put on Thursday, during her work time.  She'd made immediate use of it.  The exercise increased her energy needs — and didn't seem to divert calories from the growth — but she had plenty of Powerbars.  Joy.

    Another line of pursuit:  she had to find something else to track down.  Her partners were useless, worse than useless, they were in the way...  Sadira wanted the metabolism data:  she'd happily switch to four inches a year if she could find the brakes by themselves — but she wouldn't be allowed to have it until BE-2 was finished —

    — and what happened if she stopped the breast growth without slowing her metabolism?

    Why hadn't that occurred to her before?

    The thought was laced with sarcasm.  Right:  focused effort is so easy right now.  I have so little to worry about...

    The acceleration had been a side effect from the combination of the macromastia gene and leukemia damage (disease and treatment).  She'd discovered a way to produce it without those factors.  She'd thought that disabling the growth would slow her back to normal — but it wasn't a guarantee.  'think things through...'  Where would all the energy go, if it wasn't being used for growth?

    The realization hit her.  More testing.  Shutting down the growth on my body might bring my metabolism back to normal — but might leave me as a portable fireball, and eventually, I'd crash and burn.  Stopping the metabolism without the growth buys me time.  I need the metabolic data, and they won't let me have it.  My only hope is another brainstorm —  But they never came at her command:  she beat mental fists against the barrier between levels, trying to get through — and nothing happened.

    Maybe there is no solution.  Maybe I'll just grow until I die.

    She stared at the screen.  Don't be an idiot, Sadira.  Teenage girls don't grow forever.  Jasmine didn't, even if it looked like it for a while.  There's a solution.  It just has to be found.  If I stopped now, I could live like this —

    The thought was startling.  She couldn't have surgery, she'd need extensive physical therapy, expensive clothes, all the stares — but it beat the alternative.  If only for one second, she'd accepted it.

    And maybe there was that good side, the feelings from her nipples, that stupid petty part of her brain that was happy to be bigger than Jasmine, the way she was intimidating Temperi —

    Wait.  She looked across at him.  He sensed it and scurried away.  That's probably how Jasmine got started.  Remember what Pamela said. How you look is part of who you are.

    I have to be Sadira Archer.  With very, very, very big breasts.

    She glanced at the phone, and got her thoughts back under control.  Breast size isn't going to solve this.  Brains are.  Maybe if I tell Carmody the metabolic data ties directly into the breast data — he'd believe that, the proof is right in front of him —  She wheeled over to the phone and placed the call.

 

    Pamela absently listened to the grunts as Jason did push-ups in the hallway.  His leg was completely healed, and all the energy had to go somewhere.  She had held a tiny hope that his metabolism would automatically drop back to normal once the healing was over, but that had been dashed against the sit-ups he had done the previous night, repeating the motions until he collapsed in near exhaustion, just awake enough to eat two Powerbars before falling asleep — and doing it all again four hours later when the alarm rang.  After those sessions, he was calm, focused — but without them, hyperactivity sped in, and then shaking, as his body tried to expend the energy.  They were careful not to let him get past that stage.

    If he didn't keep burning the calories, his cells would accumulate more energy then they could process or store, and then that energy would be released — consuming the cells.

    She never should have given him the virus —

    — but had she been shot, she would demanded it.  And he would have given it to her, for the same reasons she had given it to him.  For love.  Crazy, wonderful, insane, stupid, unreasoning love.

    Pamela wondered what would happen if no, when, believe when they got Sadira back and told her the truth...

    The grunts stopped:  she heard Jason get up and start walking, coming towards her.  She looked up from the Mutator to see him toweling the sweat from his forehead.  "Any luck?"

    "Some."  She glanced at the screen.  "This looks like the right area, and this looks like it might affect it.  I'll be doing the test runs soon.  You might have guessed right on the location."

    "You found a possible way to reach it," he pointed out.  "We'll see.  If this doesn't work out, at least I'll be in great shape."

    You'll be the best-conditioned corpse in the morgue —  Some of the thought had made it to her face.  Jason looked at her, about to say something —

    — Douglas and Jasmine came around the corner.

    "'Girls of the science labs?'" Jasmine quoted.  "How many people were you planning to find for that one?"

    "A minimum of three," Douglas smiled.  He was carrying a rolled-up magazine under his arm.  "Ah, Pamela!  I promised to show you that Archer tradition once I dug through my bags.  I was recently in Britain, speaking to one of my occasional paycheck distributors.  It seems —" he glanced at Jasmine "— that another member of your family has joined the ranks."

    Jasmine perked up.  "Another Archer?  Coincidence.  I've got one sister — England?"

    Douglas nodded.  "This is the magazine," he said, taking it out from under his arm.  "Humungous.  Published in Britain, but it's only distributed in the States.  Makes things easier on the local girls, I imagine."

    "Kay."  Jasmine, quietly, as if she hadn't used the word in some time.

    Pamela concentrated.  Shortly after she and Sadira had cemented their relationship, Sadira had started writing a cousin —

    "Kay Archer," Douglas confirmed.  "Here, take a look."  One swift movement unrolled, opened, and marked the proper place in the magazine.

    All of them automatically, in spite of themselves, and in honest curiosity, any one or combination, looked, at least for a moment.

    Jason's eyes flickered away almost immediately.

    Jasmine and Pamela kept looking.

    Pamela, attention focused on the third picture — the one where Kay was sitting and leaning over, legs apart, breasts dangling between — softly murmured "I suddenly feel very small..."

    Jasmine glanced at her.  "No fair."  Pamela looked up.  "I called first dose back at Al's Barn.  When this thing is perfected, it's mine —" she paused, considering the physical consequences of matching Sadira "— for thirteen inches, enough to put me ahead of the other dancers.  Why go artificial when natural is available?"

    "I like my size," Pamela protested.  "All my clothing is for this size."  She looked at the picture again.

    Yeah, that's a breast fetish.  Wonderful.  Actually, two fetishes.  Either nothing at all, or plenty and to spare.  Pamela was comfortable with her body, it had taken years to reach that state, and it wasn't constant — but looking at the picture, she still wondered.  What would it be like to be that large, or larger — or, like Sadira, still growing, reaching for triple digits, becoming bigger than anyone had ever been...

    She pictured it.

    Several desperate breaths later, she managed to stop laughing.

    Everyone was looking at her, confusion and concern in equal doses.  "Nothing," she gasped.  "A funny thought, that's all."  She straightened up.  "I've got to get back to work.  Thanks for the comic relief."

    They kept looking at her, but dispersed.

    Once they were gone, Pamela allowed herself a few last giggles.  Larger...  Still...  She looked at the screen and went back to work.

    Forty minutes later, the new sequences were grafted to the proto-virus.  Three hours later, she'd replicated enough to test with.

    An hour after that, the simulations were finished, and completely inconclusive.  It might work.  It might not.  It seemed to depend on how bright the monitor was.  Coin toss.

    "Cell samples," she muttered, heading for the refrigerator.  Test it on them, see what happened.  She gathered them up and took them to the microscope.

    Jason's samples were holding up well, drawing their nutrients from the container — but the food supply was being used quickly.  Pamela guessed that the three-year tin would be drained in two months or less.  Instead of burning out, they were using the energy to fight the slow-down effects of the extreme cold.  (She'd had the freezer section upgraded so that it could reach -70° Celsius.  The stall tactic wasn't practical for the Mouse)  She took off a bit of food with the samples:  no point in having them die of starvation while she looked at them.  They would stay chilled long enough.

    Okay, Pamela thought.  Test the muscle tissue first.  Get in close focus.  She could almost see the energy transfer taking place.  Information is flowing:  the computer knows what the calorie burn rate is.  Add the virus.  Just a drop, just enough to affect the sample — and there it was, coming in from the right.  Cell wall contact.  Invasion.  Interaction.  Reprogramming.  Watch it.  One eye on the data.  The dial is at ten.

    Nine.  Eight.

    Pamela realized she was holding her breath, let it out, took another one and held that.  Seven.  Six.  It paused.

    It's not an arithmetic progression.  There's a hell of a jump between nine and ten.  If it stops here, Sadira's down to an inch a day.  We'll have bought her time.  The Mouse gets the first dose, and we go get her, she'll work out the rest —

    Five.  Four.  Three, human-normal rate.

    Stop.  Stop right there.  Please...

    Two, and she pulled back from the screen.  One, and she didn't want to watch, but she had to, she couldn't stop —

    — zero.

    "MOUSE!"

    He was there, standing at her left, looking at the screen, reading the data flow...

    "Oh my God," he breathed softly, and then Jasmine was there.

    "Did you find it?  Is that the cure —" she saw their faces.

    Douglas came up, spotted their reactions, and didn't say a word.

    "Three minutes," Pamela whispered.  "Three minutes from infection to total metabolic shutdown.  The cells weren't programed to slow down, they completely stopped processing energy.  The dial went from ten to zero."

    "Fatal," Jasmine said, her voice even softer.

    "It's progress," Jason rallied.  "It's a matter of degree now.  We can move the dial, now we learn to set it."

    Pamela sterilized the sample area, then made sure the virus tin was sealed shut.  "Blood agent," she told them.  "I don't screw around with airbornes unless I have to.  Non-contagious:  sends message and dies.  We're all safe.  And if we got a dose by accident, we'd use the accelerator to counter it."  She knew that, they all knew that.  It still needed to be said.  "The Mouse is right.  We can move the dial in either direction.  We've got to figure out how to stop it where we want it."

    But she looked at the screen, and suppressed the need to shudder...

 

    Carmody almost didn't recognize his superior:  Nigilo was wandering through the corridor, clothes disheveled, unshaven, posture off-line, almost staggering along.  "Sir?"

    Nigilo focused tired eyes on Carmody.  "The good news, Carmody, is that we get to keep all the money.  The bad news is that we have to spend all of it, too."  His gaze drifted.  "They turned me down.  They said it was being faked, that I'd doctored the photos downwards.  I went around the waterfront trying to find new connections, but no one would listen to me.  Isn't that funny?  They thought I had made her small."  He laughed, one sharp bark of false mirth.  "I find that very funny."

    "Sir —"

    "I'm going to my office to pick up the budget reports and find a way to pay back that bond," Nigilo said absently.  "Then I'll go home.  Maybe I'll work on it at home.  You work on it, too.  Find projects to cut, find a way we can do this on our own.  They won't interfere either, you see.  We have it all to ourselves."

    Carmody said the only thing he could say.  "Yes, sir."

    "Good."  He began to walk down the hall, then stopped and said, "Is there anything else to report?  Anything urgent?  Progress?  Requests?"

    "Ms Archer severely injured her back on Thursday.  She is currently in a wheelchair, recovering.  She is still working."

    "Oh."  The tone was as neutral as his own.  "Is she."  A statement.

    "Yes, sir.  However, unless we procure appropriate garments, this sort of injury will occur again, perhaps at a completely disabling level.  She cannot continue working with her current materials."

    And the voice was cold, arctic wind over glaciers.  "You want to buy the fucking bitch bras."

    Carmody saw the fingers curling, the eyes snap to dangerous awareness, and somehow stood his ground.  "She needs them, sir."

    Silence.

    Nigilo took several slow breaths.  "Then go buy them.  Get her every fucking bra she could ever need.  Blow the budget.  Fill the room.  See to her goddamn pain.  Make sure she's perfectly comfortable for as long as she's with us.  Got it?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Good."  And Nigilo walked away.

 

    Carmody looked at the computer screen.  It had taken some amount of hunting, but he was beginning to run down possibilities.  The task wasn't hopeless:  there was a supply for every demand.  He had found several expert corsetieres, but they all needed to do custom fitting.  He could neither bring them to Sadira, or Sadira to them.  Somewhere in the world...

    He didn't take a deep breath.  He wanted to, but he repressed the instinct.

    Nor did he look at the files he had carefully compiled on Sadira's companions, research on their lives, skills, loves, and families, information that only he had seen while working in Helena.  There were cameras in his office, and someone might glance at his screen and wonder why he was consulting that data.  He was Mr. Nigilo's second, above reproach and blameless — to all but Nigilo.  He could never be sure...

    He noted with some wonder that somewhere in the last thought, he had lost the "Mister."

    Carmody leaned in close to the computer screen, blocking it from the camera's view, and typed.

    His memory was correct.  And the information on the screen was everything he could have hoped for.  Everyone had a web site these days...

    A phone number for direct access, although Email orders were accepted, and he had credit cards under different names for supply purchase — but he couldn't wait for someone to check their mail.  He looked at the clock:  one p.m. Montana time, which meant it was eight p.m. at the main branch, and he had to speak to the owner.  Would the shop still be open?  Did he have a chance to make the connection?

    He left the Web page, wiped his link record, picked up the phone, and dialed.

    The phone rang, once, twice — and was picked up.

    He put a false cheer in his voice, creating the character and the lie as he spoke — and he spoke quickly, wishing for more skill at deception, because the call might be recorded, and the cameras had audio pickups.  The woman on the other end couldn't be allowed to fully introduce herself.

    "Susan?" he asked with badly-faked heartiness.  Confirmation.  "I'm happy to find you still open!  I've got an order to place for overnight shipment, and I'm told you're the only one who might be able to help."