Forewarning:  This story concerns adult fantasy topics, especially

in the area of (big surprise for this site) breast enlargement.  It

also hopefully contains characterizations and a plotline

interesting enough to make the reader briefly forget about where

the sex scenes went to.  Since all of the above are considered to 

be adult topics, especially the idea of plot, you have to be over 

the age of discretion in your home country to read further.  Sorry 

about that.



Comments and correspondence can be sent to sam_tuirel@nac.net, with

the understanding that the tone of the missive will be the tone of

the reply.



Minor note:  in the absence of text tricks, I use < > to indicate

thought and { } for typed communication.  _ _ underlines words in

between.  The Real Tough Format will be along.  One day.



For benefits of file space, mailing ease, and continuity, this is

Part III.  If you haven't read Part I yet, you might want to.  Even part

II.  It's proven helpful in the past.



Once upon a time...





































                  13. 46:  The court of last resort



    Sounds of a genetics lab in full swing.

    "Where the hell are the peptide charts?"

    "Over on top of the electron microscope, last time I looked.

You can always tell where Sadira's been working."

    "Hey!  I knew where it was!"

    "Yeah, but I needed it.  Mouse, if you think this is fun, try

living with her.  I never let homework out of my sight.  It would

quickly and quietly vanish away."

    "I never touched your papers --"

    "-- I know.  Your piles were Boojums.  They made things

disappear on their own."

    "Pamela:  your file.  Sadira:  the blood tests are done."

    They crowded around to see the results.  Jason rediscovered one

of the benefits of being tall:  he could clear a lot of space by

opening his stance and arms.  "Not spreadable," he said.  "I

couldn't even find any virus corpses."

    "Nice to know part of the design worked."

    Pamela looked further down.  "Those are the hormone readings?

Are those decimal points in the right places?"

    Sadira looked.  "Ya, dey are.  Welcome ta Chemical Central."

    The rest was read in silence.  "That's the total picture," Jason

eventually said.  "Metabolism, tissue buildup --" Sadira

unconsciously rubbed the side of her right breast:  she'd taken her

own cell samples "-- ATP carriers, site interactions, the works.

Sadira, are your nails and hair growing any faster?"

    She glanced at her hands.  "Not really."  Sadira thought it

over.  "So current cells aren't dying any faster."

    "No, just general repairs, and replication in the breast tissue

and surrounding skin.  You're not prematurely aging."

    Sadira drew back slightly:  she had never considered the

possibility.  <"You have to learn to think things through...">

    "And now that we have a definite statement on what's happening,"

Pamela said, "we focus on stopping it.  The photocopier's in the

far left corner, Mouse:  one for each of us."

    "Agreed," Jason said, and handed the printout to Pamela.  She

looked at it, then at him, then shook her head and headed for the

photocopier.

    Sadira watched her go.  "I see you're learning how to handle

her," she said softly.  It wasn't really necessary:  the age of the

building and odd layout of equipment killed the acoustics.  Combined

with the humming of the machinery, they had to yell to each other

from thirty feet.

    "You could have given me a manual," Jason replied sotto voce.

"Figuring her out from scratch -- it would easier to re-code the

entire human genome."

    "Don't worry.  She likes you."

    Jason glanced around the maze, trying to see if Pamela was

coming back.  "How can you tell?"

    "You're not trying to get the paper out of your throat."

    He cleared the aforementioned body part.  "Oh."  A long pause.

"What time is it, anyway?"

    "Eleven-forty.  Must have been the Powerbar you two split:  you

haven't slowed down."

    "The Great Dictator hasn't told us to knock off for the night.

Besides, I like the taste.  Raisin-zinc, right?"

    Sadira stuck her tongue out at him and walked over to the

computers:  before leaving the apartment, they'd grabbed every piece

of Pamela's personal system.  She sat down in front of the left-hand

keyboard -- she could still face the screen and type -- and,

glancing at the printout, began working with the pregnancy database

they'd spent most of the day constructing.  "All right.  These

hormones usually start appearing in the body in the last months,

when breast growth is ending, and before lactation begins."

    "And let's _really_ try not to confuse those sets," Pamela broke

in, coming up behind them.  "So when the pregnancy is over --" she

went to the right-side keyboard and started her own one-handed

patter "-- those chemicals are out of the body.  But there's another

set of hormones and carrier bionisms that enter the picture, as the

body starts going back to normal -- and some of those haven't been

identified for function.  Isn't this fun?"

    "Hormone therapy?" Jason postulated.  "Find out which of these

causes shutdown and inject it."

     Sadira looked up at Jason.  "How do we go about gathering

samples without a budget and paperwork?"

    "The local pregnant women?" Jason proposed.

    "Only if we did a drug screening first," Pamela answered, "And

how are we going to find them within hours of giving birth?  If we

wait outside the maternity wards and persuade them as they leave,

they're probably going to want money.  Anyone got enough money and

time for a thousand samples?"  Silence.  Pamela turned to Sadira.

"Actually, good news:  if we find the stall, we still need the

samples to test with, and we need the samples to find the stall --

but I think I can get a few pieces from those I've 'assisted' at

other labs."  She shrugged.  "Blackmail.  There goes _my_

reputation."

    Sadira finished the thought.  "And if there's a neutralizer,

my body _can't_ produce it as long as the sequences are active.  If

the injected stop hormones are as strong as the growth ones, then

it's a stalling action until we find a cure -- but my body has to be

told to turn off.  Ideally, _I_ have to generate the hormone."  The

smile was fairly sincere.  "However, if either of you come up with a

stall, I'll take it."

    Pamela's voice dropped.  "And anything we get, we'd better be

damn sure of, because the only test subject is you.  All this has to

be worked out from the general and then applied onto the specific --

your genetic code.  And if the first cure we try goes wrong --" She

couldn't finish.

    "Small scale?" Sadira suggested, trying to keep their spirits --

and her own -- up.  "Test it out on cell samples, see what it does."

    "Of course, but it still doesn't tell us what it'll do to the

body as a _unit_," Jason pointed out.  "We can get a sample from

every major and minor system, but it doesn't tell us what happens

when they all get hit together."  He leaned against the support

column, hips out, palms bracing his back.  "I wish we had some

uninfected samples to work with:  we could hit them with BE-1 and

BE-2 in combination, see how the factors interact with each other.

It would help a little."

    "Not if we're going from general to specific on _my_ genetic

code," Sadira said sadly.  "There's only one of those, and all my

cells are infected."

    There was a span of quiet, at the end of which both Jason and

Sadira realized they were waiting for Pamela to say something.  They

both looked at her.

    She was still sitting, staring somewhere beyond the screen.

"Oh, yes," she whispered.  "Oh, _perfect_."

    "What?"  Simultaneous from the other two.

    "Your genetic code is unique, Iv," Pamela said, the feral grin

beginning to spread across her face, "but there's a pretty close

copy available for testing."

    Dead silence filled the lab.  Pam's grin got wider.

    "But she never had leukemia --" Sadira started.

    "I think I can compensate for that," Jason said.  "I've been

studying the effects of the disease on cells:  I can bring it down

to the DNA level."

    "She's close enough for a bone marrow transplant," Pamela added

through her teeth, the grin remaining behind the words like a

distorted Cheshire Cat.  "Genetically, she's the closest possible

variant we could ask for.  And --" her teeth parted slightly, and

her tongue was momentarily visible "-- it'll really piss her off.

We'll have to disrupt her schedule.  She'll lose money.  _Her_

reputation gets shot."

    Sadira didn't move.

    Jason said, "But how do we find her?  She's a dancer:  she

travels all over the country.  Probably outside it, too -- and then

we have to contact her, convince her to come --"

    "She's getting a choice?" Pamela rhetorically asked.  "I think I

can find her, though.  Internet time."

    Jason stepped over to Pamela's station.  "You have a plan."

    "Some dancers have web sites -- read an article in _Web World_.

Their fans send them Email, they sell merchandise, put up pictures

for download -- and put up schedules so their fans know where to

find them.  And from what Sadira's told me, she would _never_ pass

up an opportunity to make money.  Right, Ebs?"  It was either a nod,

or her head just lolled forward a bit.

    The Search page came up.  Pamela looked like a snow leopard

about to pounce.  "What's her stage name?  Princess something..."

    "Pirou," Jason said.  "Try it."

    Pamela typed, waited, then began scrolling down.  "Danni's Hard

Drive, Crazy Horse Saloon, Pinups -- her ass is _mine_!"  She

double-clicked.  Any resemblance to gunshots was purely

inspirational.

    The text came up first.  "Welcome to the Princess Pirou Web

Page, my Subjects -- lays it on a bit thick, doesn't she?"

    Pamela nodded.  "Yes, I am over eighteen and wish to see the

next link -- pay per view?  Fine:  five dollars to log on, one time

only, or enter ID number." Pamela reached back for her purse, which

was hung over the back of the chair.  "Here's my Visa number, dear:

it's worth it."

    The next screen came up, a background of flowing Arabic script

against which frames were rapidly appearing.  Pam went for the

scroll bar as soon as it showed up and pulled down.  "Schedule!"

More clicks.  The page was practically all text:  they ignored the

arriving picture and looked down.

    "Week of March 18th-25th," Jason read, "Al's Barn --" and his

grin mirrored Pamela's "-- Philadelphia."

    "Showtimes 1, 6, 9, 11, and 2 in the morning," Pamela finished.

"It's almost midnight now:  think we can make it in time?"

    "I've seen the way you drive.  I think we can make it

yesterday."

    "Forget aiding and abetting."  Pamela rubbed her hands in

delight.  "We might just add _kidnapping_ to our rap sheets."

    They both looked at Sadira, still smiling.

    Sadira was sitting quietly, expressionless, eyes vacant.

    Jason put his hands on her shoulders.  "Sadira?"

    "I want," she said very slowly, face unchanging, "to make one

stop first."



    "Three in the morning!"  Pamela slammed a fist against the

steering wheel, awakening Jason, who had been sleeping in the back.

Sadira had snoozed on and off on the way down.

    There had been plenty of time for naps:  the New Jersey Turnpike

Authority had for once wisely decided that the best time to repair

the roads was a time when virtually no one was using them:  early in

the a.m.  Unfortunately, _virtually_ no one still comprised a few

hundred cars and trucks trying to creep through a single lane at the

twenty mils per hour requested by the signs.  While few New York or

New Jersey drivers had respect for speed limits, the numerous police

cars parked between the road crews and the smaller signs that said

{Traffic fines tripled in work areas} had added to their lawfulness.

The usual breakneck ninety-minute drive to Philadelphia had taken

nearly double that, with additional time to find the strip club.

    "I know these damn shows never start on time," Pamela swore,

"but we're pushing the limits."

    Sadira looked at her ex-roommate.  "'I read an article on dancer

web sites,'" she paraphrased.  "'I know these shows don't start on

time.'  Exactly where were you going to on your occasional

'Wednesday night recharges?'"

    "Research," Pamela said, trying -- and failing -- to keep the

embarrassment out of her voice.  "Shaddap."

    Jason stretched within what space he had and reached for the

door.

    "No," Sadira said.  "This is just me.  You two wait here."

    Pamela's voice immediately went to disappointment.  "You're not

asking me to miss this, are you?  I want to see her face..."

    "Me," Sadira said, opening the door.



    The man in the booth at the bottom of the staircase was still

collecting admission fees an hour before closing, but was apparently

too tired to check ID or look to see who was handing him money:

Sadira slid a five through the slot and went in.

    The strip club was practically empty:  the dancers were on the

verge of outnumbering the people.  Three were engaged in very close

dancing -- they were practically in the men's laps -- while two more

slowly swayed on a large, partially elevated stage which sat

in the center of the huge room, with chairs and the occasional

occupant arrayed around it.  A well-stocked bar occupied most of the

wall closest to the entrance, and there were tables, chairs,

waitresses, and drunks everywhere else.  Two couples were quietly

talking, and one woman was studying a textbook.  Both feats bordered

on the miraculous, because the sound system was too loud and the

lighting wasn't pleasant to the eyes.  The overall effect was of a

disco that had exploded.

    Three seconds after she walked in, a waitress tried to sell her

two mandatory drinks.  Sadira gave her twelve dollars -- the two

plus the tip -- and left before she could ask for an order.  Working

on instinct, Sadira picked out the largest, best-dressed, most bored

looking man in the room and went up to him.

    "Pardon me," she carefully began.

    The man looked down.  He was huge -- he was Jason's height, but

considerably wider in all directions.  His body was blocking most

of a pink curtain above which the words "Champagne Room" had been

embossed in glitter.  Sadira caught him squinting at her:  either

nearsighted or he'd been in the club more than twenty minutes.  "Can

I help you, miss?"  The voice was amazingly gentle.

    "I hope so.  I'm looking for Jasmine Archer.  Is she here?"

    "I'm sorry.  I don't know anyone by that name."  The big head

scanned the room like a rotating lighthouse.  "You seem to be our

only female customer.  Are you sure you have the right club?"

    "How about Princess Pirou?"

    The big man nodded.  "That's her real name?  Yes, she's still

here:  finished up her last set twenty minutes ago, posed for a few

photos with customers, and went to the feature's dressing room."

    "Where is that?"

    A smile.  "I'm sorry, miss, but I can't let fans backstage.  You

can wait for her out here if you like, but when she was here last

year, she stayed until closing every night."

    The waitress came up.  "Miss, your drinks..."  She was also

squinting.  It had to be the lighting.

    "Later," Sadira said, then, "I'm not a fan.  I'm a sister.  Can

I go backstage?"  The big man bent down slightly and squinted at her

face:  Sadira stood on tiptoe to help him and found her balance

dubious -- then went flat-footed again and said, "You can probably

see the facial resemblance.  And --" suddenly inspired, she unzipped

the extra-roomy jacket Pam had bought her at the House and got it

open in a single move "-- the physical ones."

    He looked at her, up and down.  She held her gaze (and the edges

of the jacket) and waited.  "I can see it."  He grinned:  it was

like watching a glacier break off an ice cliff.  "You've got a

better sense of humor, though."  He brought a ham hand up and rubbed

his chin, considering.  "I'll take you back."



    They went through a shadowed door and suddenly stood in normal

human lighting:  the big man spent several seconds blinking.  "Third

door on the left," he whispered.  "I take it you want to surprise

her."

    "Yeah.  What's your name?"

    "Emmitt."

    "Thanks, Emmitt.  I appreciate this."

    "No problem."  He began to turn, heading back for the door --

stopped, gave her the lightest of touches on her right arm with a

huge fist, whispered, "Give her hell," and left.

    Sadira stared after him.  <Another direct Jasmine victim or just

a proximity case?>  She looked down the hall at the partially-open

door with the gold star at head height.  It suddenly seemed very far

away.

    She steeled herself, took a few bites of an supposedly-apple-

flavored Powerbar so everything else would seem better by

comparison, and started walking, her right hand reaching into a

pocket for the first of her prior purchases.  Within actual seconds

and perceptual hours, she was next to the door.  Sadira peered

around the corner, the item held ready.



    It was a decent-sized room.  There was a large makeup station

close to the door on the right wall, with full lighting and a

tremendous array of cosmetics racked around a three-mirror setup.

An expensive notebook computer lay next to a tray of eyeshadow.  The

rest of the paint had been covered by graffiti, dozens of small

comments from the dancers who had passed through, as if they'd

wanted to leave proof of their existence.  Sadira quickly and

automatically read a few that she had the angle for:  they ranged

from funny observances to quiet sadness.

    The far wall held costumes on long poles, about fifteen of them,

including fashion nightmares of sparkles and feathers, silken veils

-- naturally -- service and sports uniforms, a Western set with a

short lasso, and something that reminded her of the leather armor

her favorite role-playing character had always worn -- but only

because they were both leather.  There were several large, open

carrying cases near the racks.

    The left wall held a cot, and the cot held Jasmine.

    Sadira was looking at her from the back:  Jasmine was sitting up

with a clipboard braced against the rear support of the bed, facing

the costume wall.  She was writing, the pen slowly scritching from

one line to the next.

    From Sadira's angle, she could make out no features, but the

posture (familiar from long hours of homework), combined with the

side view, was enough.  She could also see Jasmine's hair, which had

grown out until it nearly matched her own length, all of it dyed

bottle-blond, falling gently over street clothes.

    Sadira quietly moved until she was fully inside, object at the

ready and angled at the mirror, where both of their images were

visible.  Jasmine kept writing.

    "Jasmine," Sadira said, the first word in over four years, and

waited.

    Jasmine's back stiffened, and her neck snapped up, gaze removed

from the clipboard -- but she didn't turn.  She just sat there,

facing the veiled costume.  "What the hell are you doing here?"  Her

voice was a little higher than Sadira's, a little sharper.

    "I came to see you.  I --" and the next words were so hard "-- I

need your help."

    Jasmine nodded.  "Fuck off," she said, and went back to the

clipboard.  "Oh, I forgot:  you don't know _how_ to fuck off.  Paid

anyone to take your virginity yet?  If that's the help you came for,

I'll be happy to lend you the three million it'll take to persuade

someone to jump your skinny ass."

    Sadira went through over a hundred responses before she found

one that was safe to say.  "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't

serious."

    "Seriously forgetful.  In case it slipped your mind, let me

refresh your memory:  we hate each other.  We had a little contest,

I won, and you resented it."

    "Adolescence isn't a contest."

    "You're saying that because you lost."  She shook her head. "I

wouldn't help you into the street to get hit by a bus."  She paused.

"No, that's the exception."

    "Jasmine, _turn around_."

    There must have been something in the tone, something that

couldn't be denied, or perhaps Jasmine just thought she could deal

out more pain face-to-face.  Whatever it was, she turned, pivoting

her body on the mattress, and looked.

    The instant Sadira spotted her eyes -- the moment she saw

awareness and the first effects crossing her face -- she hit the

button.

    The camera flashed.

    Jasmine, startled, recoiled, nearly losing her balance, trying

to blink away the light.

    Sadira took the camera away from the door frame and pocketed it.

"You know," she said pleasantly, leaning against it herself,

"everything I've been through in the past few days -- the running,

the wreck, panic, desperation, all of it -- that just balanced the

books."

    Jasmine, her eyes clear again, sat up straight, stared, then

said "_Come here_," in almost the same tone Sadira had mustered.

    Sadira took one casual step forward.

    Jasmine stood up.

    Nearly identical faces, concealing very different minds,

considered each other carefully.

    "You're real," Jasmine said slowly.

    "You can tell?"

    "I've been dancing four years.  Real flesh, even in a bra, moves

in a way that implants don't.  Most of the features can spot a boob

job across the room through two layers."  Sadira could hear the

shock in her voice -- the insulating, isolating kind.

    "And of course, you're even better at it."

    Jasmine, still too stunned to catch the tone, just nodded.

"You're still smaller than me," she said, rallying a little.

    "Wait about sixty hours."  Sadira was, despite everything,

enjoying herself.

    Jasmine either missed or ignored most of the implications:

Sadira would have bet on the later.  "What do you need my help for?

I sell old bras to the suckers for a hundred and fifty each.  Go

talk to Crystal Storm:  she's an easy touch."

    It was about to become less fun.  "Jasmine, I have a disease.

That's what's causing the growth."

    "A _disease_!"  Jasmine snorted.  "Fuck, I know people who would

pay you to give it to them.  I'll give you five thousand for one

good infection:  I won't have to go for the boob job in July."

    It was Sadira's turn to recoil:  Jasmine saw it, and was visibly

pleased.  "You're going to have an enlargement?"

    "Right, _genius_:  I can at least _think_ about a _surgical

procedure_ without needing a sedative.  I've been dancing at this

size for four years.  If I get a boost, my income gets one."  She

patted her breasts, one hand each.  "The surgeons tell me that with

my natural size, there's room to pump me up quite a bit and still

look natural.  Not that the rubes care if I'm shaped like those

stupid dice you used to roll.  Can I ask _you_ a favor?"  Her eyes

glinted.  "Will you come into the operating room and hold my hand

while they put me under?"

    The anger came first, Sadira's arm going back, hand curling into

a fist -- and then, a split second later, the memories followed.

Her hand fell open as her senses reeled, and she stumbled back

against the door frame.

    "Haven't thought about that for a while, have you?  If you've

got some bug that finally did you the favor of giving you something

to look at besides your grades -- you're stuck wherever it leaves

you, aren't you?"  It was meant to hurt, it started out as a torture

implement -- but somewhere in the middle, it had taken on a

thoughtful tone.  "Sixty hours?  How fast are you growing?"

    "Four inches a day, for the rest of my life," Sadira spat.

"Mark it on your calendar, Jasmine:  sometime around four p.m.

Thursday, the "big" sister and the "little" sister switch

positions."  The next words were a growl, a voice that went five

rungs down the evolutionary ladder.  "You're right:  I am forgetful.

I had to forget seven years of hell to have _any_ hope that you

would help me.  Isn't it nice to see me being an idiot?  Consider it

as four years worth of belated birthday presents.  In fact, let me

give you the rest of the lifetime's now:  without your help, I'm

probably going to die, and you literally won't have to lift a finger

to make it happen."  She turned and left the room.

    Sadira got three steps down the hall before she heard "You're

serious."

    <I don't believe that worked.>  She had taken her fear, so close

to the surface at that moment, and molded it, directed it at

Jasmine's weak spot:  her ego.  It was hard to reign over a corpse

-- and the crack about passing her might have hit home, too:

Jasmine had stopped mentioning Kay as another "true" Archer when

their cousin first showed signs of potentially getting bigger than

her.  In Jasmine's world, everyone else had to be second.

    She stopped, and waited.

    "This is like the leukemia, right?  You need something from me

to stop this."  Sadira didn't turn.  "Money or me?"

    "You."

    She could hear the deep breath.  "And without me, you're dead."

    Sadira kept quiet.

    "So," and the mockery was back, "my genius sister needs me to

save her life _again_."

    "Right."

    Sadira could also hear the smile.  "Then I win again."

    Silence.

    Finally, Jasmine said, "How long is this going to take?"



    "How long are they going to take?"  Pamela was alternating

stares at the door and her watch, ten seconds between shifts.  "I

should have gone in there.  I should have kicked Jasmine's ass all

the way back to New York."

    "Give them time," Jason suggested.  "They haven't seen each

other in four years.  They have to talk it out."

    A small truck pulled up behind them, and a medium-sized man got

out, rubbing his stomach as he headed for the door.  Pamela watched

him:  the club closed in fifty minutes, and he was the first

customer she'd seen.  He had to be desperate to be up this late.

    "Three minutes," Pamela said, "and then I'm personally taking

Normandy from the Germans."



    Ron walked slowly down the stairs, contentedly burping.  He'd

been attempting to live off the strip club buffet for most of the

day, and had found it was impossible to survive on bad lasanga and

grey stew.  It had been getting late, and he'd decided to risk a run

on the twenty-four hour Burger King half a mile away.  He wasn't

allowed to bring food into the club, and he'd meant to eat it

outside the door, but it had smelled so good that he'd had to try a

french fry, and then he'd just stood there and enjoyed himself.

    Overall, it was one of the weirder assignments Nigilo had thrown

his way:  follow this exotic dancer, change your appearance every so

often so she doesn't get suspicious, and see if her sister contacts

her.  Here's a head-and-shoulders ID photo.  Memorize it.  If --

when she comes by, catch her, stop her, do what you have to, that's

another reason you should use makeup.  Grab her on the way out, or

tail her -- you're the expert.  Just get her back to me.  At least

he got to watch the girls -- the Princess wasn't the best performer:

 her act consisted of strutting and shaking.

    It was three in the morning, for Christ's sake.   What could he

have missed?



    Jasmine finished typing, pulled the modem line out of the wall,

and snapped the notebook computer shut.  "Fred will send someone to

get my things and pull a vacationer in to finish the week."

    "You don't feel sorry for her, do you?"

    "Why should I?  It's your fault for catching this."

    Sadira hadn't told her about the occurrence of infection.  "I

bet all the AIDS rights group send you donation requests."

    "No, you're thinking of the rapists who write from prison.  I

keep donating your address, but no one's done anything with it.  I

guess there's some things even a psycho won't touch."  She grabbed a

large duffel bag:  Sadira could make out the outline of video tape

cases.  "We'll go back to my hotel and pick up my clothes.  How long

_is_ this going to take, anyway?  I have a vacation next week."

    "I don't know.  One day with incredible luck and smarts --"

    "-- two strikes on you --"

    "-- probably longer.  You'll probably have to stay the whole

time."  It wasn't a fate worse than death, but it had its foot over

the dividing line, ready to step across.

    "Trust you to fuck my life up."

    "Then I guess I am doing some fucking after all."

    "Yeah.  And that's the only kind you get to do."  Sadira

controlled her reaction:  she just hadn't seen the rebound coming

off the boards.  "I'm ready.  Let's go."  Jasmine went past her and

headed down the hall.  Sadira followed.



    Ron took his seat and gazed at the stage.  It would soon be

time for the night shift.  Jack had to watch the Princess' hotel

while she slept.  He'd lost the coin toss.  The first quiet day of

what promised to be a very profitable job -- if he didn't blow it

all back on tips to the dancers.  His expense account was limited to

travel, residence, food, admissions, and bribes.

    Then again, a tip was a sort of bribe.  He'd heard that if you

gave the girls enough money, Something Could Happen.  At some point,

he was going to try it.

    The door to the ladies' area opened, and he automatically

glanced at it.  The Princess was going home:  time to wrap it up for

the night.

    There was another girl behind her.  He looked closer.



    Jasmine and Sadira walked across the room.  To be precise,

Sadira walked.  Jasmine marched.

    "Have a good night," Emmitt said.

    Jasmine snorted.  Emmitt shrugged at Sadira as she went by.  She

returned the gesture and followed Jasmine up the stairs.

    They reached the open air quickly:  Sadira squinted at the Neon,

barely able to make out Jason and Pamela through the tinted windows

on the dark street.  "That's the car."

    A man's voice, right behind them, said, "No, it's not."



    Ron poked his index fingers forward, one for each sister's lower

back.  They froze.

    "That's the car:  the red Toyota truck.  Both of you get in."

He hadn't figured on both sisters leaving together, but what the

hell:  bonus money.  "Mr. Nigilo wants to see you."

    "Jasmine," the sister said to the Princess, still looking at the

Neon.  "Is this thing in my back what I think it is?"

    The Princess grudgingly nodded.  "Fifty-fifty.  I know which

half I'm rooting for on _your_ spine."



    Pamela and Jason stared, afraid to get out of the car.  One

wrong move, anything that panicked the gunman...

    Jason looked closely at the scene, squinting through the window,

looking for an edge, a chance...

    "Pam," he said slowly, "Sadira's winking at us."

    Pamela looked at him, then hit a button.  Jason heard all the

doors unlock.



    "Oh," Sadira said faintly.  "Then I guess I have no choice."

    She brought her left foot up and _back_.  There was a very

satisfying crunch, but not as good as it could have been:  she'd

caught him on the thigh.  It was still enough to stagger him back.

    Sadira spun around, somehow managing to keep her balance,

prevent her feet from tripping on each other, _and_ get her second

purchase out of her pocket in one motion.  The man, starting to

recover, tried to focus on her hand.

    "Asshole," she said, "I'm from Brooklyn."  Sadira thrust the

taser forward.  A blue spark leapt, and she smelled the faintest

trace of ozone, barely distinguishable over the sensory assault from

the man's scream.

    Jasmine ran for the Neon.

    "Back passenger seat!" Sadira yelled, grabbing the shotgun

position.  The sisters Archer jumped in the car:  Pamela started the

engine, and it leapt into gear, screeching down the road.



                 14. 47:  The curbs of Philadelphia



     Sadira automatically went for her seat belt, laughing all the way.

"My father taught _me_ the difference between a finger and a gun!"

Pamela immediately figured it out and started giggling herself.

     Jasmine had dived into and across the passenger seat, covering her

head with her arms as if waiting for the gunshot to fly over her.  This

position left her sprawled across Jason's lap -- something she was just

beginning to become aware of.  She rolled onto her back and looked up.

     Jason, who had been aware of the problem for some time, but

uncertain as to how he was going to express it, just looked forward.

Jasmine took a moment and appreciated what she could see of his profile.

"Hi," she said casually.

     "Hello," Jason replied.

     Jasmine carefully said, "_Who_ wants to see you?"

     The laughter from the front seats, already subsiding, abruptly

stopped.

     "Nigilo," came Sadira's slow reply.

     "But why would he put a tail on her?" Pamela asked.  "Did he guess

we were going to grab her for samples?"

     "If he thought I was going to contact her under normal

circumstances, then he's working from the wrong data base," Sadira said.

     Jason leaned forward.  "Then he must think we're working on a cure

-- but why not snatch Jasmine and use her as a bargaining chip?"

     Pamela shook her head.  "Because he figured we'd beat that bluff

with a deuce-high --"

     "_What the hell is going on here_!"

     Through mirrors and direct vision, they all looked at Jasmine,

still in Jason's lap.

     Jasmine slowly sat up, leaving Jason unencumbered, then said to

Sadira, "I thought we were actually going into a hospital.  They'd do

some testing on me, on you, inject something, done.  Or, knowing you, do

it all on the pavilion _outside_ the hospital.  Instead, I walk outside,

have someone pull a finger on me --" she paused briefly as the word

structure came across "-- says someone wants to see you -- and he was

talking to _you_, Sadira.  And these two don't look like doctors and

that one --" pointing at Pamela "-- looks like an corpse."  She ignored

the sharp intake of breath from the driver's seat.  "So I repeat:  what

the hell is going on here?  If this is one of your stupid pranks, I'm

not laughing!"

     Pamela hit the brakes and pulled over.

     When the others finished realigning their necks, they found the car

parked parallel to the street in the middle of a huge driveway, ten feet

from a sign that said {No Parking.  Loading Zone Only.}  Pamela cut the

engine, unfastened her seat belt, and turned around, torquing at the

waist and moving closer to her door, until her breasts touched the seat

and she faced Jasmine at an angle.  A streetlight illuminated the

interior of the car from the front windshield.  Pamela had a pretty good

idea what it looked like to Jasmine:  the blue eyes in the white face,

with the light glaring in the background:  something three inches to the

wrong side of the natural world.  "So," she said, voice patient and

neutral, "you want to know what's going on."

     "Fucking straight I do!"  There was the slightest of quavers.

     Every word was at exactly the same pitch.  "Oh, it's very easy to

explain.  You're right.  We're not doctors.  Not recognized doctors,

anyway.  We're trying to recreate the work of Victor Frankenstein, but

we decided to go with an intact body that was already missing a brain.

Sadira suggested you.  And here you are."  The feral smile appeared.

"Now don't you feel better for knowing that?"

     Sadira stared at Pamela.  No one noticed.

     Jasmine stared at Pamela, who held ground until Jasmine said "Fuck

you."

     "You should be so lucky."  Pamela glanced at Sadira, who hadn't

blinked yet.  "I paid for the taser.  I told you to use it on her if she

gave you any trouble.  Can I have it back now?"  Sadira's right hand

tightened around the plastic box.

     Jasmine looked at Jason, who was looking at the other women, then

went to Sadira.  "Okay, Casper is insane.  So _again_, what the --"

     "-- sorry, what was that?"  Pamela's voice had gotten very low.

     "Enough!"  Jason threw his arms into the space between the front

seats.  "We're never going to get anywhere if you just fight with each

other!"

     Sadira looked at Pamela for a moment longer, trying to project her

thought.  <Why are you trying to start a fight?>  It didn't work.  They

were _never_ going to prove psionics at this rate.

     Jason slowly brought his arms back to a ready position.  "Jasmine,

my name is Jason Pterros.  I work -- worked with Sadira at GenTree.

There was an accident with a non-contagious virus.  I overheard one of

the top executives ordering a search to get Sadira back.  That's the

first sign we've seen of it."

     The sisters automatically focused on each other.  Jasmine spoke,

slow and steady.  "I was at risk and you didn't see fit to tell me?"

     "We never thought they would target you --"

     Jason broke in again.  "Sadira has the virus and the knowledge to

create it.  She's the primary target.  They must have been hoping she'd

come to you at some point."

     "For the cure?" Jasmine said.  "The genius is right for once:

there's no other way we'd see each other."

     "You're not the cure.  You're our means of testing any potential

cure we might devise.  Pamela and I are geneticists:  we're working

together on --"

     "-- on using _me_ as a guinea pig?"  Jasmine's voice was getting

higher, faster.  "You're _all_ nuts!  I'm getting out --"

     Sadira felt a wrench, and then her hand was empty as Pamela held

the sparking taser in front of Jasmine's face, arm stretched out in a

way that came close to dislocating her shoulder.

     "Shut up," Pamela suggested, "and let the man explain."



     The man explained.  Jasmine listened until she had it all,

interrupting once to suggest that they start heading for her hotel to

grab her clothing.  Pamela had quietly put the car back on the road and

followed the occasional, somewhat more polite directions.

     When Jason finished, Jasmine said, "She did it to herself, didn't

she?"

     Jason said nothing.  Jasmine turned to Sadira and continued.  "What

was it?  Dropped it, fumbled it into your eyes, tripped?  That's what

'accident' always means around you."

     Sadira instinctively averted her eyes, an answer in itself.

Jasmine shook her head, blond strands shifting.  "You develop a virus to

make breasts grow and then _you_ catch it.  Maybe it wasn't an accident

at all."

     "I don't think you understand."  The first words out of Pamela in

five minutes.  "This is potentially fatal."

     "How?  No one ever died from having big tits."

     Sadira's mind whirled.  <I might have died if I didn't have them --

but I wouldn't have been in that position if not _for_ them...>

     "It's possible," Jason said tightly.  "And before that..."  He

didn't want to set Sadira off by detailing the chain.

     Jasmine sat back and thought.  "Kidnapped by mad scientists with my

looney sister in charge."  She took a deep breath.  "Are we at the hotel

yet?"



     They reached the Adam's Mark five minutes later.  Pamela pulled

into the circular driveway and parked.  "According to the instructions,

a taser hit lasts about twenty minutes, and he's not going to be driving

well for a while after that.  It took us fifteen minutes to get here

from the club.  We're probably fine, but I'm not giving the lab rat --"

a glance in the rear view mirror at Jasmine "-- a chance to reconsider.

Mouse, help her with the bags."

     Jason nodded.  Pamela unlocked the doors, and the back seat emptied

out.  They went into the hotel.

     Sadira folded her arms over her chest -- it felt weird.  She put

her hands in her lap.  "What were you doing?"

     "Giving tactical instructions.  Did you want to?  I always called

group tactics in the games."

     "You know exactly what I mean."

     "Apparently not, or I wouldn't be using the following words:  what

exactly do you mean?"

     "You're trying to start a fight with Jasmine."

     "You mean you'd object to seeing me hit her?"

     Sadira gave up on the lap stance and went for the folded arms

again.  It worked better if she held them lower.  "I've never known you

to go after someone without _some_ provocation.  Even a phone call

before noon.  The corpse crack was a little below your usual standards

for pit bull mode.  She got in the car and you were off the leash and

going for her _throat_."

     "She's been attacking you for how many years?  This friendship

started because I wouldn't let you get back at someone on your own."

She was no longer looking directly at Sadira:  Pamela's gaze went past

her, checking the hotel doors.

     Sadira brought her right hand to the matching temple.  "Look, it

was my idea to get the camera, and I'll treasure the picture, because it

might be the only good thing I get out of this."  She briefly smiled.

"I guess I'm that petty.  But it was _still stupid_.  I probably nearly

blew my chance of getting her to help with that.  If you're feeling some

displaced revenge -- look, if she goes after you, that's one thing, but

don't drive her off because you're trying to make up for my lost time."

     "That's what you want, then?"  Very quiet, almost ethereal.

     <Pamela, what's going on?>  "Well, don't give yourself a stroke

trying to keep it all in.  I know how aggravating Jasmine can be.  Just

don't feel you have to play knight in shining armor."

     "No, that's the Mouse.  Only he can't ride."

     Sadira, thinking she'd pinned it down with half about of her mind,

doubting with roughly another fifty percent, and using whatever was left

over to consider the last remark, waited for Jason and Jasmine to come

out.



     Ron had, after the initial blast wore off, crawled into a nearby

shadow and waited for the remaining effects to recede.  It was like

watching clouds move across the sun, waiting for the light to break

through:  there were times when the cover thinned, and he thought that

coordinated movement was seconds away -- and then the wind would shift.

     But he was in the dark, where no one was going to see him and call

an ambulance, or the police.  If he was arrested or in a hospital,

getting to a phone would be difficult.  And he had to get to a phone.

     So he lay there, and groaned, and waited until the sun finally

shone.

     Ron limped down the street to the pay phone and managed to dial the

right number on the first try.

     "Jack," he said hoarsely, "get to the hotel.  They're making a

break for it, the Princess and the target.  They might go there.  There

might be more of them:  the car pulled out like there was someone behind

the wheel.  Black Neon.  The sister has a taser.  Just move."

     Jack hadn't said a word.  He'd listened, drawn his own conclusions,

and went to work.  That was what Ron liked about Jack.



     Jasmine didn't talk to Jason all the way to the twelfth floor, all

the way down the hall, or when he took the electronic key, triggered the

door, and went in first to check for intruders.  He didn't think he was

missing anything.

     In the middle of gathering clothing -- Jasmine kept the hotel room

like Sadira kept her lab -- she said, "So, how long have you known my

sister?"

     "Sadira."

     "Right.  That's her name."  The tone was playful.  "So how long?"

     "About nine months."

     "Partners?"  She grabbed a towel from the back of the desk chair.

The words "Adam's Mark Hotel" were clearly visible.

     "We're assigned to the same project."

     "So you were working on the breast enlargement thing."  She scooped

the notepad into a purse, pocketed the pens.  "You like big breasts?"

     Jason, who had been leaning inside the doorway, watching the hall

and Jasmine on alternate shifts, focused completely on the hallway.  "We

were working on the leukemia editor.  The BE viruses were Sadira's

personal project."

     "Oh, they would be.  Leukemia, huh?  You didn't answer my

question."

     "What question was that?"  Still no one coming down the hallway.

He was starting to wish someone would.  He was considering making

someone up.

     "Do you like big breasts?"  Her voice had an almost eerie innocence

to it.

     He didn't look at her.  "I'm not going to answer that."

     "That's okay," she said breezily.  "That _is_ an answer.  I'm

done."  She walked out past him, carrying two large bags, one in each

hand -- and despite the fact that the bags should have kept her away

from his body, she _still_ managed to brush her chest against him as she

went by.  A calm, utterly detached portion of his brain noted that

Jasmine looked somewhat smaller than she had in the _Gent_ layout, after

allowing for the different arm position.

    She pushed a bag at him, eyes suggesting.  He took it and the point

position, using his longer legs to gain ground.



    The silence in the car was becoming deafening.  Sadira reached for

the radio and flipped it on, searching the dial until she found a

instrumental piece, then left it there.  It was a soft theme, a bridge

to something -- she could almost identify it --

    -- Jasmine and Jason came out of the hotel, each carrying a bag.

Pamela noticed them, hit another button, and popped the trunk.  They

loaded the cases, closed the trunk, came around to the sides --

    -- a silver Thunderbird was staring to pull up behind them.  Jason

glanced back at it:  he'd always appreciated classic lines on a car, and

this one was in perfect condition.

    They got in the car, Pamela shifted out of neutral --

    -- and the slowing Thunderbird leapt back to life, accelerating into

the curve.  Pamela, checking the rear-view mirror, noticed immediately.

<Changed his mind?>  She pulled back onto the street, heading for Route

1 North and eventual access to the Turnpike.

    Three blocks later, she swerved to the left without benefit of turn

signal or sufficient time, wheels hopping around the curb as they

barreled down the side street, still picking up speed.  Jasmine, who

disdained seatbelts, was thrown into Jason.

    "Ivory --!" Sadira yelled.  Her brain took a moment and pinned down

the music:  _Ride of the Valkyries_.

    Pamela glanced back.  The Thunderbird made the turn, its body riding

up onto the sidewalk before thudding back onto the street, accelerating

all the way.

    "We're being followed," Pamela said calmly.  "His mistake."  The

accelerator pedal hit the floor with a deadly thud.  "He's overmatched."

 The briefest of side glances to Sadira.  "Tri-Delta sorority house.

The beer bash."

    Sadira automatically let out a heartfelt groan.  "Jason, grab ahold

of something."

    Jason, who already had something whose hands seemed to be grabbing

ahold of _him_, pushed Jasmine upright and pulled the seat belt across

her waist, trying to ignore the areas he was crossing and brushing

against.  "Tri-Delta?"

    "Science sorority.  Supposedly.  Some of the girls could barely

spell the symbol for oxygen --" Pamela pulled the wheel to the right and

held on, avoiding a cluster of trash cans awaiting pickup.  "We tried to

join before we found out what a bunch of assholes they were -- asked

us to dress up in each other's clothing for the initiation rite, took

pictures, and pasted them all over the Residence Hall --"

    The Thunderbird took the corner and the trash cans head on, knocking

them aside like bowling pins and leaving a seven-ten split.  Jason

winced as he saw the dents in the hood; sympathy for the vehicle.

"Pamela, we're not faster than that thing!"

    Pamela was either lost in reminiscence or didn't consider it an

issue:  she kept talking, rocking against the steering wheel as if she

was trying to push the car forward.  "-- there's an chemical that

neutralizes alcohol in a normal liquid base, non-poisonous, doesn't work

in the bloodstream, unfortunately.  Sadira made some and we sneaked into

the basement of the sorority house, unspiked all the kegs --"

    There was a red light up ahead, marking the entrance to a wide

intersection, there was a huge delivery truck starting to make that

crossing, and Pamela wasn't slowing down.

    Sadira closed her eyes.  Jasmine screamed.  Pamela said "-- couldn't

be tasted and doesn't really affect the taste of the beer --" and

swerved hard to the left, leaping onto the sidewalk, the car shaking

from the jump, and drove a good forty feet across the concrete before

the car went back into the street -- now driving on the wrong side.

"--and they didn't know what we did even after they caught us coming

out --"  A Fiat went by, horn blaring as it changed lanes to avoid the

collision.

    Jason, hands clenched against the back of Sadira's seat, looked back

to see the Thunderbird making the turn, taking the leap over the

sidewalk without grace -- the car was built for speed, not strength of

suspension -- and was visibly rocked as it returned to the street.  They

all heard the long, angry honk of the truck as it sped away -- Jason

realized it had been going on for some time -- and that small, detached

part of his mind took over his mouth and said, "Then what happened?"

    "Sadira distracted most of them so I could get out -- I'm not

exactly built for speed --" but the Neon was built for more speed than

the model would have indicated, and it didn't matter, because the

Thunderbird had been made for speed and nothing but, and it was gaining

ground.  "-- and we managed to get to my car.  They decided to chase

us."  They were approaching another intersection, and Pamela was easing

the wheel to the left, as if getting ready for another turn another onto

another wrong-way street, wildly checking all mirrors and windows, still

not slowing down.

    "And then?" Jason asked, watching as the Thunderbird got closer --

the driver's window was rolling down, and he thought he could see the

slightest glint of light off metal...

    "Oh," Pamela said, "something like _this_ --"

    She spun the wheel to the right, _hard_.

    The car dived across the intersection, driver's side scraping

against the lane divider as they sped through, but there wasn't enough

time to reach the street again, the wheels couldn't react that fast,

they were heading for a space between a streetlight and a fence and

there wasn't three inches clearance on either side --

    -- they went through without touching, house light flashing through

the wooden fence like a mad strobe before Pamela brought the car back

onto the road two inches past a hydrant, pedal still flush against the

floor --

    -- Jason, Sadira, and Jasmine all looked back in time to see the

Thunderbird try to make the turn, controlling the vehicle smoothly

through the still-empty intersection, but winding up with the same

choice Pamela had wound up with:  go between fence and streetlight or

crash into one of them.

    The Thunderbird was significantly wider than the Neon.

    They all heard the desperate screech of brakes as the driver

realized he'd been had, too little, too late, it was fence or

streetlight, pick one --

    Streetlight.  Bad choice.  The front of the Thunderbird caved in as

the momentum bent the post forward, sparks flying from the grinding

metal, dividing the car in half as if someone had taken a chainsaw to a

block of cheese, the razor teeth stopping a bare millimeter from the

windshield.

    Pamela eased her foot onto the brakes.  " -- only worse," she added

as they finally slowed down.  "Anyway, they went back to the party and

drank all the beer.  Unfortunately, that chemical is a very powerful

emetic..."



    Jasmine had somehow managed to dump enough adrenaline from her

system to fall asleep leaning against the passenger door.  Sadira had

started to feel the first after-effects of the chase and promptly

scarfed two Powerbars.  Seventy miles later, Jason's heart was still

beating too loudly for him to sleep.

    "Mouse," Pamela said, "exactly why did you want to pull Sadira out

of GenTree?  After that little performance, I'd like a bit more data to

work with."

    Jason looked at Sadira, who had also fallen asleep.  The difference

between the sisters was marked.  Jasmine wriggled and shifted almost

constantly, straining towards any new sound.  Sadira simply sat in

place, head slightly tilted, her breathing slow, oblivious.  "Nothing

specific, really."

    "So give me general."

    Jason shrugged.  "Rumors.  I kept hearing that certain members of

the staff had been caught on ethical or legal violations, and some of

them were kicked up to bigger projects, or put onto private ones.  One

guy -- Temperi -- supposedly got caught having sex in his lab --"

    "-- big deal --"

    "-- with a twelve-year old.  He claimed he didn't know and couldn't

tell, and he got a raise and a bigger lab two weeks later.  No charges."

Jason shrugged.  "I heard whispers like that about a third of the

employes in R&D, and no one ever seemed to be fired.  That some of the

projects were of dubious medical benefit, and the results were for sale

to the highest bidder.  Rumors fly around every lab, but not like those.

I was scared of what might happen to Sadira if she went to them for

help."

    "Like what?"

    "Isolation.  Testing.  Replication."  Silence summarized every other

possibility.  "They might have helped her find a cure -- if I was wrong,

I don't want to think about how much time we lost -- but if I was

right..."

    "Oh, you were right," Pamela assured him.  "No one pulls stunts like

we just saw for laughs.  Protecting their reputation or whatever, they

want her back."  She laughed softly:  Jasmine stirred and then settled

down again.  "I was hoping that two minutes after you left the building,

Nigilo turned around and said, 'No, it's too impractical.  Let her go.

We'll never get her back anyway.'  When we didn't see anyone..."  She

sighed.  "But why watch the Princess and not come to me?  Do they know

I'm out there?  How much time do we have before they find us?"

    Jason had been thinking about it for over an hour.  "I don't know.

They've got Sadira's college files:  that's a given.  They must know

what you do for a living."

    "Maybe.  Maybe not.  I don't exactly advertise these days and I'm

not on the best of terms with the school.  No one wants their employers

to know they went for outside help."  Pamela smiled.  "And I'm going to

hang onto that delusion as long as I can -- but we have to be ready for

anything."

    Jason interlocked his fingers and leaned forward.  "I thought about

going to the control agencies a few times," he said, "but I never had

any proof, and with all the security around GenTree, I had no way to

discover any.  I was bonded and they had me locked down.  There was

nothing I could do.  And we were doing good work, looking for a way to

cure leukemia, ahead of everyone else in the country and when Sadira

came on the project, we picked up speed.  I thought it would all even

out.  That the cure covered whatever corruption there was."

    "'Do the ends justify the means?'" Pamela semi-quoted.  She looked

at Sadira.  "This time, they do."



    There was the usual hassle in waking Sadira up:  Pamela finally had

to tickle her.  They all staggered up the stairs.

    Pamela entered the apartment as if she was establishing a beachhead

and found no enemy to fight.  She gestured the others in.  Jasmine

stepped through carefully, looking at the boxes.

    "I think we're safe here," Pamela said.  "I'm renting this place

from the real owner for three hundred a month more than she's paying:

it has rent control.  The price is still pretty good, but it isn't under

my name, and I have to get my mail at a P.O. Box.  They'd have to go

through a tangle of paperwork to get here without following us."

    Jason looked around the apartment and realized just how small it

really was:  with four people, it was going to be almost impossible to

manage space.

    Jasmine staggered in last, rubbing her eyes.  Jason stepped out of

the way, heading for the kitchen.  She looked around and realized the

same thing.  "Give me the address of this lab.  I'll go to a hotel."

    "No, you won't," Pamela told her.  "None of us go anywhere alone

after that chase.  We travel together, two or four."

    Jasmine turned towards her, about to protest -- and got her first

full-length look at Pamela.  She kept looking.

    Pamela stepped closer to Jasmine as Sadira headed to the

refrigerator, looking for a drink.  "Right," she said softly.  "I'm

bigger than you --" a mischievous pause "-- and taller than you, and a

hell of a lot meaner, and you're going to listen to me because I'm

right.  Fair enough?"

    Jasmine glared up at her and said nothing.  Pamela nodded and made

her own survey of the apartment, yawning widely.  "Okay, how are we

going to work this -- got it.  Mouse, on the floor.  Princess, you too.

Sadira, you've got the bed with me."

    Everyone looked at Pamela.

    "On top," Pamela amended, then, very quickly, "of the sheets.  I've

seen the way you hog covers.  I'll get a second set of blankets."  She

knelt down and started pulling out blankets from the hidden shelves

beneath the bed.

    Sadira nodded sleepily and grabbed the next bra in line from the top

of a box before going into the bathroom to change.  Jason caught a

thrown bundle of sheets and pillows and bedded down in his previous

spot.  Jasmine, after some thought, shifted a few boxes (after a quick,

curious peek at the contents which ended with a jerk backwards and a

blanching face) and laid down next to him in her own group of sheets.

They were both asleep by the time Sadira got out of the bathroom,

wearing one of Pam's nightgowns -- the House hadn't had everything

they'd needed.  Pamela finished laying down the sheets, closed the heavy

curtains across the picture window, and headed for the bathroom.

    By the time she came out, Sadira was asleep again.  Pamela picked

her way through the prone forms and took the right side of the bed,

wryly noticing that Sadira had already pulled the sheets into a

cylinder.  She was on her back, leaning towards the center of the bed.

    Pamela got in, leaned over, and, knowing Sadira wouldn't feel it,

gave her a quick kiss on her cheek before nestling among her pillows and

finally letting her body shut down.



                     15. 49:  The bloodhounds of war



    The first thing she was aware of was weight.

    She was on her back, breathing more quickly as she came to full

awareness.  There was almost a resistance to the movements of her

rib cage, the weight pushing back at her -- not interfering or hurting,

the body could shift more mass than that -- but there, well past

ignoring.  Sadira propped herself up on her elbows, finding it just a

little trickier than previous days, and looked over to the floor near

the counter.  Jason and Jasmine were still asleep.  A glance at the

curtained window found a background shine of light against the fabric.

She finally spotted the clock:  two in the afternoon.

    Pamela was still asleep, the pillows arranged to let her sleep

comfortably on a sort of side angle.  Her breathing was quiet and slow.

One arm was partially outstretched, as if reaching for Sadira's left

shoulder.

    Sadira managed to reach the bathroom without falling over anyone and

locked the door behind her, nibbling on another Powerbar.  (She was

starting to get used to them, which worried her)  College rules:  first

one up dominates the bathroom until the roommate starts complaining.

She brushed her teeth, got out of the tight bra, looked down --

    -- looked up.

    "Sixty hours," she whispered.  A noticeable percentage of that time

had passed.  A prior thought came to her, and she reached down to the

left breast, got one hand under it -- thought it over and used both --

and lifted, tilting her head down.  The nipple was easily reachable by

her lips.

    Sadira looked at it for a moment, noting the growth that had taken

place:  it was significantly larger even when not erect, a dark

protrusion against the slightly lighter expanse of the areola.  <Am I

serious about this?> went through her head as she regarded her body --

and it was her body, wasn't it?  These things were part of her.  <My

breasts.  Again.>  It was hard to keep believing it when they were

changing so fast.

    She was perfectly serious about it.  She was a scientist.

Scientists experimented.

    Sadira lowered her head slightly, put her lips against the nipple,

and gently applied suction.

    The sensations rushed from breast and mouth to spine to brain:  she

could feel them moving, colliding and mixing:  the odd texture of the

nipple against lips and tongue, the unfamiliar warmth spreading outwards

from the center, infusing the breast and moving deeper, the near-

electric half-burning from the nipple itself, a shock that heated,

dissolved, and washed away all worries in a flood of liquid fire...

    Sadira's hands pulled away from the underside, and the breast

dropped, thudding against her ribs with discernable impact.  It vibrated

for a fraction of a second, then stopped.  Sadira looked down.  The

nipple was quite erect, protruding about an inch from her breast.  She

had no idea how much time had passed between contact and dissolution.

    <Oh, yeah.>  She leaned back against the sink, breathing hard.  <I

could get used to that _way_ too easily.  I wonder if it's like that for

Jasmine?  Or does it feel that way because of the virus?>  Pamela had

enjoyed it, but it had seemed to be more of an enhancement to other

sensations.  Sadira dimly remembered that it was something a little

different for every woman -- and this was hers.  Lots of nerves, lots of

trigger points, and lots of whatever she was supposed to call _that_.

    <Pamela said that how you look is always part of who you are.  Who

am I becoming?>

    There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.  "Sadira?  Are you in

there?"  Pamela's voice was somewhat dull:  she woke up immediately, but

not always well.  "Come on:  I took out my contacts last night.  You

_know_ I can't see anything without them.  I think I stepped on

someone."  Sadira pulled the nightgown back on and cracked the door

open:  half-lidded pink eyes regarded her wearily.  "Just let me get my

sight back and then you can have it to yourself, okay?"

    Sadira nodded and left the bathroom:  Pamela slid past her, closed

the door, and locked it.  Loudly.  "Sucker!" she said clearly.  Sadira

heard the shower start up.  She sighed, rubbed her stomach, and stepped

into the kitchen just as Jason opened his eyes.



    Nigilo watched Carmody read the transcript of Ron's phone call,

fingers drumming on the desk.  He was something less than happy, but

there was too much confusion in his mind to allow pure rage.

    Carmody read quickly:  he put the papers down and waited.  Nigilo

shook his head.  "It was too early," he said, keeping most of the

internal turmoil out of his voice -- and whatever was left, Carmody

wasn't going to say anything about.  "I thought that once Archer had

surpassed her sister in size, she'd show up to boast, get some

revenge.  I put Ron on her immediately in case her growth accelerated.

That's how sibling rivalries work, Carmody.  No one lets accomplishments

sit quietly.  According to Ron, she was considerably larger than she was

in the train station -- but still smaller than her sister.  Why go

early?"

    "She could have had another motive," Carmody suggested.  "Perhaps

she needs Jasmine for other purposes?"

    Nigilo met his eyes.  "Jasmine?"

    "I can't use 'Archer' for both sisters without inciting confusion,"

Carmody calmly explained.  "One of them has to have another name."

    Nigilo grudgingly nodded.  "What 'other purpose' could she have had?

I somehow can't picture her saying 'Let me show myself now while I'm

inferior and taunt her with the knowledge that I'll _soon_ be superior.'

It doesn't fit the personality profile. "

    <_Your_ personality profile.  How much attention did you pay to

hers?>  "If you believe she's reached that level of dementia, then

perhaps she's kidnapped her sister for medical experiments."  His jaw

clamped shut.  The words hadn't been meant for vocalization.  He never

joked in front of Nigilo, and rarely otherwise:  it was generally

unhealthy.

    Nigilo, however, didn't seem to be taking it as a joke.  Carmody

could see him turning the thought around in his mind, examining it from

every angle, ignoring any traces of humor.  "You're learning," he said

slowly -- and there was even a hint of admiration.  "You know, that's

entirely possible, Carmody.  It's such a brilliant idea that I'd

ordinarily take credit for it -- but being as how it's your first, I'm

going to leave the origin point with you."  Nigilo stood up.  "It's

perfect behavior for a -- that woman.  Perhaps my influence is finally

starting to impress itself on you."

    "Perhaps, sir."

    "Then we assume that -- "Jasmine" -- is out of the picture for now,

and we go back to worrying about locating Archer.  If she was able to

reach her sister so quickly, then she may be on the East Coast to stay

-- have you made any progress in locating her roommate?"

    "Unfortunately, no," Carmody replied.  "When she graduated college,

she dropped out of contact with the alumni association.  One professor

recalled her saying she was moving to New York City.  The same teacher

said that she had a trust fund and was going to open her own business:

that's why I originally believed she had her own operation.  I was able

to get information on the trust fund:  it's been cleaned out.  The

school has no current address on file for her.

    "In addition, our search of Ms. Archer's apartment has found no

phone bills, so we cannot attempt to locate her with a reverse

directory.  We did find a few notes that might concern the breast

research or the leukemia project:  our scientists are looking at them

now."

    "No phone bills?"  Nigilo tilted his head to the left and regarded

Carmody warily.  "In that mess?"

    "Or credit card bills, or anything that could be potentially

dangerous if someone picked it out of the trash.  She is a poor

housekeeper, but a careful one."

    "Of all the areas to show a practical streak," Nigilo grumbled.  "I

take it the phone company won't give us the records?"

    "Only to a law enforcement agency.  And if we report her missing,

that creates another series of problems."

    "True.  Then we concentrate on finding the fourth."

    Carmody's left eyebrow momentarily twitched.  "Sir?"

    "Ron said that the Archers both went into the car on the passenger

side, and the vehicle pulled away immediately.  Jack reports that

Pterros and the dancer got into the car via the back doors at the hotel,

and again, the car was moving immediately.  While Pterros could have

driving the first time and Archer the second, it's likely that we're

looking for a fourth person.  Archer's silent partner.  Possibly this

former roommate:  Jack said the person behind the wheel drove like a New

York maniac."

    "Did he see the license plate?"

    "He may have.  He can't remember.  His airbag triggered in the

collision, but he suffered a mild concussion.  His memories of the later

part of the chase are somewhat scrambled.  And Ron wasn't in position to

see the plate at the strip bar.  The windows on the car were tinted, so

he didn't get the best view of the interior."

    "Mr. Nigilo," Carmody began, hesitant to pursue the question -- then

realized he couldn't get tackled for something that was someone else's

fault.  "Why exactly did Ron stick his fingers in their backs?"

    Nigilo did something that surprised Carmody.  He sighed, and smiled

tolerantly.  "Because he only had one gun, two sisters to deal with, and

he felt that I would be better served if he brought them both to me,

since they had seen each other and the dancer might report a

disappearance.  I had also asked him to bring me Archer alive and ready

to work.  So he put out his fingers and gave it his best lack of shot.

Not the most intelligent man, but he tries, as does his partner.

    "Jack did try to use his gun towards the end:  he thought he might

be able to shoot out a tire.  The thought that Archer might be killed in

the crash -- or just if he missed -- didn't occur to him.  This is why

I'm paying _one_ of them for this assignment.  Adjust the books."  The

smile became something else.  Pamela would have recognized it, sometimes

in the mirror.  "For some reason, I'm in a merciful mood today.  It must

be spring on the way."

    "The snow is melting nicely, sir," Carmody said, because there

didn't seem to be much else he could say.

    "Yes.  It puts a bounce in one's step."  He headed for the door.

"This roommate -- Shaw -- runs her own business, but has no interest in

being found.  Nothing in the phone book, no contacts, no deliveries to

particular address?"

    "Nothing I can find at this point, sir.  According to her

professors, she has something of a persecution streak.  An isolationist.

She's an albino:  she may disavow public contact."

    "No one can run a business without leaving a trail," Nigilo said,

his voice tight again.  "If she's still alive, she's leaving papers

behind her.  Find them.  And concentrate the search on New York.  Even

in a city of eight million, an albino is fairly distinctive.  Acquire

the college yearbook and get a picture."  The smile returned.  "Six-six,

albino -- she has to learn to hang around less visible people.  Wouldn't

you say, Carmody?"

    "Quite, sir."

    "And we're going to have to tell our people to be more careful."

The smile vanished, replaced by an expression that quietly echoed the

next words.  "After all, she's dangerously insane."

    "Yes, sir," Carmody said simply.  They went to check on the research

wing.



    It was a very quiet breakfast -- lunch, really.  Most of the words

exchanged concerned the passing of various implements and seasonings.

There were, however, numerous glances, dirty looks, cautioning stares,

and a cutlery store's assortment of airborne daggers.

    There were a lot of things _almost_ said, between Pamela and Jasmine

or Jasmine and Sadira.  This led to the daggers.  At first, Jason had

sat prepared to serve as mediator, but had found nothing which he could

stop:  invisible knives were impossible to intercept.  There were other

distractions to deal with.  He was sitting next to Jasmine, and he kept

getting bumped by her feet, or brushed against as she turned to grab the

salt -- or pepper -- or any one of a hundred things she needed to reach

for.  Her bust size seemed somewhat increased, back to the layout level.

    He saw Sadira's face during one of the passes, watching his.  There

was a quiet acceptance there which somehow worried him.

    Pamela made two stops on the way to the lab.  The first was at a car

rental agency, where she picked up a blue Civic with tinted windows

(Sadira followed her in the Neon to a park-by-the-month garage, and they

left the car there).  They also waited in the car while Pamela ran into

the post office with a box containing the J through L bras with a note

which read "unused," and beneath that, another Post-it which read "What

the hell is Level II?"



    "Cell samples," Pamela said as they got past the final lock and

entered Terragen.  "Into the bathroom, Princess.  You've got a date with

a needle."

    Jasmine stopped.  "If you think I'm letting you anywhere near me

with a sharp object --"

    "I'll do it," Sadira broke in.  "I took them on myself.  You two

just get the work going.  Jasmine:  the bathroom's that way:  I'll meet

you in a second."  Jasmine glared at Sadira, but moved away.  Sadira

glanced at Pamela with a look that said <Careful!>, then followed her.

    "I don't like her," Pamela said when they were far enough away.  "I

mean, I'm not overly fond of death and taxes, but I _really_ don't like

her."

    "She was --" Jason stopped.  He wasn't sure how to say it -- but

surely Pamela had seen some of the contact.

    "I'm sure she was.  On guard, Mouse.  That's the one of the meanest

cats I've ever seen, and she'll eat you alive."



    Sadira walked into the bathroom holding a small tray.  Jasmine

looked apprehensively at the array of objects.  "What are those for?"

    "Sterile sampling needles, contact anesthetic, blood pack, Band-

Aids.  Nothing dangerous.  Just strip down:  that's your area of

expertise."

    Jasmine smirked and reached for the edge of her sweater.  "And I

even know how to do it in front of men."  She looked at the tray again.

 "Aren't you afraid of that shit?"

    Sadira shrugged.  "I'm not a doctor," she said.  "Aren't you afraid

of letting _me_ near you with a sharp object?"

    "No."  The word emerged without flavorings.  Sadira didn't know

exactly how Jasmine meant it.

    Jasmine took off her blouse, then reached back and undid the bra.

Sadira reached for it as it came off and folded it on top of the sink,

automatically counting hooks (seven) and reading the size label

(33 X P) --

    <X P?>  She looked closely at the bra, then back at Jasmine.

"Padding?"

    For the second time in twenty-four hours, she took her sister

completely by surprise:  her features contorted for a second as she

tried to regain control.  "I've got to prepare the rubes for the boob

job.  I've been wearing it to the photo shoots."

    "Right.  After all, they won't believe spontaneous growth."

    "There's a sucker born every minute, and they come with money

attached to the hip.  For some of them, it's a dick substitute.  Or

tits.  Casper is gay, isn't she?"

    Sadira checked the needle:  the sterile wrapping was intact.  "I

don't know.  She does what she likes.  And her name is Pamela."

    "I care?"

    "No."  The same tone as her sister's earlier use of the word.  She

looked at her sister's breasts, trying to find the right place to

insert the needle.

    In absolute terms, Pamela was larger than Jasmine, but visually,

they seemed to be roughly the same size:  Jasmine's sat on a smaller

frame.  (Sadira was starting to realize that while the two-inch

difference between zero and B was very visible, going from X to Z was

more difficult to spot.)  The similarities ended there.

    Jasmine's breasts reached down to her navel, swelling quickly

towards the bottoms: her nipples seemed to be pointing at Sadira's feet.

Her areola were small in contrast to Sadira's own proportionate

development, as were the nipples.  She was lighter than Sadira in hue:

it looked as if there had been a tanning contest between the sisters

with Jasmine quitting after the third day and Sadira sticking it out for

two more sessions.  Sadira could see a faint tracing of veins and

arteries under the skin, along with a small bruise on the side of the

left breast.  Combined with the blond hair (and the bit of dyed pubic

hair that rose above her waistline), she gave Sadira the impression of

having been caught in a genetic blender set on puree.  It was almost the

same impression she got when she looked in a mirror -- only hers had

been on frappe.

    "Blond?" she questioned, mostly rhetorically.

    "The rubes like blondes.  They think it makes me exotic."

    Sadira stepped to Jasmine's side, holding the jar of anesthetic

paste.  "You're a Yorkshire/Mecca cross.  How much more exotic are you

supposed to get?  Rub this in here."  She poked the spot with the

plunger of the needle, near the edge of the bruise.

    "You can't do it?"  Teasing, taunting.

    Sadira looked her in the eyes.  "Not on a bet."  She thrust the cold

jar against Jasmine's breast:  her sister recoiled slightly before

taking it.  Sadira gave her an application cloth.  "If you do it by

hand, your fingers will get numb."

    "Then I'll handle things like you usually do."  Jasmine started

rubbing.

    "How did you get that bruise?"

    "Why do you care?"

    Sadira perched on the edge of the sink.  "Maybe because we're going

to be together for a while and I don't feel like fighting every second.

Maybe because we haven't seen each other in over four years.  Or maybe

I'm setting you up for something later.  Take your pick."

    "Option three," Jasmine said, rubbing harder, spreading some of the

cream towards the injury -- but then she answered.  "Friday night.  I

was in Billings --"

    "-- I know."

    "You keep an eye on me?"  Vaguely bemused and a little triumphant.

    "I met an acquaintance of yours on the train out of Billings.

Douglas Pollota."

    "Oh, _him_."  Jasmine snorted.  Sadira didn't know when she'd picked

up the habit, but she was doing it with fair frequency.  "Weirdo."

    "I liked him."

    Another snort, this one with less disgust and more disdain.  "Of

course, he'd never ask you to pose, not unless he wanted to put someone

out of business."

    "Actually --" and the words truly reached her for the first time,

with stunning force.  Completing the sentence immediately might have had

more of an impact -- but the pause got Jasmine's attention.

    "Actually what?"

    "He said --" she paraphrased "-- I have appeal which you don't."

    "Rotting meat appeals to rats."

    "I can smile."

    Jasmine stopped rubbing and looked at Sadira, who was withholding

the discussed expression.  "A pole."

    "What?"

    "I hit my tit on a pole.  I spun too fast and got a bruise.  I

didn't put makeup on it this morning since I don't have to perform.

Satisfied?  All nice and sisterly?"

    Sadira gave up.  "Is the area numb?"

    "Yeah."

    "All right."  Sadira unsheathed the needle and took the sample.

Jasmine never flinched.  "The next one's a blood sample.  Left arm."

Sadira dipped another cloth and started rubbing Jasmine's inner elbow.

    "So you can touch my arm, but not my tit?"

    Sadira stopped.  "Right."  She resumed.

    Jasmine's voice dropped, became sincere, concerned, and sisterly.

Sadira was instantly suspicious.  "Have you told Mom and Dad?"

    "I can't."

    "Coward."  There was still a hint of blood relation.

    "No.  I mean I can't.  They're still on vacation."

    "They're on vacation?"

    Sadira knew she couldn't do a decent parrot squawk:  the sound was

purely mental.  "They left last Wednesday.  Mom finally got some time

off from the clinic and Dad was convinced -- forcefully -- that his

assistants could handle things for three weeks.  They won't be back

until April.  They're touring Europe."  More slowly.  "They've been

saving for two years.  When was the last time you called them?"

    "Last July on my birthday --"

    "-- our birthday --"

    Jasmine ignored it.  "-- and they didn't mention it."

    "Maybe they'd tell you what they were planning if you told them

where you were once in a while."

    "They've got a computer.  They can find out where I am.  My agent

forwards mail."

    "At ten dollars for each page of reply."

    Jasmine stared.  Sadira plunged the needle home and watched the

blood pack rapidly fill.  "Douglas was very informative."

    Jasmine quickly rallied.  "And they pay it.  And I write them

myself.  People get what they pay for with me."

    "Yeah."  Sadira got another needle ready, one with a wider bore.

"Cheap goods."  Without ceremony or anesthetic, she plunged it home.



    Pamela and Jason looked up from the computer.  Jason spoke first.

"What was that?"

    "Muscle tissue sample," Pamela replied, and went back to typing.



    The sisters emerged ten minutes later, Sadira passing the tray to

Jason, who took it to another area of the lab to begin his compensation

techniques.

    "Remember, Princess," Pamela smiled, "if anything goes wrong with

those, we'll have to do that again."  Jasmine reached into her purse,

pulled out a group of letters and stalked off.

    "Well," Pamela dryly commented, "at least someone's making money.

I'm going to get her to pay for _something_ before this is over."

Sadira had told them about the words-for-money scheme on the drive to

Philadelphia.

    Sadira sat down at the computer and stared at her.

    "What?  I'm being good.  I just told her we might need more samples.

And she calls herself Princess."

    Sadira shook her head and turned to the keyboard --

    -- she sat there, staring down, then pushed her seat back and

stretched her arms.

    Pamela stood up.  "Which bra are you wearing, Ebs?"

    "The Q."

    She thought back.  "That's about when I started having trouble."

Pamela walked behind Sadira's seat and spun it.  "Time to teach you the

Shaw Keyboarding Method.  Put your left hand on the board:  the home

keys are --"

    "Pamela?"

    "What is it?"

    "I'm right-handed."

    Pamela quickly spun the chair in the opposite direction.  "No

problem.  Your home keys are --"



                         16. 52:  Mixed doubles



    They'd quit at three in the morning.  Jason had successfully

mimicked most of the leukemia effects on the first try:  only three

extra samples had been required, which disappointed Pamela.  The

cultures had been placed in the storage area to quietly replicate.

    Jasmine had run out of letters by midnight, her handwriting getting

smaller every hour.  (She was trying to make the work last, but she was

damned if she was going to give her customers more than they'd paid

for.)  When she finished, hand cramping, she tried to go for a walk and

was stopped by Pamela, who reminded her about the injunction on solo

travel and gave her a brief education on the neighborhood she was

planning to walk in.  This left her with nothing to do but wander the

lab, flipping switches on unused equipment, with results from negligible

to nearly disastrous -- after which Pamela took her to task again.

Jasmine spent the last hour pretending to read printouts and bothering

Jason for translations of terms.

    Despite Jasmine's help, they'd made some progress:  six hormones and

two gene sequences had been eliminated through basic deduction.  Jason

also sorrowfully dismissed an estrogen control drug that had been

considered as a stall:  only a small portion of the growth was estrogen

controlled.  The computer simulations said that only an overdose would

have any effect:  convulsions and death.

    Dinner was a four-way split of a thirty-piece bucket of fried

chicken, and sleep (after the entirely-predictable and unavoidable

bathroom queue) was nearly instantaneous.



    "Get your hands off that!"  Jasmine pulled her arms back as if the

machine had shocked her.  "That's a Mark XII Mutator.  Hit the wrong

switch and you'll drip slime."  <Not that you weren't there already...>

    "I'm bored," Jasmine snarled at Pamela.  "I've been sitting around

this lab for two days, I'm out of letters to write, and I'm not allowed

to touch anything.  The least you could do is get me something to read

besides these fucking files!"

    "Is it my fault if you don't have the brains to understand them?

Why don't consider this as a chance for a crash course in advanced

genetics and do something with your brain besides keeping your skull

from caving in!"

    Most of this was in fairly low tones, but the last few words caught

Sadira and Jason as they were coming back from the photocopier.  "Not

again," Jason said, voice tired:  he was getting sick of keeping the two

separated.  "What is it this time?  Spontaneous file dump?"

    "Like I'm letting her anywhere near the computer --"

    Jasmine, having been rejected by the alpha female, turned to the

only possible alpha male available.  "Jason, I need something to read.

I'm going nuts from boredom.  I've got to do _something_."

    "Suffer," Pamela suggested, and turned back to the computer.  "I've

got work to do, and if the Princess is feeling a pea under her mattress,

it's not my concern."  Sadira stepped forward, about to pull Pamela off

for _another_ private conference, and got interrupted by a very sincere

"Shit!"

    "What's wrong?" Sadira asked, stepping in on Pamela's right.

    "Bad sectors.  I lost the data on the XACT-Q28 site.  _Damn it_!"

Pamela typed quickly.  "Well, the computer will never write data to that

area again."  She sighed.  "I never knew this thing had bad sectors.

It's never been this full before.  Sadira, I'm going to need another

copy off the zip disk."

    "What about the disk you put it in with?"

    "I copied pregnancy data onto it.  Do you have the zip disk on you?"

    Sadira shook her head.  "It's at the apartment.  I can't fit all my

stuff in these pockets."

    "It would help if you used a purse."

    "Fine," Jasmine said.  "Since we can't go anywhere alone, Jason and

I will go get something to read, and you two go back to the apartment

and retrieve the disk.  Is that _fair_?"

    Everyone took a moment and looked at everyone else.

    "Pamela," Jason finally asked, "can you keep going without the

data?"

    "Not on this line of research, and it looks too promising to switch.

And if we all leave the lab, then no one's working."

    "If she's not reading something," Jason pointed out, "then we lose

time fixing whatever she touches.  And if the three of you go out, I'm

at the lab alone."

    Pamela thought it over.  She had plenty of books at the apartment --

 okay, hundreds -- but she didn't think any of them were within

Jasmine's comprehension level.  "It's about time to eat anyway.  Jason,

you've got the codes and the keys:  use the trains.  We'll meet you back

here in --" she glanced at her watch:  rush hour "-- two hours if

traffic is really bad.  Take her to a bookstore and let her buy out a

few supermarket rags." Pamela turned off the computer and stood up fast.

"Just get her out of my sight for a while."

    Jasmine opened her mouth -- and Jason, finally seeing something he

could do, took her hand and pulled her towards the door.  Surprised, she

allowed herself to be led away.

    Pamela and Sadira watched them go, waited a minute for them to clear

the hallway, and headed for the street.



    Jasmine knew exactly what trains had to be taken to get from

Alphabet City to the bookstore, and insisted on going there before

eating.  Jason saw why when they got there.

    _Bookstore_ wasn't quite the right word:  it was a multimedia

wonderland.  There were three huge floors, containing books, movies,

music, and software, all subjects, all ages, all around him.  He could

have spent a merry two weeks wandering through non-fiction, cheerfully

starving to death, and when they found his body, it would have been

smiling.  Someone had spent some time considering the problem, because a

portion of the first floor had been set aside for a restaurant.

    Jasmine strode happily through the store, picking books from every

section.  Fantasy, romance, mysteries, sports, introductory-level

genetics -- no genre or category was overlooked.  Jason watched in

amazement, occasionally working out of the stun long enough to pick some

volumes for himself -- and when Jasmine saw him carrying them, she took

them from his hands and added them to her basket without a word.  The

final total was over three hundred dollars, and Jasmine paid cash.

    She handed Jason his bag and headed for the restaurant.  Jason

looked at the name on the bag:  _Borders_.  He had fallen in love with

the store within twelve seconds of walking in:  it was nice to have a

name to pin the feelings on.  He followed Jasmine in and took a seat

across from her in a comfortable booth.  Comfortable for him, anyway:

there was actually leg room -- but Jasmine's breasts poked into and

rested partially on the table in her current posture.  It could be

resolved by leaning back -- but she wasn't.

    "Isn't this place great?" she asked rhetorically as the waiter

dropped off their menus and left walking backwards, staring at Jasmine.

"I come here every time I'm in Manhattan.  There's nothing like it."

    "You're going to read all that?"

    "I'm probably going to read it all by the end of the week."  She

shrugged, reached into the bag next to her, and pulled out the _Basic

Genetics_ volume.  "I might as well learn some of this shit if I've got

to hang around you three.  Anyway -- I'm on the road performing forty-

six weeks a year, and there's a _lot_ of time between shows.  I get sick

of trying to remember what TV stations cover which areas, a lot of the

clubs don't have TV's, and the house girls don't always want to talk

because half of them think you're stealing their money.  For the feature

dancers, it's either find something to do or go bugfuck.  I read.  I

didn't use to -- but I had to do something, and now I'm addicted.  I

probably know every used bookstore in the country:  I'll trade these in

when I'm done."

    She smiled gently at him.  The change was startling:  since he'd

first seen Jasmine, her face had always held some anger.  This was a

calm, settled woman, completely in her element.  "I left my magazines

under the cot in Phily -- I usually just stick to the local stuff on my

first day in.  I was going to go shopping on Tuesday, but this is

better."  The smile faded a bit, and she angled a hand under her chin

and glanced at his eyes.  "You think I'm pretty stupid, don't you?"

    "I never said that."  It was a workable defense.

    "You were working with Sadira for months.  You picked up the

impression.  'No, Jasmine couldn't get through _Time Detectives_ unless

someone drew cute kittens in the margins and named the characters Dick

and Jane.'"

    "The first time Sadira mentioned you was the day of the accident,

about an hour before it happened -- right after her presentation got

rejected."

    "Well, that makes sense.  After all, _I_ didn't get a full doctorate

in four years."  Bitterness had entered her voice:  Jason could almost

taste it in his mouth.  "How old are you, Jason?"

    "Twenty-six."

    "And how long did you have to go to college before you went to --

GenTree, right?"

    "Six years."

    Jasmine finally leaned back.  "Well, that's fast, but it's a little

more normal.  Oh -- and I apologize."  She reached out and quickly

patted his right hand, which was holding the menu.  "I didn't really

think you thought I was dumb.  I'm just used to it from people who hang

around my sister."

    "Look --"  He put the menu down and folded his hands on the table.

"As long as I've know Sadira, she's never said anything bad about

anyone's intellect except to call _herself_ stupid if she missed

something."

    "I've known her longer," Jasmine reminded him.  "I grew up with her.

What did she say when she finally did mention me?"

    <'I got boyfriends and she stole them.'>  "Just that you were a

dancer, her twin, and the two of you never talked."

    "Yeah, well, we don't have a lot in common to talk about.  Two

parents -- and even with the resemblance, I'm not sure one of us wasn't

adopted.  She was reading at _two_.  Not sounding out words and seeing

Spot run, working through _The Hobbit_.  Straight A's all through

school, National Honor Everything, and then she got that scholarship

offer with a guaranteed job for as long as it took her to get through

college."  She held her hands palms-down above the table and jerked them

to the sides.  "You try growing up with that for a sister."

    Jason said nothing.  He had been reading at three.

    "All the time, it was 'Look at Sadira.  She's the smart one!'  'Look

what Sadira's learned to do now!  Jasmine?  Oh, we just got her potty

trained.'  Really fun, don't you think?"

    "I was smarter than my brothers," Jason said, "but it didn't really

matter.  Heracles was bigger than me, and a better athlete:  he got a

basketball scholarship last year.  Castor and Pollux had each other, and

they went on the track team --"

    "-- Argonauts?"  Jasmine started laughing.  "Your folks named you

after the _Argonauts_?!"

    Jason stared at her.  "You know about --"

    "-- I read it last month!"  The mirth was escalating.  "I thought I

had it bad being stuck in the _Arabian Nights_!  Someone's parents were

more nuts!"

    Jason started chuckling.  "My mom is a professor of Greek Mythology.

We were basically doomed from conception."

    "My dad agreed to use Mom's last name if he got to name the kids,""

Jasmine laughed.  "Is _everyone's_ family this screwed up, or are we

just lucky?"

    "I got off easy," Jason pointed out.  "I'm the oldest:  I got the

first name in line.  You could have been -- oh, Scheherazade --"

    "-- that's Sadira's middle name!"

    Jason stopped cold.  "You're kidding."

    "No!  Mom and Dad fought for hours:  it was going to be her first

name until she threatened to withhold sex for a year --" and that did

it:  they both went down laughing, dabbing at their eyes with the tiny

napkins.

    The waiter walked by, decided they weren't ready to order, and

walked away again after taking another long look at Jasmine.

    The mirth finally bubbled to a halt.  Jasmine put the damp napkin

down and said, "I like you, Jason.  You're not exactly a normal

egghead."

    "You're --"  <so changeable.  Angry and hissing one moment, laughing

and -- approachable the next>  He could understand the sister's

relationship a little better now.  He and his brothers had always had an

attribute to themselves -- or shared, with the twins.  There was always

something to excel at where the others had to watch and learn.  He

couldn't believe that Sadira had deliberately done anything to provoke

the rivalry -- Jasmine had said as much -- but she was taking it all

personally, not realizing that her words were in partial contradiction

to her feelings.  And Jasmine wasn't exactly average:  he'd seen some of

the material she'd shoveled into her basket.  Jason couldn't get through

_Our dreaming mind_ without a flamethrower.

    There were still more levels to go through before he got to the full

truth.

    "You're not what I expected," he finished.

    She reached out and touched his hand again, and this time she

maintained the contact.  "You're not either," she said --

    -- and the waiter came back.

    Jason resolved to give him a huge tip.  "I'm ready to order," he

said.  He glanced at Jasmine.  "You?"

    "Sure."  She looked back at Jason, who had lifted the menu again,

looking for a side dish.  He didn't see her lick her lips.  "I'm in the

mood for a big meal."



    "Want to eat in?"

    Sadira sat down on the bed, zip disk in hand.  "Sure.  I'll probably

get sick of fast food."

    "Bad news, then:  I was going to serve cold duck and Won Ton soup.

_Local_ fast food."

    "Noodletown?"

    "How did you know?"

    "I recommended it to you.  Years ago."

    "Damn."  Pamela chuckled and reached into the refrigerator.  "We

never got to follow through on most of those plans, did we?  You went to

work the day after graduation and I came here.  No riding the Cyclone at

Coney Island, no heading out to Shea for a ballgame and maybe a foul hit

in our direction -- and now we're too busy for any of it."

    "This won't last forever, you know.  We'll have some time."

    "Have you really thought about what you're going to do once we get

you cured?  You're out of work, you've broken bond --"

    "-- no."  Sadira put her hands in her lap and stared at the ceiling.

"I mean, I have, but it's not a priority item right now.  I keep

thinking that if we find a cure, everything else will sort out."

    "Deal with the impossible and the improbable falls into place?"

Pamela emerged from the refrigerator to see Sadira's right hand, still

holding the disk, moving up to cover her face.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't

mean to say --"

    "It was done.  It can be undone."  Sadira brought her hand back

down --

    -- the disk slipped out of her fingers and hit the carpet halfway

between bed and counter.  Sadira inhaled sharply, looked at her

traitorous fingers, then got up, walked over to the disk, bent over --

    -- stayed there.

    "Ow," came the too-soft voice.

    Pamela turned away from the microwave and saw Sadira, bent at the

waist, fingers grasping the disk, and not moving.  "Your back."

    "Yeah."  Almost whispering, "Help."

    Pamela came around the counter and got on Sadira's right side,

"I'm going to put my arms around your waist and carry you to the bed."

    "Why not just help me stand back up?"

    "Because you _really wouldn't enjoy it_.  Trust me."

    "I don't have a lot of choice right now."  Sadira was starting to

feel a little silly.  Even in the bra, her breasts had swung forward,

and quite a bit of her limited view was impeded.  Combined with the

sharp pain, it made for a very annoying set of sensations.

    "Brace yourself.  I'm going to lift you.  Ready?"

    Sadira was breathing fast; short, sharp pants.  "Honestly?"

    Pamela lifted.  Sadira came off the floor as a unit, and Pamela

staggered her over to the bed, gently lying her down on the pillows,

then went to the other side of the bed.  Sadira heard her pick up the

phone and dial.  "The answering machine triggers when someone walks in

the lab -- Hi, Mouse.  We're at the apartment.  Sadira threw her back

out:  we'll catch up when she can move again.  Work harder."  She hung

up and walked back into Sadira's sight.

    "From the knees," Pamela sighed.  "I should have told you to reach

down bending from the _knees_, damn it.  You're carrying about eighteen,

twenty pounds right now.  I let you down --"

    "-- Pamela?  _Painkillers_."

    "Sorry."  Pamela headed for the bathroom.  "Some teacher I am.  You

don't disarm land mines by stepping on them..."  She was back seconds

later with three capsules and a small cup of yellow liquid.

"Acetaminophen, 1500 milligrams, with 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen in a

liquid solution.  It's over-the-counter stuff, but I upped the limits a

bit.  You'll have to eat something with the Ibuprofen."

    "As long as it isn't a Powerbar."  Pamela smiled and vanished again.

Sadira, who had been in the exact same position since her back had

disintegrated, tried to move her arms.  This worked.  Her toes wriggled,

and the knees functioned without hassle.  She tried to straighten out.

This was a mistake.  She stiffened again, bit back the scream, then

reached for the capsules and dry-swallowed them.

    "I was saving this for when we got BE-2 in your system and working,

but this seems like a good time.  A little pleasure to go with the

pain."

    She held the rectangle out to Sadira, who flinched upon seeing the

gold wrapper -- and looked up again as she read it.  "Nehaus?  You

bought me Nehaus chocolate?"  There was something akin to lust in her

voice.

    "The shop next to the post office.  You're not the only one who can

remember small details."  Pamela sat down next to Sadira's legs and

peeled the wrapper.  "Take a bite."  She held the bar in front of

Sadira's mouth and pushed it gently against her lips until they opened.

    Nehaus chocolate was a rare treat for Sadira:  it had been nearly

impossible to find at college, and was completely unavailable around

Helena:  God knew she'd looked.  She asked her parents to send it for

birthdays, exams, and similar special occasions.

    She'd _meant_ to take small bites.

    "Leave the fingers, Ebs," Pamela suggested, and Sadira guiltily

swallowed the Ibuprofen.  "Now we wait.  The medication should normally

start taking effect in about twelve minutes -- for your metabolism,

maybe six."

    "More positive side effects," Sadira said.  "If we could get rid of

the breast growth, we could sell this."

    "Probably.  But here's the bad news:  you have to eat a Powerbar

now.  Maybe two.  You have to keep going."

    "Lollipop before the dentist's drill?"

    "You got it."  Pamela got up again.  "Sewage or wall insulation?"

    "Once of each."

    Sadira ate in silence until Pamela said, "Just remember, you're

going to burn out the medication almost as fast.  I'm putting some

extras on the nightstand:  when you feel the slightest twinge, take

one."

    "I thought we were going to leave when the pain went away."

    "But the injury is still there.  I'm just waiting for the medicine

to work so I can move you into a position where I can work on your back.

I know a few quick tricks that'll get you back on your feet until we

can --" <get you to a doctor.  Wrong answer.> "-- find enough time for

you to heal."

    "I thought I was healing.  I've had some twinges before this, but

they always felt better in the morning."

    "Better, but not gone?"

    "Yeah."  Sadira sighed.  "I remember what Coach Lynn said.  The

part that heals slowest is the knees, and the back is right behind

them."

    "Well, if you have to pick something up, it's one or the other,

unless you were planning on developing telekinesis."

    "It would be handy -- oh."

    "What's wrong?"

    "The pain just -- blinked out.  No fading; it's just _gone_."

    "That was fast."  Pamela started shuffling pillows.  "Don't try

moving yet.  I'm going to get you on your stomach."

    "You're kidding."

    "New trick.  Hang on."

    "I'm _not_ going anywhere."

    A few seconds later, Pamela slowly straightened Sadira out, stopping

when her ex-roommate gasped:  the drugs stopped what pain was there, but

they didn't prevent new agony from appearing.  Once the ninety-degree

angle had vanished, she carefully rolled Sadira over and up onto the

piled pillows, leaving her head and shoulders elevated, with her breasts

comfortably resting on the mattress between columns.  The pillow groups

gradually lowered in height until Sadira's feet were against the

mattress.  Pamela sat down next to her, legs automatically going into

the lotus.  "I'm going to have to probe.  This might hurt --"

    It did, but then it hurt less as Pamela worked her hands across

Sadira back, kneading and pushing here and there.  "I had to learn this

in case I ever had trouble and needed a temporary reset.  I do a lot of

back exercises -- and I start teaching them to you tomorrow morning --

but this will give you a little time so your metabolism can give you

another partial fix.  After that, you'll just have to be careful."

    "So I'm going to be a cripple."

    "No, you're going to adjust, and I'm going to help you.  I told you

that."  Sadira relaxed as Pamela's hands pushed and prodded.  "You're

going to be okay.  Always remember that."  The kneading moved gradually

up from the lower back.  Sadira, who had almost fallen asleep under the

gentle assault, didn't notice until the gentle pressure reached her

shoulders.  She turned her head and unsuccessfully tried to look up at

Pamela.

    "Sorry.  You're all knots and tangles.  I thought as long as I was

in the area..."

    "No, go ahead."  Sadira was feeling _very_ relaxed, better than she

had since Jasmine had been pulled into the group.  Pamela slid her

fingers under the shirt and pushed down the bra straps, exposing the

shoulders for massage.  She worked in silence for several seconds.

    Sadira's soft voice seemed to waft up to her.  "Do you remember the

last time we did this?"

    "You never threw your back out before this."

    "No, a shoulder and neck message."  Pamela remembered.  Sadira was

in no position to see the blush.  "It was our last week of finals

_ever_.  It was about two in the morning, we were still up studying and

getting ready to present our theses, and I just started cramping up."

    "And I pulled my chair next to yours and started giving you a

massage," Pamela said softly, remembering.

    "You said 'I wish there was a way I could relax you more.  Well,

there is, but I'm scared to try it.'  I couldn't believe you'd be afraid

to try anything."

    "So you said, 'Go ahead.  It couldn't hurt.'  Were you expecting

it?"  Pamela unfolded her legs and leaned closer, almost whispering in

Sadira's ear.

    "No," Sadira said.  "But I kissed you back..."  And she turned over

and kissed Pamela first.

    Pamela fell into the kiss, her body responding as she reached out,

arms encircling, all sensation coming from the lips -- and then she

withdrew, and couldn't believe that she had.

    "Sadira," she said carefully, speaking from her conscience.  "You've

been under a lot of stress lately.  This isn't exactly normal

circumstances..."

    Pamela's libido looked at her conscience and screamed <SHUT UP!>

    Sadira looked up at Pamela.  "Ivory?"  Pamela nodded.  "Shaddap."

She reached up and pulled her closer, and the kiss began again.  This

time, it was allowed to finish.

    Pamela gently got Sadira off the pillows -- but if the shorter woman

was still in any pain, she was ignoring it.  They wound up sitting

across from each other on the edge of the bed.

    "Me first," Sadira said, and reached for Pamela's sweater, pulling

the fabric up and over.  Pamela wriggled and shifted, trying to help.

Eventually, they got it off.

    Pamela sat there, still blushing a little, her face a bright shade

of rose.  Sadira ignored it and reached around for the bra hooks -- and

once again found she couldn't get close enough.  Pamela saw the problem

and turned, kicking her shoes off on the way and getting all the lower

garments removed as Sadira worked on the black bra.

    Finally, she turned back, and Sadira smiled at her.  Pamela always

felt a little odd naked in company -- naked in private, for that matter.

Her body was snow-white all over, face to breasts, head hair and pubic

curls.  Her breasts thrust proudly, only slightly touched by gravity

(the natural consequence of growing up with an expert bra-maker in the

family) and further buoyed by the development of muscle across her back,

shoulders, and pectorals:  any sag was a natural consequence of her

size.  There was the faintest suggestion of areola, and a touch of what

imagination could make into pink in the nipples.

    She was built a bit broader in the beam than Sadira, naturally

thicker through the waist and hips, and her legs were well contoured and

perfectly shaved.  She gave Sadira a small, slightly shy smile and

reached for her sweater.

    Sadira pulled back slightly.  Pamela's smile became a little

stronger.  "You're still beautiful, Ebony," she whispered, and reached

again.  This time, Sadira let her take the garment off, and the other

ones, until again, the bra was last.  Sadira's hands stayed at her sides

until the last hook was undone and the bra was removed, then reached up

to briefly feel her contours.  Pamela looked.  It was the same as it had

been in the bathtub, just expanded significantly in all directions.  Her

cleavage was longer, but still tight.  The nipples, already erect, were

significant.  To Pamela, Sadira's breasts were beautiful.

    To Pamela, Sadira had always been beautiful, flat or buxom, passive

or leading, because no matter what, the loving smile was always the

same.

    She reached and gently lowered Sadira back on the bed, trying to

keep her spine from being jolted.  Sadira's breasts sloped off to the

sides a bit:  Pamela gathered them back together.

    "Now," she whispered, "I'm going to show you what those good things

are like _directly_ --" and she lowered her head towards the left

nipple, teased it with her tongue, a shock of red between white teeth,

then gently, lovingly sucked.  Sadira gasped, and Pamela accelerated a

little, then switched breasts.

    Sadira's hands reached out, and she began massaging Pamela's

breasts, working slowly, trying to think about returning the sensation

to her friend when her mind was drowning in fire, and the fire was

spreading to every part of her body --

    -- Sadira's back arched, but the pain was lost in the flood of

pleasure, a jolt of power that reverberated through every cell and

rebounded at the edges, from breasts to body and back again --

    -- she opened her eyes to see Pamela pulled back, staring at Sadira

with shock and worry.  "Are you okay?  You just bucked and gasped --"

    Sadira breathed deeply, riding the last of the aftershocks to level

ground.  "That was an orgasm, silly!"

    "That was an climax?"  Sadira nodded and sat up.  "Just from my

sucking on your nipples?  Lucky!  I thought that only existed in women's

magazines!"

    "I seem to recall what does it to you," Sadira softly replied, and

leaned closer.  "You told me about this, remember --" and kissed her

friend while her right hand moved down and _in_.  Pamela jerked at the

sudden contact, then relaxed and began working with Sadira, the kiss

continuing as she moved her hips against Sadira's own movements, setting

up a rhythm.

    Sadira broke the kiss first -- Pamela looked momentarily betrayed --

but she'd thought of a new experiment:  she wanted to see if she could

stimulate nipples and pussy at the same time.

    She partially succeeded:  the best she could do was one nipple at

a time.

    It was Pamela's turn to gasp, eyes closing as the rhythm built and

accelerated, pushing against Sadira's hand as she tried to reach between

her lover's legs, fumbling blindly until her questing fingers found the

spot and slipped inside.  She was rewarded by a soft, pleased cry and an

increase in momentum:  they pulled closer together and slipped deeper

inside each other.

    Pamela got her right hand onto Sadira's breasts, massaging the

nipples in turn as Sadira switched breasts on her body, never losing the

rhythm as the barriers between bodies began to break down, knowing each

other, loving each other --

    She bit back a moan, then another, then finally tightened her lips,

clenched her teeth, and fell back, her left hand slipping out, the

additional stimulation pushing Sadira past the threshold again:  she

cried out as they went down.  They wound up with Sadira lying partially

on top of Pamela, and Pamela sprawled backwards on the bed.

    "And what was that?" Sadira asked, removing her fingers and speaking

against the breast, using it as a pillow.

    "An orgasm.  What did you think it was?"  Pamela started giggling.

    Sadira looked up.  "That quiet little thing?"

    "I was masturbating across the room from you for four years!  By the

time I figured out that nothing was going to wake you up, I couldn't

break the habit!"

    "Oh, so it's all my fault, is it?"  Sadira's right hand snaked off

out of sight.

    "Well, if you'd told me that in the first place --"

    "Dem's fightin' words," Sadira told her, and the hand came back with

a pillow.

    The smack was solid and possibly even deserved.

    Pamela stared at her for a moment, then gave a war whoop and grabbed

for a pillow of her own.  There was plenty of ammunition available.

    The pillows were well made, so it didn't end with feathers strewn

across the room.  When they were finally finished, having landed a blow

on every available part of the anatomy, they were lying side by side on

the bed, giggling helplessly until it seemed like the most natural thing

to reach for each other again and try something different, and in the

end, it was impossible to tell which had felt better, the loving or the

laughter.  There was every chance they were the same thing.



                         17. 53:  Status reports



    Jasmine stared at Sadira as she walked in, chatting merrily with

Pamela, laughing, moving as if suspended on a cushion of air.  Jasmine

considered herself to be a very good judge of body language -- in her

profession, it was the first line of defense.  Is the man staring at me

because he wants my attention or because he wants me dead in an

alleyway?  Does the manager like to "keep tips safe until the end of the

day" because she's concerned I might lose something or does she like to

take a little off the top?  Is this director completely out of his mind,

or will he be fine once the cocaine wears off?

    Sadira had spent a lot of time trying to conceal her feelings from

Jasmine -- but Jasmine had put in just as much time learning to read

them.  This time, one wasn't even trying, and the other didn't have to

try very hard.

    "You're kidding me," Jasmine whispered, and watched Jason go up to

them, seemingly oblivious, inquiring about Sadira's back.  <With the

ghost?  With _anyone_?>  She'd seen the look many times before, but

never from Sadira.

    <And if it's all with those two, and Sadira really isn't aware of

Jason...>

    "Not really," Sadira said.  She reached into her pockets and pulled

out a pill case.  "Now I have to take these any time I feel a twinge and

I have to be really careful how I move.  I won't get a chance to fully

heal until we stop the growth -- and then my metabolism will slow to

normal, and it'll take weeks."

    "We stopped at the pharmacy and got one of everything," Pamela

explained.  "She might become resistant to the medication just as fast,

so we'll keep cycling through and make sure we don't hit any bad

combinations."  She reached into her purse and pulled out the disk.

"Now if you'll pardon me, it's work time."

    Jasmine watched Pamela cross the room from the little desk she'd set

up next to the door.  Bingo:  all the signs were there.

    She hadn't considered this -- she _couldn't_ have seen this angle

coming.  It was going to take some thought.

    Jasmine turned back to the book.  Mendel had been staring at his

plants for three pages, and something interesting was due to happen.



    The electron microscope worked perfectly well once it was running:

it just took three to ten minutes to power up.  There were some faulty

relays which eventually clicked over -- and cost a few thousand dollars

to repair.  Pamela had learned to live with it.  Sadira would have

normally stood around tapping her feet and arching eyebrows, waiting for

the damn thing to warm up -- but now she was just staring at the screen,

looking at the reflection of the smile on her face.  It was a little

wide, and more than a little silly, and it wouldn't go away.

    It had been the third time they'd made love -- the second had been

the last night before moving out of the residence halls, a sort of

farewell -- and then they'd just never brought it up again.  Sadira

really didn't know why she hadn't mentioned it in their phone calls:

she didn't know why Pamela didn't bring it up.  The subject just never

arose.

    <So why now?>  Sadira looked deeper into the screen.  No matter how

far in she went, it was still black.  <Because I've got arteries and

veins filled with hormones instead of blood, and I was relaxed, and

willing, and -->

    She watched the smile fade from the screen.  <-- because I needed to

feel loved.  I needed to feel like someone was attracted to me.>

    Sadira was familiar with a term that Jasmine had used repeatedly in

describing both her sister's sex life and the only way she could see her

sister _having_ a sex life:  mercy fuck.

    <No.  Pamela's my friend.  My best friend.  We _should_ have been

sisters.  The times we made love before, it was just expressing that

friendship, as deeply as possible.>  She smiled again.  <About four

fingers' worth.>  Still...

    Sadira wondered if her perspectives were a little weird.  She'd had

few male friends in high school or college -- she had listened to the

phrase "We should just be friends" often enough to get sick of it.  The

ones she chased, Jasmine took -- and Sadira was more than bright enough

to realize that the men who really found intelligence attractive were

hard to find -- at least, the ones who still possessed single status:

they usually got taken early.

    In college, there had been work, and lots of it -- while she had

been grateful to GenTree for the free ride, she didn't want to lock

herself into one company for a moment longer than necessary.  She and

Pamela had spent many late nights mentally building a genetics lab,

talking about the projects they would research together, the diseases

they could cure.  Even after nine months in her own lab, she'd still

thought that on the last day of the fourth year, she would be packing

for New York.

    So she'd gone to winter sessions, summer sessions, day and night

classes, with the occasional practical joke to blow off steam, letters

to family to get a view of life outside the classroom, Pamela to keep

her sane.  There had been no time to pursue relationships.

    <Bullshit.>  She'd walked into the dorm, taken one look at Pamela,

and decided that any man she pursued would glance at her roommate and be

lost:  by the time she found out the truth...

    <Double bullshit.>  She'd given up.

    So she didn't have relationships, she had friendships, and she'd

forgotten how to look for more -- so when Pamela had kissed her -- and

beyond -- it had been friendship.

    It seemed to make sense -- but Sadira knew it was easy to build a

perfectly logical conclusion starting from false premises.

    <Do you "make love" with a friend?  _Is_ there a barrier between

friendship and -->

    She was still staring at the screen, trying to force the next

word, when she saw Jason's reflection in the glass.

    "You've got to watch your position.  Leaning forward like that could

hurt your back."

    "Don't worry."  <I _can't_ lean too far forward.>  "I'm doped to

the gills right now."

    "And you'll feel it when it wears off."  She turned around:  he

stepped back slightly to give her room.  "If you become resistant to all

the conventional drugs --"

    "-- then we can get something stronger on the sidewalk."  She almost

laughed at his reaction.  "I'm starting to think Pamela gave you exactly

the right nickname.  You really are a country mouse."

    "I grew up on a farm," Jason defended.  "You know how to score drugs

and I know how to get my hand up a horse's..."  The next moment was

reserved for staring in disbelief, Sadira at Jason, he at himself in the

screen.  "Not that it comes in handy all that often..."

    "Any knowledge can be useful," Sadira told him.  "And I don't know

how to score drugs.  I had one cigarette when I was fifteen, someone

else had to buy the pack for me, and I spent an hour throwing up behind

the gym.  It put me off going to the next level.  Besides," and her

voice dropped, "if the pain gets that severe, then just about anything I

could take would keep me from thinking straight."

    "So watch your posture."  He stepped behind her, gently placed his

hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back.  "Find a comfortable zone

and stay there."  The contact abruptly terminated.  "I've got to sort

out the rest of these sample hormones.  See you later."  He stepped back

into sight.

    Sadira had part of the first shipment under the scanner.  "Someone

else delivered?"  She hadn't heard the intercom go off.

    "Three minutes ago.  He didn't look very happy." Jason shrugged.

"Pamela was right:  her reputation is going to be shot when this is

over.  Blackmail isn't the best way to influence people." He smiled, a

passable imitation of Pamela's more vicious variants.  "Effective,

though."

    Sadira watched him walk away and then turned back to the screen,

which still wasn't on.  <He gave up his own career for me, he's working

so hard -- a good friend.  Like Ivory.  A _really_ good -->

    Her heart stood up, climbed through the neck until it was standing

behind her brain, and kicked her _hard_.

    <No,> she immediately thought.  <No way.  Impossible.  I can't get

_one_ person interested over a lifetime of effort, let alone two at the

_same time without trying_.  Mercy fuck.  Sympathy.  Pamela trying to

keep my spirits up no matter what.  Not happening.  Not in that sense.

Not -->

    It was too late to stop it.  <-- not to me.  Not for me.  Because

I'm a nerd and Jasmine's pretty and I can't get anyone and she takes

everyone and I'm ugly no matter what anyone says stop stop STOP!>

    Sadira brought a hand up and shaded her eyes as she closed them,

breathing hard.  <They're my friends.  They love me as a friend.  Don't

they?>  She opened her eyes and the screen was still blank.  <And even

if it was true -- even if it was possible --> she stepped back and

looked at as much of her body as the screen could reflect <-- look at

me.>

    <Pamela kissed me what I was still flat, and she'll say anything,

do anything to keep me going.  Jason never saw me any other way until

last week, and even if he was somehow attracted to me, Jasmine is

starting after him:  what could I do?  Nothing ever worked...>

    Sadira looked down.  <And I'm almost as big as Jasmine now, and then

I'll be as big as Pam, and then -- where am I when it stops?  If --> and

a safety cut in, blocking the car, but it didn't stop the rest of the

train from proceeding.  <People find Jasmine attractive, lots of them,

but that's as much manner and cunning as anything else.  I don't have

that.>

    A smaller voice said <I have a smile> and was lost in the howling

storm.

    <The range for zero to normal is nothing to C.  D is big, E and up

are extra-large, X and Z are huge.>

    <Where does huge end and _freak_ begin?>

    She was shaking.  She put her hands against the screen, bracing

herself physically if not mentally, trying to get back under control,

but the last thought kept echoing, and she couldn't make it stop.

<Freak...>

    "Ebs?  Are you okay?"

    "I'm fine, Pamela," she lied.  "I'm just sick of waiting for this

machine to start working --" and she felt the screen grow warm under her

hands.  "Never mind.  I stopped watching the pot and it boiled."  She

resumed a more normal posture.  "I'm going to start checking the

structure of these hormones."

    "Okay," Pamela said slowly.  "Just take it easy.  That stance isn't

good for your back."

    "Nothing is," Sadira replied, and began working the controls.

    "Are you sure you're --"

    "-- I won't be if I don't get this work done."

    Pamela looked at her friend, saw the intensity in her face, and

didn't know how to respond to it, how to help.

    She walked away.



    <Damn!>  Pamela hit the photocopier's Start button harder than

absolutely necessary.  <She's slipping again.  I thought that our little

scene at the apartment had picked her spirits up, but -->  One of her

earlier thoughts came back to her, slightly altered.  <All adolescence

in a week.  I saw those hormone charts:  I remember puberty.  Keeping a

straight skull isn't easy.>  Her direct view was blocked, but she still

threw a venomous glance in Jasmine's direction.  <And _she_ isn't

helping.  If Sadira feels something for the Mouse, watching her sister

go to work on him won't do anything but hurt.  And he's got to feel

something towards her:  how couldn't he?  He's gone through all this for

her...>

    The thought came, and she let it through.  <If the Princess took the

Mouse, then it leaves Sadira for me.>  Unfortunately, another thought

insisted on following.  <Except I like the Mouse too much to see him

hurt that way.>  Sadira had told her about some of Jasmine's

"relationships":  wham, bam, move on 'mam.  <Goddamn it!  Why do I have

to like him so much!  It would be easier to compete if I had an opponent

I could _hate_, and I can't work it up for him!  It's like kicking a

puppy!  If it wasn't for Sadira, and...>  The concept wouldn't

materialize.

    And towards the end of the afterglow, basking in the warmth of

Sadira's body, she'd allowed herself to think, just for the briefest of

moments, <I've won.  I've got her with me and she'll move in and we'll

work together and everything's going to be okay...>  Happily ever after.

Pamela wasn't as smart as Sadira, not on the raw intelligence tests, but

she felt she was _wiser_.  She believed that the instant she assumed all

was going well was the same moment the universe was planning to shoot

her from the front -- it hurt more when she could see it coming and

couldn't stop it.  However, _knowing_ it and _remembering_ it were

different things.

    She'd thought it, and now she was going to pay for it.

    Genetics was the science of fighting back at the universe, taking

all the bad hands people had been dealt and forcing a fresh deal.

Pamela believed it was possible to win -- she just always had to

consider the power of her opponent.

    Opponents.  One, maybe two -- probably three.  Because if she kept

going down that line, she was going to wind up fighting herself, and

that wouldn't help Sadira.

    The cure was important.

    Collating the copies was important because it might lead to the

cure.

    Her feelings could wait.

    Somehow.



    Jason held the small tube up to the light.  Human hormones did not

come naturally in quantity:  they had to be collected, filtered, and

protected.  This one, roughly an ounce's worth, was an odd gray-green.

He wondered if the color was visible in the bloodstream, little specks

flowing through the red rivers.

    He separated a few cells from the cultures he'd modified off

Jasmine's base, then applied the BE-1 virus to them and, looking through

the enhancement port, watched the infection begin.  It was almost

instantaneous: contact, invasion, chromosomal reprogramming, death --and

the cells began to send out new messages.  The hormone was, in all

probability, going to take a lot longer to work.  "All right," he

murmured, staining the culture, "stall like a cheap carburetor..."

    He felt eyes on him and looked up:  Jasmine was gazing at him, one

hand under her chin, the other marking her place in the book:  she'd

gotten about forty pages in.  He nodded to her and turned back to the

machine.

    <She's really a nice --> and his own brain interrupted him.  <Nice

girls can't conjure expressions like the ones you saw in the photos.

Where did that one in the layout come from?  No sibling there to triumph

over.>

    <But she seems to be -->

    <She's a dancer.  She's used to manipulating men's emotions just by

swiveling hips and shaking -- other parts.  Not to mention the effect on

_male_ 'other parts.'  Do you actually think you're immune?>

    Jason shared a feeling with every sentient being since the dawn of

time:  a desire to find that small, detached, rational portion of his

brain and put a fist through it.  <She's coming on to _me_.>

    <Why?>  The cells were starting to react to the hormone.

    <Search me.  I thought I had _some_ appeal.>

    <But she asked about you and Sadira -- and that one question, about

liking big breasts -- it didn't come across as something normal.  More

like she was fishing for something.  And you still haven't told Sadira

how you feel, have you?  Or has Jasmine displaced that?>

    <No.  But you saw --> great, talking in second person to himself

<-- how Pamela and Sadira looked when they came in.  Especially Pamela.

She looked so happy -- too happy for someone's back going out.>

    <So what do you think happened?  A fine meal and a good joke?>

    <I don't know.>  He had a good idea.  He didn't want to pursue it.

<But when I lied just "friendship," Pamela said "love.">  Jason focused

on the cells:  the signals that promoted growth were slowing as the

hormone was absorbed, the cell walls taking on a gray hue --

    -- the walls ruptured, and the cells died, flattening against the

slide as their contents flowed out.  Jason jerked his head back, unable

to watch.

    <So what do you think of that?> the detached part inquired.

    <I don't know what to think about anything anymore.>



                       18. 57:  A place of healing



    The budget was being stretched in all sorts of creative directions.

Nigilo began to offer various chemicals and drugs to his agents in lieu

of cash.  A genetics lab had access to all sorts of interesting,

ordinarily controlled substances that could be converted into cash on

the street.  Most of the people he talked to took the offer.  He began

to suspect the existence of a network when, three calls later, he was

asked about the neothorazine before he had a chance to bring it up.

    Shaw had not posed for a formal yearbook picture, but there was

still a photograph of her in the tome.  It was a mood shot -- according

to the caption, it had been taken the day after the Mark XI simulators

had been installed, and it showed Shaw staring at the new controls in

annoyance.  She looked as if she was about to bite through the console.

    Overall, Nigilo considered the photograph as a lucky break:

yearbook graduation photos were head-and-shoulder:  this gave him a

full-body portrait.  He spent a lot of time looking at the body before

deciding it added to his "jealousy" theory:  Archer had amazing luck

when it came to living with extremely buxom women.  He also remembered

Carmody's mention of "roommate experimentation."  It said something,

although he wasn't quite sure what.  Matching a friend?  Some sort of

triangle?  Non-monetary or family relationships were outside Nigilo's

field:  he dismissed the ideas for lack of evidence.

    The photograph was duplicated and faxed to all agents, along with

better pictures of Pterros -- and, just in case, (clothed) images of the

Princess.  All pictures of Archer remained head-and-shoulders:  Nigilo

was concerned that anyone who knew about the viruses would figure out

the profit angle and sell her to someone else.  The original agents had

been told to look for a very busty woman.  As the days had worn on, a

few more "very's" had been added to the description.

    Carmody slept in his office, took all the calls, summarized and

relayed information, and made himself heroically available.  Nigilo

actually appreciated it:  it was an amazing effort.  Little food, little

sleep, just a lot of work.

    The research team found that the five percent of the data which had

dropped out was more crucial than they had originally wanted to believe.

There was no blueprint for the enlargement virus, and several

interaction sites seemed to missing.  They were trying to recreate the

work, but they were also testing every piece of it to make sure Archer

hadn't left them false data.  It slowed things down -- and even as a

team, they just weren't as bright.

    Nigilo knew the rule about finding the average IQ of a group:  add

all indexes together and divide by the number of people in the team --

squared.  He'd been hoping that whatever points remained would be enough

to solve the problem.  So far, it wasn't working.  Eventually, he'd had

to admit that his frequent drop-ins on the lab weren't having any

positive effects, and remained in his office.

    And as he waited, two dozen agents moved about the five boroughs of

New York City, checking the streets and occasionally risking a direct

inquiry -- after all, they didn't want the target to know how intensive

the search was.  There were some areas they didn't check, of course.

    No point in checking Wall Street:  Shaw's company had no public

trading.

    Rockefeller Center?  Why would they bother skating?

    Alphabet City?  No one was crazy enough to put a genetics lab in the

middle of that nightmare.

    They concentrated on talking to other labs, asking if they'd had any

dealings with Shaw.  All of them said no.  Some of them said it a little

vehemently, but that was to be expected when discussing competition.

None of them knew where she was.  The supply houses didn't have any

customers by the name of Shaw.  They did have one named Delacroix, who

owned the building which Pamela rented in, and got things delivered to

under his name for tax purposes, but no Shaw.  Since Pamela had done her

shopping by phone and computer, the face wasn't familiar.  Some interest

was expressed in the body.

    They searched, and continued to search.  If they were in New York,

there were only eight million people to hide among.  It was an

distinct improvement over five billion.

    Eventually, they would be found.  It was just a matter of time.



    Sadira's original estimate had been a little off.  At five o'clock

on Thursday, she walked out the bathroom with the new bra on and caught

Jasmine on her way in.  Her sister froze, staring at her.  The

difference between X and Z might be difficult to spot at a glance -- but

Sadira had been wearing an N when they saw each other, and the

difference between N and X was a lot easier to see.

    Jasmine was wearing the padded bra to look a little larger, but

Sadira knew it -- and Jasmine _knew_ that she knew.

    Sadira quickly drew an equal sign in the air and moved off, feeling

very petty and somewhat triumphant.  Mostly petty.  <Great.  Next thing,

I'll be wearing blouses cut down to my navel with arrows pointing in

from the sides and custom lettering that says 'Look here.'>  The shirt

had cost Jasmine forty dollars to have made when they were sixteen:

she'd gotten to use it once, and then Sadira had shown the garment to

their parents.  One week grounded each:  Jasmine for designing and

Sadira for squealing.  "The two of you have to learn to work together,"

Mom had said as she threw down the punishment.

    Jasmine had snuck out every night.  She hadn't shown Sadira how to

do it, so she'd missed a movie premiere and seen the film the day after

the house arrest ended.  The lesson hadn't stuck.

    Pamela intercepted her on the way to the refrigerator.  "Did you

just change again?"

    "Yeah.  Every six hours, set your watch."  Not quite true:  she

slept through the night growth without difficulty.  It was just more

uncomfortable when she finally had to change.  It meant that one bra

out of every four was being unused.

    "Where did you put the old bra?"

    "I left it in the bathroom.  Why?"

    "I was thinking about sending the old ones back to Aunt Susan --

maybe she'd cut me a break, sell them used, or at least suggest

someplace to donate them for a tax break.  I can't _find_ any of them."

    "Laundry?"

    "No.  I figured you were just throwing them around, same as usual --

but they're nowhere in the house or the lab.  I don't think the Mouse is

keeping them for -- personal reasons, and I'm sure not wearing any by

mistake.  Where are they going?"

    "Time-release disintegration?  Good for six hours of wear and gone?"

    "Get serious."  Sadira considered the source -- and then Pamela

looked past her, at something moving through the maze.  "Does the

Princess always take a bag to the bathroom?"

    "If it had a book in it --"

    They both moved.  Pamela got there first.  "Okay, open it."

    "What?"  Too-sincere confusion.  Pamela grabbed the bag and dumped

the contents on the floor.  Both stepped back a bit to look down.  One

book, one bra.

    "Making yourself useful?" Pamela inquired.  "I really don't need a

janitor."

    "Making money," Jasmine snarled.  "I'm losing the week because of

this shit.  You owe me something."

    "Making -- you're going to sell them, aren't you?  Your bags are

stuffed with old bras!"  Sadira caught up just in time to see Pamela's

hands push out, straight into Jasmine's shoulders, knocking her back.

"What are you getting?  Eighty each?  A hundred?  More?  Look, guys,

bras from when the little Princess was growing up!  Never mind that

they've never even seen a full day of use!"  She pushed again:  Jasmine

reeled.  "Going to make money from someone else's misery, you little

piece of --"

    A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed her left wrist.  The strength

of the grip made her think Mouse until she saw the hand:  Sadira.

"That's it!  Both of you, neutral corners, _now!_"

    Jasmine slowly got her balance back:  Pamela pulled in a thin breath

and pushed out "Sadira?  My arm..."

    "Oh."  Sadira let go.  Pamela rubbed her aching wrist and decided

that the enhanced ATP carriers were something else they should try to

separate out for sale.  Jason came running up.

    "What's going on --"

    "Nothing."  Sadira said.  "Jasmine had a plan.  She'll sell the old

bras through her fan club, give the original cost back to Ivory, and

split the profits fifty-fifty, since it was her idea.  No problem at

all.  _Right?_"

    "Right," Pamela said, rubbing her wrist.

    Jasmine said nothing, but slowly nodded.

    "Fine.  We have more important things ta worry 'bout than what we're

gonna do wif de fuckin' bras!"  And Sadira stalked off.

    "Did she just say 'fucking?'" Jason asked.  No one answered.

    "Okay," Pamela slowly mustered, "The center is holding nicely..."

She'd forgotten Jasmine was five feet away.

    "Have you tried a bubble bath?"

    They both looked at Jasmine before Pamela said "Yes," and walked

away, gesturing for Jason to follow.  They headed for one of the lab's

quiet corners -- literally:  the otherworldly acoustics meant that

whatever was said there stayed there.

    "We're going to wind up saving the body and losing the soul.  I'm

not going to allow that," Pamela said firmly -- and then her voice and

body partially collapsed:  she leaned against a support column, arms

falling slack at her side.  "And I'm running out of ideas on how to do

it."  She looked up at Jason, eyes wide and slightly pleading.  "Mouse,

what have you got left?"

    "I've eliminated three more hormones, two gene sites, and one bottle

of aspirin.  Everything else is 'left.'"

    Pamela slammed a fist backwards, hitting the column solidly.  (Now

her wrist _and_ hand were aching.)  Every one of the next words was a

sentence in itself.  "That's not what I meant.  We have to keep her

spirits up, reassure her that we will find a cure -- help her get used

to how she looks now."  She'd caught Sadira going through elaborate

measures to literally avoid herself -- arms moving wide to avoid contact

with her breasts -- more difficult now, as there was some small overlap

even in the bra.  "We've got to make her understand that we love her no

matter what she looks like."

    Jason looked at her until Pamela said, "Right.  I said we, and I

said love.  Now go ahead and lie to me again.  Even if the Princess is

leading you by the balls, you _felt_ it, even if you don't now.  I want

this said, from both sides."

    Jason found a nearby support column and leaned against it, arms

folded.  The staring match went on for about two eons.  He blinked

first.  "Okay.  I have --" it felt so strange to say it aloud

"-- something of a crush under the friendship.  I feel for her.  I wish

I'd found a way to say it to her before this, but --"  He shrugged.

"But I'm the kind of guy women like to be friends with.  They come to me

when their dates go bad and cry on my shoulder.  I'm no threat to

anyone:  I'm a very tall teddy bear.  The thought that I might be the

cure for those problems never occurs to them, and on the few times I

proposed it, they just looked at me and said 'But you're my friend.  I

could never think of you that way.'"

    "Then you've been talking to the wrong women.  Anyone who needs a

bit of menace to be happy in a relationship is less than sane."

    He shrugged again.  "Call it a knack.  So what do we do?"

    Pamela closed her eyes and said, "First, we call a truce.  We

haven't been actively competitive that I'm aware of, but she could be

picking up vibes.  We work together, we get this cured, worry about the

rest later."  She opened her eyes and smiled.  "Frankly, Mouse, if it

wasn't me, I'd want it to be you."  She extended her left hand.

    Jason grasped it, and they solemnly shook.  "Ditto."  He smiled as

he felt his heart crack.  "Two mature adults, aren't we?"

    "No, but we fake it pretty well."  She felt a dull pain throbbing

behind her ribs.

    "I don't think I could beat you at anything, anyway."

    "Reaching high shelves," Pamela quipped, and leaned back again.

"Second -- what is up between you and the Princess?"  Jason told her

everything.  Pamela listened closely and said, "No personal experience:

I'm an only child.  Maybe a bitch turns into a beauty when she's out of

range -- but I think with that werewolf, the full moon's always shining

somewhere."  <Even if her taking you leaves me free...>

    "Third," Jason continued, "we think of a way to keep Sadira

emotionally stable -- which means that we both can't tell her how we

feel.  That's not something I want to add to her burden."

    <What burden?  She loves _me_...>  "Right.  And it can't be just one

of us, either.  So we've just eliminated that little option.  What do we

do to cheer her up?  Bubble baths won't help, we really can't go to the

movies, sex isn't a proven cure --"  Pamela stopped.  The last words had

been meant for mental play only.

    "I guessed," Jason starkly replied.

    "Oh."  Just for that one word, her voice was very small and soft.

"I was a little obvious."

    "The whistling was a giveaway."  He forced down the emotions,

stepped on them, ground them to dust, watched them reassemble.  "Which

still leaves us with the original problem."

    Pamela sighed and stared at nothing.

    Her eyes narrowed, and she looked up.

    "I have an idea," she said, "and the best part is, it puts both of

us at risk."



    "This isn't the way back to your apartment.  Did we pick up a tail?"

    Pamela, who had just stopped the car at a red light, glanced over to

Sadira.  "No.  We're just not going home.  It's nearly midnight and we

practically worked straight through.  The Mouse and I think it's time

for a little relaxation."

    "At midnight?  What do we do at this hour?"  Sadira had been cold

and withdrawn for most of the day, hiding among the machines, speaking

only in response to direct questions, and keeping her test results in

carefully modulated order.  Pamela was getting scared.

    "You've been out of the city too long.  In Montana, you get to watch

snow fall or grass grow.  Here, we've got _options_."  The light

changed, and Pamela turned right.  "We're going out for a few hours.

Powerbar?"

    Sadira took it automatically.  "Where?"

    "Oh, I don't know.  Somewhere."  Jasmine had fallen asleep and

slumped onto Jason's lap.  It looked perfectly natural.  "Let you know

when we get there.  If I figure it out."

    "You're up to something."

    "Sure.  Two inches shy of six feet and one inch over five.  Relax.

We're almost there."

    "Almost where?"

    "Wherever we're going."

    Sadira got nothing out of her for the rest of the drive.



    Unfortunately, they had to wake Jasmine up and bring her with them.

Pamela would have preferred to leave her in the car, but she didn't want

to risk splitting the group up.  They were already taking enough of a

chance going anywhere besides the lab and the apartment -- but Sadira's

sanity was at stake.

    The worst part was that she wasn't sure if this was going to help.

With the wrong factors and plain bad luck, it could do some major damage

-- and in a minor way, it might not be helpful for either the Mouse's or

her own ultimate goals.  When they'd discussed it at the lab, he'd seen

the risk:  she'd seen that in his face.  He'd also agreed to it anyway.

Pamela felt the risk was small -- but the need was greater.

    <This is what love means,> she thought.  <Taking a chance for

someone else, no matter how much it might hurt.>

    Following Pamela, they walked for two blocks, coming to a stop in

front of an ordinary looking white door with brass numbers embedded at

the top, and a golden doorknob.  Sadira had lost track of the myriad

turns, but she could see the World Trade Center if she tilted her head

back:  they were near the southern end of Manhattan Island, in the maze

of little streets that bordered the Wall Street district.  "What is

this?"

    "Someplace different," Pamela replied as she fumbled in her purse,

withdrawing a thin wallet.  "A place I'm still suspicious of because

it's too damn good to be true."  She rifled through the wallet, finally

withdrawing a small gold card with silver lettering.  "It's invitation

only.  A man just came up to me on the street one day and handed it to

me.  It was a little bit nerve-wracking -- who knows what some of these

people might have in mind -- but two months later, I couldn't sleep and

decided to take a look.  I brought -- help in case I needed it, but it

wasn't necessary.  Still..."  She shook her head and handed Sadira the

card.

    It was very simple.  Two words in a fancy font and an address, with

a magnetic strip on the back.  Sadira read the words aloud.  "'Fancy

that?'"

    "Exactly."

    Jasmine stiffened.  Her book nearly fell from nerveless fingers.

"I've heard the name."  Sadira glanced back at her.  "I never knew

anyone who was invited."

    "Well, you're all with me," Pamela said, "and we all qualify by

their rules.  They might let us all in.  Let's try."  She turned the

knob and pushed the door in, and they stepped inside.

    The foyer was fairly large, with a coat room off to one side, and a

large, deep burgundy curtain hung across a wide entrance at the other

end.  There were several chairs, rich mahogany wood, and one woman in

her mid-forties sitting on a stool, gazing at a large book sitting on

the dais in front of her through wide-lensed glasses.

    She was naturally blond and wondrously proportioned, with features

that Michaelangelo would have barely dared to dream.  She was also less

than three feet tall.

    "No, don't tell me," she said, glancing up from the book at Pamela,

who was standing at the front of the group.  "Shane -- shall --- shawl?

Shawl, right?"

    Pamela handed her the card.  The woman ran it against a small

magnetic reader, colored to match the wood.  "Shaw, Grace.  Pamela Shaw.

Can I bring some friends?" She pointed at her following.  "They need

this place for a few hours."  Pamela stood aside and gestured back.

"Although I won't mind if you decide to keep the fake blonde out in the

foyer.  Or the cloak room.  Just put her on a hanger until we're done."

    "Three?"  Grace looked carefully at the trio.  "Pamela, all or none.

They all need some time here.  Perhaps even especially the young lady.

And it's been too long for you if you're speaking that way."

    "It's my habit.  I happen to like it."

    Grace sighed.  "I suppose you do.  But it's still three or zero."

    "Three, then."

    Grace handed the card back to Pamela, then motioned the others

forward and passed out cards, with the colors reversed.  "These will

give you two more visits before the question of dues will arise.  Enjoy

yourselves."  She went back to the book.

    "Grace?" Pamela said carefully.

    "Oh, right!  Forgetful of me.  Mark!"  A man walked up to the front

of the cloak room and put out his arms.  Pamela began to strip her coat

off.  "Don't get them mixed up, now."

    Mark nodded.  He was of average height, but well muscled, and held

himself as if he was guarding a treasury.  His features were

Afrimerican, and his skin was as white as Pamela's.

    "What is this place?" Jasmine hissed.

    Pamela looked back at her.  "Something special," she said, and

passed through the curtain.



    The first thing Sadira saw was the people.  And the second, the

third, and all the way up into the hundreds before she managed to look

anywhere else.

    Taken as a whole, it was a beautiful place.  Everything was done in

rich, dark shades, with natural wood and carpeting plush enough to float

on, but shallow enough to drop keys and not lose them.  An old-fashioned

bar, with hanging glasses, brass rails and a liquor selection that was a 

wine tasters' wet dream occupied most of a wall.  Several people were 

sitting or standing next to it, chatting, laughing, and taking drinks 

from a large man with jolly red cheeks, a thick red mustache, a laugh 

that boomed across the room, and a blindfold.  He spun from shelf to 

shelf along the beautifully arranged bar, scooping ingredients, mixing

everything from margaritas to milkshakes without pause or mistake.  It

was only when Sadira tore her gaze away from his performance that she

saw the blindfold was stretched tightly across his face -- tight enough

to push into the space where there had once been eyes.

    There was a dance floor, lit perfectly, slightly elevated with ramps

on every side, accessible from every angle to the wheelchair-bound

performers who were attempting -- and laughing at their failure to

accomplish -- a very intricate square dance.  There was no music, but

there was one soft-spoken caller who could barely direct for laughter.

    Most of the lighting came from suspended Tiffany lamps, the rainbows

muting and blending into the room.  One man in a dapper tuxedo was

waving his arms towards the extra-high ceiling, as if he was conducting

an orchestra -- and automatically avoiding the lights, which his

outstretched limbs were more than long enough to reach.

    Tables and chairs, all comfortable, some with unusual shapes to

allow better comfort for their occupants.  A closer look showed that the

tables were modular, sections of different angles, shapes, and heights

that would allow an assembly to accommodate any party.  There were no

televisions and no jukeboxes.  The two most dominant sounds were

conversation and laughter, all taking place at a spirited level.

    Sadira saw two other albinos, and a man whose skin was an even

purple hue, as if every inch was a birthmark.  Heights ranged from dwarf

to giant, and two of those extremes were engaged in a ferocious darts

contest, the dwarf standing straight and the giant lying on the floor.

There was heavy betting being placed on the match.

    There were people without legs, people without arms, sight, hearing,

or speech.  None of it slowed down the gesturing or conversation.  Some

just gestured with feet or argued with hands.

    Most people had a marked physical difference, something that would

get them a second glance on the street.  Not all were handicaps, and

seeing how they laughed and played, it was hard to believe that any of

them were.  There were some very minor things -- one man had hair the

color of brass, a woman with a extra finger on each hand, perfectly

placed and functional, which she was using for some very animated sign

language.  Some people were very skinny, and one short, bespectacled

blonde woman was very buxom, matching Pamela in proportion if not actual

size.  They were just things people would notice.  There were some who

looked ordinary, but there was something about their bearing that made

them stand out more than the others.

    It was, Sadira decided, the one place in the world Carmody couldn't

blend into.

    Jason was looking around, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Pamela looked back and nodded to him.  Jasmine was staring about wildly,

eyes dancing in desperation from one person to another, looking for

something ordinary to latch onto, and said "Fr--"

    That was as far as she got before Pamela clamped a hand over her

mouth.  "You too," she hissed, and brought her hand back down.  Jasmine

glared, but kept silent.  If anyone in the room had even noticed, they

were too polite to even glance over.

    Pamela looked around and spotted someone familiar:  a woman with

red hair -- pure red, without a hint of orange or brown -- who was

nearly Jason's height.  She was watching the darts contest.  "I'll catch

up," she promised, and headed across the room.  "Hey, Skyler!"  The

redhead turned around, smiled, and met her halfway.

    Jason grinned again:  they'd discussed it at the lab.  They were

both supposed to find something to do within seconds of entering, and

then keep an eye on Sadira from afar for the first half-hour.  "Excuse

me," he said, "but this country mouse has a hankering for a good old-

fashioned square dance."  He strode to the dance floor and, with a

little fast negotiation, got the microphone away from the laughing

caller.  "All right!" he sang out.  "Swing your partner, dossie-do, line

those wheels up in a row...!"

    "Sadira," Jasmine slowly breathed, "what is this place?"

    "I don't know," her sister replied, "But they have a bar."  And she

went up to it and took one of the high-backed plush stools.

    The bartender immediately came up to her and smiled.  "A new face!

And a pretty one, judging from the heart rate jump around here!"

Several patrons, males and females, blushed.  "What would you like to

drink?"

    "Do you have Blackened Voodoo?"

    "Miss, there's nothing I don't have -- or can't make up on the

spot."  He spun, twirled, extracted a black bottle from seeming

nothingness, uncapped it, and poured it into a mug that had appeared

from the same place.  "Blackened Voodoo!  Take it slow, it's a powerful

mix."

    "Thanks."  Sadira lifted the mug and breathed the aroma.  She seldom

drank, but her tastes were exotic when she did indulge:  Blackened

Voodoo smelled like a forest under a full moon.  "How much?"

    "How much?"  He leaned close and whispered, "Nothing.  Ever.  For

anything.  And don't insult me with tips.  But if you are going to

insult me, make it devastating."  He danced away to fill another order.

    Sadira smiled, took a sip -- the buzz seemed to hit and fade faster:

 another side blitz from her metabolism -- and had started to relax when

a voice at her elbow said "Pardon me."

    She looked down.  One of the shorter denizens, wearing an expensive

brown business suit, a bald pate, and a smile, was looking back up at

her.  "You look like someone with far more practical knowledge of

baseball than anyone should have," he said.  Across the room, Pamela

watched and smiled:  set-up complete.  "My friend and I --" he indicated

a Asian woman wearing a sleeveless gown, which exposed her artificial

arm "-- are having a rules debate on Batting Out Of Turn.  Could you

help resolve a bet?"

    Sadira, who was too far into amazement to add another layer -- and

who suspected that she'd been set up anyway -- clambered down from the

stool and went over to discuss baseball's most confusing rule (behind

balking).  She was quickly meshed into the debate, and was soon drawing

diagrams on the table with a damp finger.



    Jason, his throat getting dry, passed off the microphone to another

caller, got a drink, and joined Pamela at an empty dartboard near the

fireplace.  They each grabbed a set.

    "So what was the risk again?" he inquired as he checked on Sadira,

who was moderating a lively debate on the makeup of the ultimate New

York baseball team -- 25 positions, all squads and decades, no choice

allowed to go unargued.  They were currently doing their best _not_ to

settle first base.

    "The Princess," Pamela replied, automatically checking on the

dancer, who had wound up at a corner table, her book laid open as the

man who had earlier led the invisible orchestra signed it.  It seemed

she had found the author.  "You can guess what the rest of that word was

going to be.  She never struck me as the most tolerant person -- but she

adapts quickly enough once she realizes she's outnumbered."  Although

that might be slightly unfair:  the Princess was chatting merrily,

trying to ferret out information on upcoming works from a man who was

only too happy to be questioned.  But she never looked at the rest of

the room.  Pamela wasn't sure what had led her to the big man in the

first place:  probably a dust jacket photo.

    She gently poked the dart tip into her finger:  sharp and ready to

go.  "I was worried that for whatever reason, Sadira would take the same

point of view:  one among others, if you know what I mean.  But I also

wanted to show her that other people had things worse, and they still

knew how to laugh and have a good time.  That no matter what she looked

like, there were still people who would talk instead of stare.  Look at

her."  Jason looked.  Sadira was making a push for Keith Hernandez,

which was drawing some support from the younger crowd.  "It may be a

temporary pick-up, but we can come back -- without explanation, I hope.

If it was a week from now, people would have to fight the urge to ask

_hard_.  But you don't discuss these things here.  Club rule."

    "And I'm minor," Jason said.  "No 'How's the weather up there,'

nothing at all."  He looked at Jasmine's companion.  "I'm barely

noticeable.  Pamela, what is this place?"

    "A very private club.  International sites:  this is the East Coast

branch, and the original.  Like I said, it's invitation only.  They try

to keep out the fetish fans:  plenty of people interested in amputees,

tall and short...  One of these days, I'm going to check the newsgroups

and find alt.sex.albino.

    "If you get a card, you can try it.  You can bring dates, but most

people don't.  It's a haven.  Somewhere to go when the weight of the

eyes drives you to your knees.  If there's anything different about you,

anything that some idiot would think disqualified you from the human

race, you're in.  Skin color, height, build -- and that includes

macromastics, although I used to be the biggest one here.  And geniuses,

although you'd have to show your IQ test at the door.  Sadira would have

gotten in before:  a lot of scholars hang out here.  Actually, it

includes just about everyone under the right circumstances.  On the

right day, you can find admission from being Caucasian.  Club motto."

    Jason waited.  Pamela smiled.  "'Nobody's normal.'  This place isn't

for skin color or handicaps or oddities or genetic hiccups.  It's for

forgetting about them and everything else, at least for a little while.

    "The other risk is that she might meet someone really great, and

then we're both out of luck -- but I don't see anyone here better than

me."  She smiled, threw the first dart, and proved that someone in the

club was probably better at one thing by hitting the '2.'  "Damn.  Your

turn."

    Jason sighted, threw, and nailed the '16.'  "What are the dues?"

    "You pay what you can afford.  The club gets supported by the

original funding.  It's been around for nearly a century.  There's

someone powerful behind it, but no one's seen him.  Sometimes I think

it's Grace:  she makes the final decision on who's in or out.  But you

don't bring your troubles in here:  club rule.  This is for respite.

Someplace to come when there's nowhere to go."  She threw the second

dart and got it just inside the '18.'  "I still think it's too good to

be true."

    "You would," Jason said without malice, and took aim again.  "I like

it just fine."

    "Yeah," Pamela said, checking on Sadira again.  Third base, in true

Brooklyn tradition, had three men occupying it.  "So do I."



    "Defensive!  Ordonez!  Maybe he hasn't been around as long, but he

makes the impossible plays like no one else!"

    "Sure, but he can't scoop up a routine grounder!  We're looking for

an all-around shortstop, and Rizzuto's in the Hall!"

    "Oh, so we're not going to even consider active players --"

    "Gentlemen!"  Sadira threw up her hands, laughing.  "And ladies.  If

I wanted a war, we would have started with the outfield.  Do you think

you can keep from killing each other until I get back from the bathroom?

    "Sure," Peter said.  "I have other ways of dealing with --" he gave

Elmora a hard stare "-- _Yankee fans_."  There was a brief pause that in

many other clubs would have been for the drawing of weapons -- but then

the laughter swelled up, and Sadira headed for the bathroom.

    She finished and washed quickly, ready to get back to the discussion

-- someone had to be ready to rally for Duke Snider when center field

came up -- and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

    Sadira stood there, looking.  <Bigger than Jasmine.  Bigger than Pam

tomorrow morning.>  She rinsed her hands.  <A freak among freaks.>

    But here, everything she'd seen in proxy to Jasmine and Pamela was

wrong.  People looked at her eyes, talked to her face.  The talk was

merry and equal:  anyone with an opinion could get in.  No one stared.

No one cared what she looked like.  They cared about what she had to say

because they wanted to argue it.

    Pamela had said it:  some people were good.  Maybe you didn't have

to be a little bit different to understand, and it was quite possible

that some of those who were would be as narrow-minded as everyone else.  

The people of Fancy That were different, physically, mentally, socially, 

and perhaps they indulged in self-pity and sorrow when they were outside 

the club, but this was the inside, and at the moment, they didn't give a

damn.

    And at the moment, neither did she.

    She smiled at herself in the mirror as she dried her hands.  "This

still might kill me," she whispered, "but if I live through it, then --

it really isn't everyone.  No matter how big I end up, there's a place

for me, to talk and laugh if nothing else."  <Although they might need

to build a special table module.>

    <If the rest of the world laughs and stares -- there are people who

won't.>

    And the love issue was still under debate, and whether anyone would

ever find her attractive again could be argued to the point of insanity.

Maybe she'd need a wheelchair with an extended front platform to move,

and all of that still scared her, terrified her sometimes, every day and

hour a little different.  But for the moment -- if only here and now,

while it was all still fresh -- it was bearable.  <A freak among freaks

-- but _what_ freaks we are!>  A precious second of peace.

    "Thanks, Ivory," she whispered, and headed back to the debate.



    And that night, when she changed into the larger bra so she'd be

more comfortable in the morning, and found herself looking at the label

-- a Z -- and realized she was about to leave the alphabet behind,

venturing into mostly-unknown territory -- it still hurt.

    But it didn't hurt as much as she'd thought it would.