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.  (We had one earlier, remember?)  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 or written communication.  _ _ underlines

words in between.  The Rather Terse Fonts will be along sometime.



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

Part IV.  If you haven't read the other parts and you're starting with

this one, you may want to lie down for a while.  I'm not sure you're

feeling well.



Once upon a time...































                                In Sequence



                        19. 60:  Troop movements



    Jason woke up at five a.m.  It was hard to sleep with someone

caressing his crotch.

    His eyes snapped open, and he quickly looked to his left.  Jasmine,

eyes closed and breathing deeply, had her right hand under his blankets

and her breasts pressed up against him, gently kneading and massaging as

she slept.

    Jason had heard of sleepwalkers, sleepeaters, and one disastrous

instance of a sleepdriver, but someone attempting sex while out cold was

new to him.

    He gently pushed her away, winding up touching some anatomy that he

didn't want to go near (and that was still a debate, damn it) -- but

that was hard to avoid.  Jasmine had apparently chosen to sleep without

a bra, and her breasts moved as he shifted her:  clearing her shoulder

didn't help with the torso.  With a lot of care -- and a few feels that

he really hadn't meant to cop -- felt guilty about _and_ enjoyed at the 

same time -- he got her off, then sat up.

    His eyes gradually adjusted, and he made out Pamela and Sadira,

still fast asleep.  Pam's left arm was draped across Sadira's waist,

which hadn't been covered by her breasts.  Yet.  They were a few inches

away from beginning the crossing.

    "Aw, come on," he whispered, then took it back.  Pamela could hardly

help what she did while asleep:  he probably would have wound up in the

same position.  Still, he would have felt better if Sadira was sleeping

on the floor.  It was probably even better for her back.

    Then again, Pamela had been living with her own endowments for

years:  the mattress was probably designed for back support.  And the

pillows...

    Jason gave up and went back to sleep.



    When Jasmine was sure Jason had dropped back into sleep, she sat up,

glanced at the bed, and decided it was interesting.  Jason's reaction

had been worth paying attention to as well.  The egghead had never

figured out that she was awake and, at the end, watching through half-

lidded eyes.

    The feel, however, had been the most fun.  She'd learned about as

much as she needed to know about Jason's body -- actually, she wouldn't

have minded a little more information.  Jasmine wondered if she could

risk another grope before morning.

    Reluctantly, she decided against it, lay down, and went back to

sleep -- after arranging herself so that, from Sadira's angle, it would

appear that she was lying with her breasts pressed against Jason.

    When Sadira woke up, she spotted the scene, and looked at it until

Pamela finally stirred.



    Sadira watched Jason and Pamela head out the door.  They'd all had

another obsessive morning, which had somehow rushed into an afternoon

without their notice, and was threatening to verge on evening.  Sadira

had simply nibbled at a Powerbar whenever the need arose, but the others

were getting hungry for real food.  (So was Sadira, but the bars took

less time to eat)  Finally, at five p.m, they'd declared a mutual need

for nourishment, and headed out together to bring back food.  This left 

Sadira and Jasmine alone in the lab, something neither of the two was 

happy about.

    Five o' clock on Friday, March the 22nd.  One week ago, she'd been

infected with the BE-1 virus.  Seven days and twenty-eight inches.

Sadira was currently wearing a I2 BI, whatever that meant.  It was

comfortable when worn, but heavy to hold, and made of something a lot

tougher than ordinary cloth.  The shoulder straps had widened, and,

looking ahead in the sizing, hip supports were about to appear.  Sadira 

was starting to wonder exactly what kind of clientele Pamela's aunt 

serviced... 

    Her eyes unfocused, and the world vanished beneath an overlay of

numbers, letters, and lines, carrying chemical interactions, DNA

sequences, and genome alterations, all flowing before her in a steady

stream of information.

    Jasmine, who had chosen that moment to glance over, knew the look.

Her sister had gone _inside_ again, to that odd place where her highest

intelligence was, and she wasn't coming back until everything had been

resolved to her satisfaction.  Jasmine would never admit it, but the

expression scared her:  it always looked as if Sadira had been taken

over by something that wasn't sure if it wanted to let her go...  It

was the idea, really, being controlled by something instead of doing the

controlling.

    After thirty seconds, Sadira blinked, then moved as fast as she 

could to a notebook, braced it against a support column, and began 

frantically writing.  Jasmine put her book down and went to see what it 

was.

    It was an incomprehensible series of numbers, letters, and sketches,

all coming out at incredible speed.

    Jasmine looked at it for a while, and realized she was going to wind

up asking anyway.  "Big brain find the cure?"  <Please.  She's already

larger than I am...>

    Sadira didn't seem to hear her at first, but Jasmine didn't notice:

she was too busy looking at her thoughts.  <Because if she's bigger than

me and she ever figures out how to use it, then I've got nothing left.

Nothing...>

    Sadira finished writing and looked at Jasmine, who was standing on

her left.  "No.  This is the metabolic acceleration program.  It's 

pretty simple.  If I constructed a virus with these sequences, it would 

induce enhanced healing, the ATP carriers, the works, without causing 

breast growth.  Perfect for speeding recovery."  She shrugged and 

closed the notebook.  "But it's just the start sequence:  no way to 

turn it off."

    "Have you thought about trying to shut down the metabolic thing by

itself?" Jasmine asked.  "You'd still be growing, but a lot slower."

    Sadira looked at Jasmine, and kept on looking, eye to eye.  "Must be

the isolation."

    "What the hell are you talking about?"

    "There's no men around to do things for you.  You're starting to

think for yourself."

    <Fuck you,> Jasmine thought.  Sadira had the brains and Jasmine had

the body, at least that was how it used to be...  "Well, there's one guy

around here."  She artfully paused.  "A pretty good-looking guy,

actually."  Another stop, just long enough to twist the knife.  "You

know, I think he might like me."

    "Fine," Sadira said, turned away, and went back to writing.

    Jasmine blinked.  "Fine?" and blinked again.  She hadn't meant to

_say_ it.

    "Fine.  Perfect.  You want him, you take him."  She wasn't looking

at her sister.

    Jasmine got back on track:  the next words had a teasing lilt.  "So

you don't have any interest in him at all?  You've been working

together:  I just wanted to make sure --"

    "-- that there was something to break up," Sadira interrupted, words

stark and matter-of-fact.  "There isn't.  No dates, no movies, just a

lot of snacks in the cafeteria.  He's yours.  After all, there's nothing

I can do to stop you."

    The sisters had been allowed to start dating at fourteen, and there

had been a dozen little crushes before that.  Jasmine had moved in,

Sadira had fought back, Jasmine had won.  It was their cycle.  They had

run through endless variations on "He might like me."  It was Jasmine's

official starting gun for the race.

    Sadira had never refused to run.

    "I was just checking," Jasmine said, keeping the stun from her

voice.

    "Oh, he's clear, and available, and doesn't deserve what's about to

happen to him.  I've seen what you leave of your dates:  mummification

doesn't leave a corpse that dry.  If you're in the mood to emotionally

destroy a good man, go right ahead.  It's your addiction.  Feed it."

    Jasmine took one small, unconscious step back.  "When I love

someone, I give them _everything_.  Some people can't handle that."

    "No," and the tone was a professor delivering a lecture to the

remedial class.  "you take everything.  You drain whatever you need and

move on.  I may not know how to fuck, but you don't know how to love,

and you can't even tell the difference between the two."

    "There is no difference --" Jasmine said -- and stopped.

    Sadira finally looked at her sister again, just long enough to say

"I feel sorry for you," before she vanished back into the maze.

    Jasmine stood in place for a long time, thinking.



    "How long until we reach the lab?  This bag is leaking all over my

shirt."

    "So hold it straight out from your body.  Another --" Pamela checked

the street signs "-- seven blocks before we turn.  We're pretty close to

our section of Alphabet City."  They were walking along the northern

border of Central Park.  Pamela had her mask off and was basking in the

cloud cover.

    She hadn't cried out in delight upon seeing the weather forecast.

She'd just sat on the bed, quietly smiling.  It had been sunny ever

since Jason had arrived in New York, and he could understand why she

might be sick of it.  "It's a nice fast walk.  Enjoy it."

    Jason looked around, eyes penetrating into Manhattan's more old-

fashioned jungle, gazing at the surrounding buildings, taking in the

sights -- he stopped three seconds after the other people on the street

pinned on the "hayseed" label.

    He couldn't help it.  He was a country mouse visiting the big city,

and there was just so much to see.  The variety of people, shops,

buildings -- Helena was a decent size, but there was only one Manhattan,

and it was a little overwhelming.  A block later, he started looking

again --

    "Pamela," he said, his voice suddenly low, "we're being followed."

    She shrugged.  "Ignore it.  People follow me all the time -- oh.

Are you sure about this?  A car is one thing, but this is pretty common

when I'm on the street."

    "When I looked back the first time, he was glancing down at

something in his hands:  it looked like he was checking photographs, and

then he looked up at us just as I turned back.  He's dropped back a bit,

but he checked the pictures again."

    "Damn," Pamela said quietly.  "Okay, Mouse, follow my lead." She

looked at the gate half a block away.  "We're going for a walk in the

park."



    The targets grasped hands and snuggled close, as if they had decided

they were on a date, and headed into Central Park.  Alex blinked and

picked up speed.  He didn't think he'd been spotted as a tail:  the tall

one had "tourist" inherent in every movement, and had been looking at

everything around him.  He'd had to keep checking the photos on him:

there were more tall people wandering around New York than he wanted to

think about.  He was willing to bet there was only one palling around

with a huge-breasted albino, though.

    Even if they hadn't seen him, he could very easily lose them once

they were in the park, especially if they didn't keep to the main

trails.  His assignment for the two was specific:  find out where

they're going to roost.  If nothing else, he'd spotted them together in

Manhattan:  that might get him the "first sighting" bonus.

    He went through the gate and looked around:  there were, incredibly,

no people in sight.  The day had dawned cloudy and cold, more kin to

January than March, and a lot of people had stayed indoors.  No albino,

no tall guy.  Just a lot of trees in the damp, cold air.

    Alex started down the path, wandering from side to side, looking

through the gaps.  Unless they'd run full speed upon entering the park -

- and the albino wasn't built for running -- they should still be in

view.  It wasn't like they were going to be hard to pick out of a crowd.

    Nothing past the first twenty trees on either side.  He kept moving.

Maybe they'd veered past the large oak on the left...

    He discovered he was right when the hand shot out and pulled him off

-balance before dragging him behind the tree.

    The oak's trunk was huge, easily big enough to conceal a few people

standing directly behind it.  They'd probably been peeking out and

shifting position to stay concealed, waiting for him to get close enough

-- he didn't have instructions for being caught, he was just supposed to

follow them -- and suddenly all of that was a secondary concern.

    "Tell me," the albino said, "is this a finger or a gun?"

    "A gun," he said softly, because it was.  A .38 Police Special,

hammer cocked and ready to go.

    The albino smiled.  "Mouse, they're getting smarter.  In fact, if

he's smart enough to say the right things, he just might get out of this

with three limbs intact."

    The tall man, who was holding him pinned against the tree, nodded

once and said nothing.

    "So now I'm going to ask you a few questions," the woman said, "and

you're going to answer them very truthfully.  And don't give me any of

that 'code of honor, can't betray my employer' crap.  You need to be

alive to apologize."

    When _really_ stuck, lie.  "Look, lady, I'm sorry, I was just

following you because you walked by me before and I wanted to get

another look at your --"

    "Really?"  Her face said she was entertaining the idea.  She took a

small step back, still holding the gun on him.  "Free view.  Go ahead,

look at my chest."

    Alex looked down --

    -- flinched up.

    "Moron," the albino said, resuming her original position.  "You

don't like this kind of body.  I can see it in your eyes.  And that's

one."

    "One what?" he asked, realizing it was going to happen whether he

spoke or not.

    She cracked the butt of the gun against his nose.



    Pamela watched him jerk back, as if he was trying to burrow into the

tree.  His eyes closed with pain, just in time to miss seeing Mouse

wince.  Pamela shot him a dirty look before returning to the idiot's

eyes, which were just beginning to open.  "That was one.  After one

comes two.  Then you get three -- and three is the end of the sequence.

Do you know what three is?"

    He nodded.  His nose was bleeding heavily.

    "Good."  <Because I don't remember the rest of the movie>  What had

Sadira said about confronting Carmody...?  "Now for some truth."  And

fast, because if someone interrupted them, she had no idea how she was

going to explain it.  If she had a camcorder, they could claim to be

filming a movie...  "You're following us.  Right?"

    Another nod as he tried to lick away some of the blood from his

face, wincing at the rusty taste.

    "Good.  A point for you.  Now, the man who hired you is named

Nigilo, correct?"

    "Right."  His voice was now distinctly nasal.

    "Very good."  Pamela smiled.  "Definitely a higher grade of thug

than the last one.  Now, what was your assignment?  Full details,

please."

    He explained.  It didn't take long.

    Pamela looked at him and thought hard.  He was talking to save his

life.  He was telling the truth because he was scared of the

alternative.  But he'd seen them in Manhattan, and could probably guess

that Sadira was somewhere in the vicinity.  She could tell him any

number of lies for relay back to Nigilo -- but what were the odds that

he'd believe any of them?

    And that left them with three alternatives.  Let him go and live

with the consequences.  Try to hit him hard enough to cause amnesia -- a

one in a million shot if you were trying for it deliberately -- so that

he'd have nothing to report.  Kill him.  Pamela didn't think Nigilo was

going to use a spirit medium to get his information.

    If she shot him, someone would hear the gun.  The park was fairly

empty, but it was fairly empty for a city of eight million:  she

couldn't believe they'd gotten this much time alone.  The body would

have to be left in place, and Mouse was wearing fingerless gloves:  no

prints on him anywhere, not for the innocent country boy, but...

    They could conceivably get away with it.

    <Pull the trigger.  Pull the trigger and buy some time.>

    But she didn't want to kill him.  She had to -- it was the only

thing that would purchase the hours.  Nigilo, she could probably shoot

and grind her heel in his face afterwards, but this poor idiot, who

might just be trying to make a buck -- idiocy was a crime to Pamela, but

it wasn't one where she could enforce the death penalty.

    And if she didn't, then it was one more clue for their pursuers,

the deadline got closer, they closed in on them and --

    "I have to kill you," she told him, almost gently.  "You know that,

don't you?"  The Mouse's jaw dropped, and his grip almost slackened, but

he held on.

    "Ivory --"  It was the first time he'd used the nickname.

    Her gaze flickered.  "_Shut up_, Mouse."  She looked at the man's

eyes.  "I think you understand that."

    Slowly, expressionless under the mask of blood, he gave her one

small nod.  He was no longer scared.  He saw his death coming and

accepted the inevitability.

    "Damn you," Pamela whispered, without knowing who or what she had

said it to.  She leveled the gun, aiming between his eyes.  The Mouse

started to let go, grabbing for her arm --

    -- she brought back her right hand and rammed it into the man's

stomach, putting all her hate in the blow, with the injustice flowing

through the knee that went into his crotch as he doubled over, and all

the sadness in the gun butt that landed on the back of his neck.  Pamela

quickly stepped back, and he fell to the ground.  She threw her jacket

open and put the gun back into the special pocket near her hips (she'd

considered a shoulder holster, but her breasts slowed down the drawing

time).  "Let's go."  The Mouse reached down to recover the food.

    They left, leaving the man gasping into the grass, staining the new

spring with his blood.



    "Directly or long way?" Jason said as they exited the park.

    "Does it matter?" Pamela replied.  "We have to go back eventually.

Just keep those eyes open and keep looking around.  You're better than I

thought."  She had a horrible urge to stare at her feet, gave in to it,

and wound up looking at the black fabric that was stretched over the

top of her breasts.  Sometimes, even she forgot.  "I couldn't kill him.

It was the smartest thing to do, the thing that would have bought us the

most time, and I couldn't do it."

    It surprised her when the arm was gently laid across her shoulders,

but not enough to provoke her normal reaction to being touched without

permission.  She simply twitched once as her mind accepted it, then

tolerated the contact -- no, suffered it gladly.

    "I know," Jason said, and they went back to the lab.



    Alex didn't know why they hadn't killed him.  The logic had been

perfect.  He would have killed him.  Instead, they'd let him live.

    He'd found some newspapers in a garbage can and mopped most of the

blood from his face, but he was still getting odd looks as he went up

to the phone and started dialing.  He didn't have enough change and, all

things considered, Nigilo could pay for a collect call.



    The sisters sat and listened quietly until Pamela and Jason finished

their story.  Neither broke in with questions or comments.  They just

paid attention until the end.

    "Sadira, do you remember what I taught you about shooting a gun?"

Sadira nodded.  "I think you used the .22 Remington at the range.  I'll

give you the smallest one.  Princess, can you shoot?"  Jasmine shook her

head.  "You get the taser.  Try to pay attention to who you're pointing

it at.  Mouse, do you --?"  But he had walked away.

    Jason reappeared a moment later, holding the Magnum that Pamela kept

under the computer.  He hadn't been sure whether to believe her when

she'd originally mentioned it, and had gone searching for it when he got

to the lab.  He could understand Pamela's viewpoint:  the neighborhood,

the chemicals and drugs in the lab -- having a gun within reach was a

logical move.  Pamela had three, secured in various places around the

maze.  She occasionally carried one when she went out, and had kept one

with her since Philadelphia.

    He hefted the Magnum, making sure the safety was on, checked to see

if the other three were watching, then threw the gun into the air --

    -- caught it as the down arc began, fingers sliding into position,

clicking the safety off, leveling and aiming in one smooth motion.

    "You know," he said conversationally, "farm boys don't have a lot of

recreational options.  Mostly, we line up bottles along fencetops and

try to pick them off."  Pamela and Sadira were staring with undisguised

delight.  Jasmine was just staring.  "It's either that or risk getting

bored enough to look amorously at sheep."

    When Pamela finally stopped laughing, she said, "Fine.  You get the

Magnum and I'll keep the .38.  We're armed and ready.  If you miss, just

try to hit something that isn't expensive."

    "Do you think they'll try to get us here?" Sadira asked.

    "It's possible," Pamela said.  "People still respond to gunshots in

this neighborhood -- takes a while longer -- so I don't have silencers

on these things.  If there was actually someone else in the building to

hear it, they might report the sound."  She sighed.  "And if the police

do show up, then we have a lot of explaining to do, during which time

they might detain you for a few days.  I don't know, Ebs:  we carry them

with us and hope we don't need to use them.  If they're just wandering

the streets looking for us, then Nigilo has no idea where the lab is,

although we're going to be real careful when we go into the apartment."

    "Sleep in shifts?"  This from Jasmine.

    Pamela stared, then nodded.  "Makes sense, Princess.  Make it a

habit.  But if we've got any brain cells we haven't kicked into action

yet, throw them in gear."

    Sadira got up, wincing all the way.  The weight was increasing as

fast as her back could heal, resulting in a status quo of Much Pain.

"Pamela, Jason, I need you to look at these diagrams.  I puzzled out the

metabolic acceleration effect, and Jasmine had an idea."

    "Two in the same year?" Pamela said as she followed.  "Going to be a

long wait for the millennium."  Sadira sighed as they went around the

corner.

    Jason started to follow, but Jasmine caught his arm.  Her words were

fast and desperate.  "She's right, isn't she?  We all could die if they

find us."

    "No," Jason told her, trying to convince himself.  "They won't kill

us.  We've all been working on the virus now, they've got to realize

that.  If we're dead, we can't tell them how to make it.  If they find

us, they're looking to capture -- probably all of us at once by now."

    "But I'm not working on it," Jasmine protested.  "They don't have to

keep me alive.  They won't care --"  She threw herself into his body,

hugging tightly.  He stood shocked for a second before instinct kicked

in and he returned the hug, patting her back.  "I don't want to die,

Jason.  I don't want --"

    -- and her hands were on his cheeks, and she'd stepped back at some

point, pulling him down, and --

    -- on her side, the kiss was hot and powerful, and beneath that

there was expertise, long experience in kissing that might even come out

in an honest moment --

    -- he found himself returning it.

    They separated.

    "I just wanted you to know that," Jasmine said, and turned away,

heading back for her desk.

    "Mouse?" Pamela called out.  "The data?  This year?"

    He headed towards them, head spinning.



    Carmody put down his coffee and answered the phone.

    "Carmody.  No, Mr. Stanis, he's gone home for the night.  I'm

coordinating all operations.  Shaw and Pterros?  They did what?  Could

you speak a little more clearly?"  The man on the other end couldn't:

Carmody decided his nose was broken.  It took several repetitions to

get the whole story across.  "Yes, we'll pay for the medical expenses.

You did your best."  He made a mental note to adjust the budget again.

    "Central Park North.  And you didn't see where they were headed?

Did anyone else know?"  Of course not:  it was hard enough to ask New

Yorkers questions on the street when the lower half of one's face wasn't

covered by blood.  "No, that is the first sighting.  You will get that

bonus.  We appreciate your services, but we'll have to cut you from the

operation.  I think Ms. Shaw and Mr. Pterros would be able to recognize

you now, possibly even with a disguise.  You also have to consider your

health."  He listened.  "I'm glad you agree.  Yes, I will warn the

others.  I'd like to apologize for your suffering -- I suppose it is

part of the job.  Thank you for your services."

    Carmody had been writing notes as he listened to the call:  he

looked at the small pad and analyzed the contents.  If Shaw and Pterros

had been on foot, then their destination was most likely close by.  He

glanced at the map of New York City that he'd attached to his desk.  The

gate in question was nearest to Alphabet City and Harlem, both odd

places for a genetics laboratory --

    -- unless, of course, you had a very limited budget, and weren't all

that concerned about the neighborhood -- or had the raw strength of

personality to believe you could hold it off.

    Harlem would welcome the economic development:  the area was

rebuilding, bringing a positive reputation back -- but people were

usually a little reluctant to allow a virus factory in their

neighborhood.  There was also, realistically, the small problem of the

owner being white.  Very white.

    And then there was Alphabet City, where the police looked twice

before entering, neighborhood revitalization meant all the crack houses

had hit a simultaneous high, and no one asked questions.  And no one

answered them.

    It made a very strange and oddly wondrous kind of sense.

    He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and continued studying the

notes.



    Pamela watched Sadira pick up the gun, look it over, and put it down

again.  She wasn't comfortable with it.  Pamela wasn't all that

comfortable with her having it.  They'd gone to the shooting range once

and only once.  They had been asked not to come back together.  Sadira's

aim lacked something:  a consistent sense of direction.  By the time she

fired the seventh bullet, everyone on the range was ducking at the sound

of the shot.  It might have been better to give her the taser instead:

at least if she dropped it, it wouldn't go off --

    -- but Sadira _hadn't_ been dropping things lately.  Her range of

motion was becoming restricted through size and injury, but her hands

moved with a new confidence.  No flying elbows, no interlocked feet --

her agility and manual dexterity had been steadily improving since her

arrival in New York.  There was no way the virus could be having that

effect.  So what was going on?

    Pamela thought it over, and smiled.  Sadira was still looking at the

gun.

    "Catch!"

    Sadira turned, eyes scanning and focusing, right hand shooting out

to grab the moving object --

    Pamela's apartment keys were resting in her palm.  She looked at her

ex-roommate, uncomprehending.

    "When exactly did you start getting clumsy?" Pamela asked.

    Sadira stared at her friend as if she had suddenly turned into a

very large cave fish.  "Eleven or twelve.  I always figured the

treatments damaged something vital."

    "Sure.  Right around the same time Jasmine started developing."

Pamela shook her head, still smiling.  "Lots of people look at a pre-

teen girl with D-cups.  I bet they don't pay a lot of attention to

ordinary sisters at first glance.  Intelligence isn't obvious.  On the

other hand, someone tripping and fumbling gets a lot of attention."

    Sadira's eyes narrowed.  "You're saying that I made myself clumsy in

order to get people to look at me?"

    "Not consciously - but it worked, didn't it?  But now you're bigger

than Jasmine, and people are going to look at that without prompting.

You don't _need_ to drop things anymore -- so you're not dropping them."

    Sadira started laughing.  She could see the logic of it, but it was

so silly, and so simple...  "Where did you get that piece of crap?"

    "The usual place:  Psych 101."

    "It sounds a little pat."

    "Do you have a better idea?"

    It was hard to speak through the laughter.  "No, damnit, I don't!

One little childhood insecurity problem and I spend a decade tripping

over my own feet..."  <and infecting myself.>

    Pamela saw the mirth drop away, partially changed the subject.  "So

pick up the gun.  You might be able to hit what you're aiming at."

    Sadira reached out and recovered the weapon.



    Work.  Try to solidify a theory.  Attempt to work past the paranoia

long enough to test it.  Fail and start again.  Surprisingly, Sadira was

holding up better than anyone.  Whenever the stress started to close in,

she took a small, empty tin and tossed it in the air, catching it

without looking at it until she felt ready to try again.  Jason nearly

walked into things, his focus narrowed on the future, and Pamela was

caught softly swearing under her breath.  Jasmine simply stared at the

words in her books as if she'd forgotten how to translate the symbols

into concepts, and couldn't capture the memory of meaning.

    They worked until midnight, and then went back to the apartment,

checking the windows from the street for three minutes before attempting

entry.  It seemed unoccupied when they entered, and took only seconds to

search:  there was hardly room to hide.

    Jasmine drew the long straw, so took the first two-hour shift,

sitting by the door with the taser in her hand and fear in her face.

    Eventually, the others somehow managed to find sleep, and even

Sadira tossed and turned, the cocoon no longer solid enough to keep the

night away.





                      20. 62:  Probability reversal



    Sadira woke to find Pamela sitting up in bed, wireless headphones

on, with her gun at her side.  She was alternating glances at the door

and the television set.  Sadira focused on the second --

    -- managed to look away for a moment, to where they'd piled

Jasmine's bags.  The duffel that held the merchandise was open.  The

tape case was on top of a pillow.

    Pamela turned at Sadira's movements, and her face held nothing but

passive neutrality.  "Four positions and three lines," she said evenly.

"And she flubbed the lines."  She shrugged.  "I was very bored and when

I turned on a light to read by, the Mouse started waking up.  Waste of

time.  Sorry:  I didn't think you were going to wake up this early."

    Sadira found herself looking at the screen again.  Pamela reached

for the remote, ready to turn it off.

    "I've seen it," Sadira told her.  "I walked in on her once.  This

isn't much different."  She got up and headed for the bathroom.  Pamela

turned off the set.

    <Well,> she thought, glancing at the sleeping Princess, <if nothing

else, she's limber.>  Jason stirred.  Pamela reached for the case and

crawled across the bed, reaching for the VCR.  She was going to replace

the movie before the Princess saw what she'd been up to.



    "I don't think we're anywhere _near_ the Museum of Modern Art.  We

should have paid more attention to the subway map."

    "Well, that homeless person was sleeping in front of it.  I just

didn't want to get that close."  Claire shaded her eyes and looked

around.  If the neighborhood could be described as any sort of artwork,

it was a Dada painting:  randomly picked chaotic elements with no

intention of achieving a coherent whole.  The only consistent factor

was decay.  "Nearly a week late starting our vacation and now we can't

even find anything.  You should have taken that map from the token

booth."

    "I didn't because you told me there was a map in every car.  We

could have --"  Vic stopped and took a deep breath.  "We're on vacation.

We are finally, almost miraculously on vacation, and I'm not going to

spend it fighting with my wife."  He looked around the street, trying to

avoid meeting the eyes of the people standing around -- and leaning --

and sleeping on the sidewalk...  Vic reached out and hugged his wife.

"This was supposed to keep us from falling apart, remember?  To get

outside the hospital?  I think I can see Central Park from here, and the

Museum is supposed to be on the eastern side:  what say we just take a

nice romantic walk until we spot the place?"

    Claire pulled back slightly, but only so she could look directly at

his face, her skin seeming to glow in the morning sun.  "Was that a

proposal, Mr. Shalm?"

    "No," he said, "that was a proposition.  If the day goes well, we

may get to the proposal around noon."

    She smiled.  "We may not wait that long..." and kissed him.  "But

not here.  Let's get out of this neighborhood."

    Victor laughed.  "Right!  No point stirring up the locals."  They

started down the street, sighting on the trees, walking hand in hand.

    Claire allowed herself a smile:  maybe the rest would do them some

good.  She might be able to forget the roving eye Vic had been

developing -- and, although she wasn't going to admit it to him, her own

tendency to look around for more than a brief glance.  She'd realized

the need for time with her husband when she'd spent four minutes

treating a twenty-second leg scrape on a college student so she could

enjoy the view of his butt...

    But they'd made it to Manhattan at last, with no train derailment

and medical mystery to slow them down this time.  Vic had spent two days

fuming about his conversation with GenTree and the girl's escape, but

he'd finally settled down and rescheduled everything.  Together, and he

was holding her hand tightly, as if the bit of danger added a little

spice to the day.

    She didn't realize Vic had stopped dead until his hand didn't move

forward with her:  she was nearly pulled off her feet, jerked back and

sideways, nearly knocking her husband over.  "Victor Shalm --!"

    "Shh!"  A fierce whisper.  He was staring across and up the street,

looking at four people slowing their pace as they came up to a very

shabby building.  Rather, he was looking at one of them.  A very, very

large-breasted one...

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

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

the black hair!"

    Claire's anger faded long enough for her to focus -- and then she

kept looking.  Her eyesight was perfect:  even from across the street,

she could make out the features of the young woman who had collapsed on

the cold ground, and later run as if she'd been set afire.  The face was

the same, the hair, height -- but the bustline had undergone a drastic

increase.

    She felt her jaw start to drop, and gathered it in.  "That is her,"

Claire whispered back.  "You couldn't get two faces like that."

    "Want to bet?" Vic replied.  "Look at the blonde."  Claire did.  The

breasts seemed smaller, but the face was a near-exact match.  Of the

other two, the man was turning towards the door, and she couldn't quite

see his face.  The fourth was completely swathed in black cloth, but was

obviously female.  Very obviously.  It was a macromastia convention.

    "That's got to be padding," she argued, wanting to believe it.  "No

one can grow that much in less than a week..."

    "I don't think so," Vic answered.  The blonde woman looked as if she

was starting to feel eyes on her.  "Let's go."  They hurriedly walked

down the street.

    Jasmine spotted them as they were about to turn the corner, but

thought nothing of it.  She didn't think that scouts would go out in

teams or run after being spotted (they'd walk casually away to avoid

suspicion) -- so she didn't think of scouts at all.  She saw a middle-

aged white couple in good clothes rushing to get out of Alphabet City,

which was something she could understand completely.  Jasmine didn't see

it as being worth mentioning.  And she didn't.



    Carmody had gone to the bathroom.  It was the only reason Nigilo

could think of for his being out of the office.  He was, for all intents

and purposes, living in his chair, but it didn't have a built-in toilet.

Nigilo didn't think he'd get very far proposing a new type of office

seat at the next board meeting.

    He walked around the desk, waiting for his assistant to return.

They had been getting together at the end of each day to discuss the

latest results -- or, realistically, the continuing lack of results --

and formulate a plan for the next day's attack.  The talks hadn't

produced the result Nigilo wanted, but he was determined to continue

them.  If nothing else, it helped him focus his thoughts.

    The phone rang.

    If it was someone calling in a report, there was no sense in waiting

for Carmody to return to get the information -- and Carmody didn't get

personal calls.  Nigilo picked up the receiver.

    "GenTree Research."

    "Is Carmody there?"  He didn't know the voice, but it was angry,

tense:  none of his employes would talk to him that way.

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

    The tone was fluctuating, as if tension and relief were warring in

every syllable.  "Good.  Then maybe I can get some straight answers out

of you.  This is Victor Shalm; I spoke to Carmody earlier in the week.

Who I am speaking with?"

    Nigilo stiffened.  He remembered Shalm very well:  he remembered the

whole incident at the hospital, and the second phone call, which Carmody

had given him word for word.  But why call now?  He'd said he couldn't

prove anything.  Had he taken some sort of cell sample and actually

deduced what was happening?  Carefully, carefully... "Victor, my name is

Kyle Nigilo.  I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Kyle:  that might help

repair whatever damage my assistant has done.  What can I help you

with?"

    The relief was winning out:  Shalm was obviously happy to get

someone who was at least willing to put forth the semblance of honesty.

"Do you know what I was originally speaking to your assistant about?"

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

    Barking laughter.  "Good.  Well, I went on my own vacation, and

spotted your little vacationer again --"

    Years of lying, years of deception, his knowledge of the prior

conversation, an entire career reached synergy.  "Victor, if you've seen

Sadira Archer, then you may be responsible for saving a life.  I need

you to tell me exactly where she was and what she was doing."

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

    "No, thank God."  He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength to

force out the truth.  "Sadira is one of our top geneticists, and she

really is on vacation at the moment -- but the day she left, she was

accidentally infected by a proto-virus.  From what our researchers have

been able to tell, the virus was one of the trial runs from her own

metabolic research:  it's accelerating her body functions.  There's also

a radical degree of breast hypertrophy -- and dementia." He paused and

took another breath:  so hard and yet so good to tell the truth at

last...

    "It took us a while to figure out what had happened to her, and

we've been working with the government to bring her back and find a

cure.  Yours is the first real clue we've had.  The metabolic effect in

increasing:  if we hadn't found her in a few more days, she would

have --" he put a small pause in, just enough time to choke back false

pain.  "-- she would have died.  But if we can find her, treat her, then

we might be able to save her.  The control agencies have been making us

work quietly -- they don't think the public would believe it can't be

passed along.  They wouldn't give Carmody the clearance to tell you the

first time, and we were too late.  If you can tell me where you saw

her..."

    "Dementia?  She ran out of the hospital like she was possessed."  He

was buying it, full price from the impulse counter.  He needed someone

to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that his world

made sense, and now Nigilo was doing just that.

    "Yes, and getting worse.  We think she may have some awareness of

the mental effects, and be working with old college friends to fight it

-- she may have convinced them that she's in danger:  the dementia also

manifests as paranoia."

    "Oh, God."  A very real choking sound.  "I waited the whole day to

call because I thought I'd just get lied to again.  If she dies because

I didn't call earlier, then --"

    "Victor, it's not your fault.  There's no way you could have known,

not with all the secrecy the government's been forcing on us."  When in

doubt, blame the authorities.  "They don't seem to feel one young

woman's life is worth anything.  Help us prove them wrong."

    And at the other end of the line, sitting in a hotel room, with his

wife listening to every word, Victor Shalm told Kyle Nigilo everything

he could.  Nigilo helped him bring out the detail, speaking

reassuringly, calming him when the effort became too much and he again

began to blame himself for the delay.  Under his guidance, Vic

searched his memory with the determination of a man possessed, somehow

dredging out the name of the street, a description of the building, and

two digits of the building number.

    Nigilo could think of only two places all four would have to go into

-- a laboratory or an apartment:  no other reason to haul their test

subject around.  And with either location, they were guaranteed to

return eventually.

    "Victor, you've just saved a life."  He projected the smile.  "On

vacation, no less.  Thank you."

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

    "We have the counter-virus ready.  All we have to do is get it to

her -- or her to it, so we can monitor the effects."

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

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



    Carmody walked back into his office and found Nigilo sitting behind

his desk, looking at a series of notes in exceptionally bad handwriting.

Nigilo looked up and smiled, wide, sincere and contented, like a shark

who had scented blood from heavily-wounded prey.

    "Game," he began slowly, relishing the moment, "set, and match."

And, taking great delight in every word, he told Carmody exactly what

had just transpired.  Carmody stood and listened, his face reflecting

none of the joy his boss felt -- but then, he was always neutral in

Nigilo's presence, no matter what he was feeling.

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

    "Recover her, of course.  I want a team assembled from the agents we

already have in New York.  They'll check the building, they'll check the

contents of the building, and then they'll check her off my things-to-do

list.  I've been thinking about ways to smuggle her out of New York."

Nigilo held up the note pad.  "They'll probably have to drive out to a

private airport:  if we have them drive her back, it'll take nearly

three days -- they'll certainly notice any growth over that period.

Unless she's stopped -- no, let's not take the chance.  Do we have

anyone trustworthy on staff who can fly a plane?"

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

    "All right, but if we don't, just bribe a pilot.  And we'll have to

get the facilities at Cascade ready for her.  I should contact the 

potential sponsors at some point..."  He got up, stretched, and suddenly

laughed, head tilted towards the sky.  "Come on, Carmody!  Hurry up and 

make those calls so I can buy you dinner!"  Nigilo walked around the desk 

andsat in one of the visitor's chairs, perfectly comfortable, then 

gestured for Carmody to sit down.

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

personnel records.

    "It's got to be the lab," Nigilo said.  "No other reason for them to

be dragging the lab rat with them in the morning.  By the time we finish

setting things up, they'll probably be done for the night.  We'll have

to wait for tomorrow morning."  He still had the note pad with him:  a

few more words were scribbled.  "I think we can afford to wait.  She's

gone to ground:  no further running.  She doesn't know how close we are.

It's something else, Carmody.  All negatives, not a single encouraging

word from the East Coast, no sightings at all, and now we pin them down

_exactly_ on a phone call from someone we're not even paying!"

    Carmody looked up from the screen.  "Harold Adams in Grafting.  He

has a pilot's license, and might know someone to contact for a plane.  A

rental, perhaps, under a false name."

    "Sensible," Nigilo said.  He was still in high spirits.  "I'm

telling you, Carmody, it's almost enough to make me believe in a

benevolent higher power -- higher than me, anyway.  I'm feeling so good,

I'm going to let Victor Shalm live."

    "Sir?"

    Nigilo grinned hugely.  "It's a joke, Carmody.  He's no danger to

anyone.  He knows the virus isn't contagious, he believes it's

dangerous, and he thinks he's saved Archer's life.  He also believes the

government was involved, and that the matter has to kept quiet.  Mr.

Shalm is not going to talk.  The only real question is who else might

open their mouths, and I'm not sure anybody will."

    Carmody carefully listened as Nigilo said "Archer's the key:

Pterros and Shaw are secondary.  We don't need the sister at all.  But

the more people we have to transport, the greater the risk.  Maybe we

should just concentrate on Archer..."  He looked up from the pad.  "I'm

bringing in another phone.  Two people can plot faster than one -- and

the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat."  He eased out of the seat and

headed for the door.  "Lobster, Carmody!"  A smile.  "Now what should I

have?"



                        21. 66:  Hang together...



    Sadira looked at the bra label, then at the mirror, then at the

measuring tape.

    The label said 32 LII A.

    She could no longer see the full bulk of her breasts unless she

stepped back from the mirror -- and, given the size of the bathroom,

into the tub.  The basic shape had remained the same throughout the

growth, with her size increasing in even proportion in all directions,

but there now seemed to be a slight shift, with the newest cells

accumulating towards the front of the glands:  somewhat more projection

and less descent.  It might be an optical illusion:  things changed

fast enough to make keeping exact track difficult.

    At the moment, the lower slopes were well past her navel, heading

for her waist -- but there was a proportionate amount of forward growth.  

Her breasts projected over a foot from her torso even out of the bra, 

just from sheer mass.  The overall effect was to completely shroud her 

upper torso:  from the front, the view was mammaries from collarbone to 

waist, and she could, turned and looking over her shoulder with arms 

partially raised, catch a reflection of them from the back.  (Or, for 

that matter, with her arms lowered)  The nipples were semi-erect and 

_still_ over an inch in length.  On Pamela's recommendation, she'd 

started wearing Band-Aids over them.

    The measuring tape read sixty-six inches.  She was now quite

literally bigger around than she was tall -- and, in a flash of raw

intuition, she realized that was what Level II meant.

    <I should probably tell Pamela.>  She'd caught Ivory staring at the

Level IIs on occasion with a mixture of confusion and frustration.

<Maybe later.  She's already annoyed about being up this early.>

    Sadira struggled into the bra -- she never got to stick with any

size long enough to master it, and the new hip and lower back supports

were giving her some trouble.  They'd moved out of Pamela's personal

experience, so she got to tackle it alone -- and help hadn't been

offered.  While Pamela had continued offering advice and thrown herself

into the new role of exercise therapist, she hesitated at anything that

involved physical contact -- sometimes with an odd side glance towards

Jason.  Sadira had stopped asking.

    <Of course.  I don't find me attractive either.>  She finally got

the straps aligned and reached for the blouse.  It was the largest one

left from their first shopping trip, and it was getting tight.  They'd

have to make another run on the Brick S. House.  Or the camping store.

A pup tent might fit.

    "Come on already!"  Jasmine.  "If we're going to do this, let's get

going before daylight!"  If she didn't get to enjoy a full night's

sleep, no one else got to enjoy the morning.  Sadira could hear Pamela

grumbling outside, and Jason rattling pots.

    <Yeah.  And if we picked the right place and you used the right

booth, we could be there all day.>  Sadira toweled her hair and left the

bathroom.



    "Look, I'll just wait outside.  You three go in without me."  Pamela

stared at the stonework.  "I'll yell if anything happens."

    "You're the one who said we should stay together, remember?" Jason

insisted.  "And we could all use this."

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

    "I'd prefer a Methodist church myself," Sadira said, "but this is

what's close by.  I made everyone get up early so I could do this, so

let's not stall.  And Pamela -- he wants everybody."

    "Don't I get a choice in the matter?"  Sadira pointed down.  "Right,

very funny.  I'll be in the foyer."

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

    "Sure.  I need someone to blame."

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

    Pamela didn't seem to believe it.

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

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



    The church held multiple pews and four people:  there were no

priests around at the moment.  Each Bible in the pews was attached to

the wood by a short, thin chain.  Most of the lit candles had burnt

close to the base, and the stained glass was illuminated only by the

harsh streetlights outside.  The statue of Jesus looked as if he was

loving and suffering as usual, but his head was tilted towards his

shoulder, as if he was trying to see someone sneaking up behind the

cross.  A streetwise saint.

    By unspoken agreement, the group separated.  Jason went to the

front, getting close to the statue.  Pamela, obviously uncomfortable,

stayed near the door.  Jasmine just sat in the nearest pew.  Sadira, who

had a fondness for candlelight, went to the area with the most burning

wicks and carefully knelt down, trying to keep her back straight.  The

required medication dosage had been steadily increasing.

    "Hi," she whispered.  On the rare occasions when Sadira prayed, it

was always out loud and on a personal basis.  It was easier to talk to a

person than some sort of distant, omnipotent, and seemingly aloof being.

"I know it's been a while, but -- well, you know what's been happening

lately.  I just wanted to --"

    She stopped and looked across at Jason, about fifty feet away.  He

was sitting on the floor, hands pressed together and eyes closed.  His

lips were still, and he seemed at peace.

    "Once before, I asked to live, and you gave me that -- but the price

was that I had to live in fear, because anything else I got would kill

me unless I could deal with it myself.  Is there always a price?  I

thought it was just the other one who made bargains."

    Sadira focused on one of the lights.  There was something comforting

about a lit candle:  it was delicate fire, something that seemed to need

protection.  It couldn't consume and destroy, only illuminate and guide.

    "I know about all the problems of the world, and the pain suffered

by others.  I was trying to solve one of them -- and maybe I got

sidetracked by jealousy, and the memory of pain.  Maybe the project was

about me all along.  But if jealousy is a sin, then the punishment

is too extreme for the crime.  I never thought you were petty.  We may

be created in your image, but you're not supposed to be flawed."

    A glance back.  Pamela was looking at the door, keeping watch for

all of them, and standing as if she hoped to be moving through it soon.

    "I want to live.  I want to be cured.  I want to be loved..."  She

looked at the flame again and reached out with her mind, trying to feel

something tangible.  "I think you're here:  I don't believe any one

religion is right.  We've never been able to do any real testing."

Sadira smiled faintly.  "I just hope that you're listening, and seeing

us.  We've all paid the price, in fear and paranoia and..."

    She stopped and looked back to Jasmine.  Her sister had leaned back

in the pew, as much as the uncomfortable configuration would allow.  She

seemed to be examining the ceiling.

    "If pain is always the price, then we've paid it in full."  The

flame danced, flickered, steadied.  "Please," Sadira said simply, and

waited.

    She felt nothing in the church, no presence waiting just beyond her

normal senses, no flow of love and comfort.  There was only the quiet

glow of the candlelight.

    The flame went out.



    Gordon was the first to see the lights on the seventh floor.

"Shit!" he said.  "We're dealing with fucking _owls_!"  Given the

description of the building, he'd been able to run down the address,

the name of the landlord, and the name of the person renting the space:

 all a matter of paperwork, once you knew where to start looking.  You

could even do it late on a Saturday night with the right connections,

but it took a while.

    By the time they'd confirmed the information and checked in with

Nigilo, he'd decided on a morning trip.  They were to get there early in

the morning and wait for the four to arrive, then, if it looked like it

was going to be easy, pull them off the street.  Gordon, as the senior

member of the team, had decided to show up forty-five minutes before

sunrise, just in case the targets were early risers -- and he got owls.

"So much for grabbing them off the sidewalk," he muttered.

    "Now what?" Carter asked.  "Do we wait around until they're finished

for the day and then take them?  Or do we hang out here until they go

out for lunch?"

    "If they go out for lunch," Stan pointed out.  "If they're here this

early, they may be sleeping in the lab and working in shifts.  The doc

might have caught them on a supply run."

    Roger shook his head.  "Nigilo sounded happy.  Nigilo spends money

when he's happy.  If we sit around out here for a week waiting for them

to need a change of underwear, then he's not going to be happy any

more.  It's early, it's Alphabet City, and if they are sleeping in,

there's a good chance some of them are asleep."

    "You want to go in?" Carter said incredulously.  "You want to risk

waking up the whole damn neighborhood?  I hope you explain it in exactly

those terms when the police show up."

    Gordon stroked the scar on his throat.  It was from shaving:  he

told people it was an old knife wound.  "Not necessarily," he said.

"I've lived around here long enough to know how the locals think.

They'll probably wait until long after the shooting stops to call the

cops -- not that they'll hear anything to begin with."  He hefted the

special gun.  "And Nigilo wanted a security expert --" a glance at Stan

"-- in this group for a good reason.  We've broken into labs for him

before."

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

    "You heard the man, same as I did," Roger reminded him.  "He was

willing to wait for morning, but not much longer than that.  And you

also heard his reasoning on the others.  You may not agree with the man

-- I'm not sure I follow all of his logic -- but he's the one signing

the checks.  He gets what he wants.  And he wanted us in the lab before

we finished:  if they're staying there, then we have to go in."

    Gordon nodded.  "I don't like rushing in," he said.  "But I don't

like waiting, either.  We might have to flush these quail.  Think hard,

boys.  We need a solid plan.  I've never been shot, and I don't intend

to be taken down by game birds."



    Pamela was practicing science as meditative exercise:  constructing

the metabolic acceleration virus was helping her calm down after being

in the church.  She had nothing against most religions.  She had nothing

towards them, either.  Pamela occasionally wished they felt the same way

about her.

    She was using the same philosophy the Mouse had employed in

rebuilding the BE-1 virus:  see what this does and then think about ways

to undo it:  maybe it all goes to the same place.

    Even if it had come from the Princess, the slowdown was a good idea.

She had been somewhat ashamed of herself for not thinking of it.  The

real problem was the _speed_ of the growth, not the growth itself:  

slowing things down to normal human speed would buy them months, years 

to work on a full cure.

    But not a reversal; some of the tissue was fat, but most of it was

glandular:  exercise and weight loss wouldn't help that.  There was no

viral way to get rid of matter.  All they could do for that was take her

to a psychiatrist, try to get her past the phobia...

    Pamela glanced at Sadira, who had adopted her new favorite writing

position:  notebook braced with her left hand against a column and just

above her head, pressing the pencil down hard.  The notebook was

shifting slightly, but she was compensating.  She looked ridiculously

sexy.

    <I like her this way,> Pamela thought, and then mentally slapped

herself before kicking her libido into a dark corner.  Sadira was in

pain, more every day.  Her breasts had become large enough to make

sitting down near a table and writing uncomfortable, and writing

sidesaddle wasn't as easy as typing; that was why she used the column.

She had almost outgrown her clothes, she was moving so very much more

slowly...

    But she was still Sadira.  Flat or insanely buxom, she was still

sexy.  <And that includes insanely buxom,> her libido reminded her.

She kicked it around again.  <Great time to decide I have a breast

fetish.  Archer fetish.  Whatever.>  She'd been avoiding potentially

sexual contact, honoring her agreement with the Mouse, but still...

    Sadira wasn't the only one who needed to bring changes of

undergarments to the lab.  Only hers were going to be for the lower

body.

    Some cold water in the face might help:  it might wake her up a bit

more, anyway.  Pamela stepped away from the Mutator, and was heading for

the bathroom when she heard the beep.

    It was fairly high-pitched, formulated to act as an instant sonic

annoyance that could penetrate nearly any amount of concentration.  A

good case of sexual confusion didn't stand a chance.  Pamela immediately

swerved and headed for the door, focusing on the little status panel as

she approached.  One of the lights was glowing red.

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

company!"

    They were with her in seconds, even the Princess.  Pamela jabbed a

finger at the panel.  "Someone just cracked the second lock, just past

the door, but whatever they used to open it wasn't electrically

conductive:  they broke the circuit.  We're going to have visitors, and

they already beat the first keypad."  She hit a switch on the side of

the panel.  "If they've got the second combination, that'll slow them

down:  I just scrambled it."

    "How long?" the Princess said urgently.

    "Don't know.  Everyone remember what we discussed earlier?"  Nods.

The Mouse walked over to the wall phone, picked it up, and shook his

head:  no dial tone.  The police had been a dubious option before, and

now they were a closed one.  "All right.  It's just us.  Grab your

weapons and break.  Let's make these rats run the maze."



    Shaw's security was good, but anything less than _great_ in

Manhattan wasn't enough:  Stan got them past the series of locks and

pads on the first floor in eight minutes.  They emerged from the

stairwell (because you _never_ trusted the elevator) and got past the

second series in six minutes, working carefully and quietly.  Gordon

motioned the others forward as the final barrier fell, and they got into

position, ready to storm the lab.  There was a slight chance the

occupants knew they had arrived.  They might also have weapons, which

was why the team had bulletproof vests under their ambulance whites.

    Gordon signalled _ready_ with a quick hand motion, and put his

rubber-gloved hand on the doorknob.  No electrical charge.  A quick turn

and push --

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

    -- darkness.

    The first hints of dawn were starting to make themselves felt

through the closed curtains, lending odd shadows to the pieces of

equipment in front of them.  Gordon could see a tangle of little paths

leading around and through the metal, little indicator lights here and

there, and nothing else.

    Carter tapped his shoulder and, when Gordon turned, began signaling

with his barely-visible hands -- a useful skill in covert operations --

raising them so they'd be visible to the group.  "Lights on a timer?"

    "I don't think so," Gordon signed back.  One of the indicator lights

was on the wall next to him, and it was an angry red.  "I think they

want an ambush.  We've got a bunch of scared scientists here:  let's see

who's better."  He turned fully and signalled to Roger and Stan.  "Be

careful."  They could always be scared scientists with _weapons_.

    Nods, visible as a shifting of shadows, and more hurried signing.

Roger proposed separating, arguing that the occupants wouldn't huddle

together in the center:  they would have to be found and caught one by

one.  Gordon agreed and searched the wall for the light switch,

considering that it could be hooked up to a trap.  He rejected the idea 

and tried it.  It didn't work.

    They went into the maze.



    Jason knelt next to the huge filing cabinet on the west wall:  as

the largest, he had to hide by the biggest thing available.  The Magnum

felt surprisingly comfortable in his hands, though he would have

preferred an old-fashioned long rifle.  And a silencer:  he understood

they made _some_ sound, but it might help a bit.  Unfortunately, Pamela

had been unable to acquire them.

    He had never shot a person before.

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



    Carter moved slowly through the maze.  There were double-blinds

everywhere, strange shadows, odd twists and veers.  He suspected it was

a bitch to navigate in full lighting.  Waiting for dawn wouldn't have

helped much:  what he could see of the curtains looked thick, and the

street was on the wrong angle.

    He hadn't wanted to invade directly.  The place might be populated

by wimp brains, but who knew what those brains had come up with?  He was

carefully avoiding contact with the machinery.  These people worked with

viruses:  there could be some nasty booby traps set up...

    Given a second chance, he would sit on the curb until Doomsday.  But

he was here now, and he intended to get out in one piece.



    Pamela waited by the photocopier, watching and listening.  Her

thoughts mostly concerned not making the same mistake twice.



    Roger spotted the two computer systems and almost headed for them,

but checked himself and turned right.  They had to find the occupants

first.  Unless Carter was right, and the lights were on a timer.  A

great thought:  they could sit and wait.  But what kind of timer shut

off at this hour?  Computer failure?

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



    Jasmine crouched between the electron microscope and the disposal

oven, clutching the taser in trembling fingers.  She remembered how to

use it:  just squeeze the sides and thrust forward.  That was all.  If

it was working.  If the person was within reach.  If she was still

moving after she was seen.

    She'd kissed Jason because she'd wanted to kiss him, begin the next

stage, but there had been an honest emotion behind it.  She wasn't an

egghead, she hadn't been working on the virus.  If they were all

captured, then there was no reason to bring her back.  Jasmine couldn't

help, they probably knew that already, and how long could she fake it if

they didn't?  Easier to just keep her quiet, and the most permanent way

of keeping her quiet was...

    She unconsciously, compulsively squeezed the taser.  The blue sparks

flew from the contact points, almost blinding after the long darkness,

and there was a crackle, and a faint smell of ozone.  Jasmine's first

thought was relief:  the battery was charged and ready -- and the first

realization was that the taser made a sound, and made a light, she'd

just heard and seen it, and someone else might --

    -- the hand seized her wrist and squeezed hard.  Jasmine screamed in

pain and dropped the taser as she was dragged out into the maze, a gun

pressed against her head.



    The scream rang across the lab.  Pamela and Jason couldn't tell who

it was:  the twins' voices were too similar -- but Sadira knew.  She was

at the east wall, too far away to reach Jasmine quickly:  they'd spread

out to make it harder to catch them.

    She started to move -- and remembered Pamela's plan:  there was only

one way out of the lab.  They'd have to take her out the door, and Jason

was closest.  And if they came out of hiding and rushed towards Jasmine,

they lost all advantage.  Free for all, and who knew what could happen?

    But Jasmine was in danger.  Her sister...

    If she got to the microscope from the right angle, moved without

being seen or heard, she might be able to trump the hostage card, take

the invader prisoner.  But how to move?  She risked a glance out --

    -- and saw the shadow of a man, gun drawn, to the right.  She darted

back.  She'd have to emerge more fully to get a good shot, and if she

missed -- even if she didn't, if they heard the sound and panicked...



    Gordon looked at his catch in the dim light:  the face was about

right, and the boobs were fine for all those "very's," but the hair was

blonde.  The sister was a blonde, unless the scientist had dyed hers in

the past few days...  No, hair wasn't good enough for identification:  

almost completely reliable normally, but not under these circumstances.

He was ninety percent sure he had the dancer, but he wanted one hundred.

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

    "Sadira, oh God, please, Sadira, don't kill me..."  <Because they

won't kill Sadira, they can't, if they're confused then they won't kill

me...>

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



    Jason flinched.  Jasmine and her captor were standing in an

acoustical center:  they were audible to the entire floor.  He was

supposed to get to the door, wait for them to try and exit -- but this

was now a hostage situation.  Gun vs. gun -- they'd sacrifice him and he

couldn't risk Jasmine...



    "I'm not sure you're Sadira," Gordon said, cultivating a special

tone in his voice:  reassuring menace.  What he told her was true, no

matter how terrifying it sounded.  If she believed him, then it was

close to being over -- and this one seemed too scared to think straight.

They'd told him the scientist thought fast under pressure, and she would

know they wanted her alive for the information:  therefore, this was the

dancer.  So it was time for information, because this looked like a

planned setup that was starting to break down, and he had the weak link

in his grasp.

    His voice became softer, pitched only for her ears.  "I think you're

Jasmine.  I don't need Jasmine." She was shaking in his grip, too scared

to try to escape, too scared to think straight.  "But maybe you can live

through this.  Where's Sadira?"

    She was trembling harder, almost vibrating, and the faint light let

him see beads of sweat on her forehead, flowing around the barrel of the

gun.  "I don't have to kill you, not if you help me, just give up your

sister and you can live, she got you into this, just tell me where she

is and I'll let you go, you'll live..."

    -- and Jasmine couldn't tell which words came from him and which

were from her own thoughts, because the two were merging, finding the

same pulse, because she didn't want to die, she couldn't die but he was

going to kill her and she was expendable and she was going to die --

    "THE CENTRIFUGE!" she screamed, flinging her right arm to the east.

"SHE'S NEXT TO THE CENTRIFUGE, ON THE EAST WALL!"



    Something took over, something beyond both impulse and reason,

something that was tied into her blood, and Sadira broke cover and dived

forward, trying to reach Jasmine, adrenaline surging, the wild energy

building and pushing --

    -- the darts hit her with a hiss of compressed air, a neat grouping

of five, punching through her jeans and into her right leg.  She

stumbled, the pain of the impact and the weight of her breasts combining

to throw her off-balance.  She threw out her hands, trying to catch

herself, but her balance was wrong, her breasts hit first with an

explosion of pain that was muted too quickly, because her heart was

still pumping fast and any chemical that entered her body, with her

metabolism, would take effect much faster than normal, especially if it

was already designed to act almost instantaneously.

    She realized they were tranquilizer darts as her eyes began to

close, and her last thought was that for the first time in days, there

was no pain in her back at all.



    The cry was something fundamental, betrayal beyond belief, and

Pamela didn't realize it was coming from her lips until she'd launched

herself into the aisle, taking the most direct path to the center.



    Carter saw the long body suddenly unfold itself from the shadows,

and he saw the outline of the gun, knew it for what it was, and fear

took over.  He dropped the weapon he was carrying, drawing from

his second holster, the one with the real gun, catching the silencer on

the edge, shooting almost the instant it was clear.

    The shot was very loud, solid, and on target.  The silencer

clattered on the floor.  The shadow fell.



    Stan had his orders:  he picked up Archer's limp body, hooking one

arm around her waist -- he could feel the underside of the huge bra and

its contents over his arm -- and started dragging her towards the exit,

his other arm pointing the gun towards any new targets that might

present themselves.  If things became disastrous and they had the

scientist, the first priority was to get her out.  The others could fend

for themselves:  he was the only one in position to transport the

target.

    He was still thinking that when he heard the gunshot, and the echoes

were still fading as he dragged her along without a pause.



    Gordon heard the shot and threw the sobbing dancer to the floor,

clearing his aim because the rule was that in a real firefight, with the

kind of person who had made that cry, someone might just shoot through

the hostage, getting his own gun into position as a living shadow flung

itself around the corner in front of him, all black but for a narrow

strip of white at head height, and fierce blue eyes that almost

glowed --

    They fired simultaneously.  Three of the darts in his burst hit,

taking his opponent in the chest as the bullet ripped through the

unshielded shoulder of his gun arm.  He screamed, a surprisingly high-

pitched sound, and saw the shadow stagger, bringing the gun up again --

    -- he dived left, into one of the small passages.  He heard the

shadow stagger, a clatter as the gun touched the floor, but it was still

moving, coming towards the corner with mad determination, it wasn't

going to allow the drugs to work --

    -- and a thud as it hit the floor --

    -- and he realized just now much blood he was losing, the bullet had

nicked something major, he needed medical attention, fast --

    "Boss!"  Neil's voice.  "Arrow clear!"  Far away, possibly out in

the corridor, and that was the code which meant the scientist was in

their control.  He didn't know how the others were faring, but Nigilo

had said that Archer was the most important target.  The computer files

in the lab that Roger was supposed to get, the other two geneticists,

fuck them all because they had the person Nigilo really wanted -- the

one who could recreate the data he wanted.  And he was bleeding, and he

needed light so he could be bandaged and worked on, and he couldn't drag

the shadow with his bad arm and still hold the gun, and someone could 

have heard the shots --

    -- and he didn't want to get shot again.  He was afraid, and he was

in charge.

    "Move out!" he yelled, and headed for the exit, trying not to clutch

his shoulder, praying there was no one else in the dark.



                     22. 67:  ...or hang separately



    Jasmine knew the siren's wail.  Not police, but an ambulance, moving

away from the building.  It was the only thing that reached her as she

lay curled up on the floor, trembling, trying to force everything back,

find a measure of control.  She was alive, that was what mattered, she

was still alive...

    There was slow, steady breathing in front of her:  the ghost, with

darts casting odd shadows across her body.  Jasmine recognized the shape

from a _National Geographic_ article:  tranquilizers.

    She convulsively straightened her legs, kicking against the

microscope -- the sound was like another gunshot -- and when that

trembling fit subsided, tried to stand up.  Her elbows and breasts

ached:  she'd hit the floor hard.

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

    She stood, orienting herself against the sharpening shadows, and

moved west, picking her way across the lab as more light forced its

way in.  Jasmine didn't know how long she'd been on the floor, how much

time had passed since the ambulance had left.  She was up and moving and

alive and --

    -- a ray of sunlight snuck through the curtains and illuminated

a trickle of red running across the cracks in the old floor.

    She froze, unwilling to look further -- then did.

    Jason was sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, blood pouring from

his hands -- no, behind his hands:  they were pressed against his left

thigh, as if trying to push the liquid back in.

    He was breathing, slow, shallow gulps of air, and his eyelids

flickered.  He was trying to staunch the bleeding, hold back the tide,

but he was barely conscious, and his hands were starting to slip.

    Jasmine knelt down next to him and pressed her small hands over his

large ones, pushing down, trying to get pressure over the wound.  It

didn't seem to have any effect.  He didn't even notice her presence, and

his breathing was getting softer...

    Tourniquet.  That was the word, something wrapped around -- no, just

above the injury, tight enough to cut the circulation.  She needed to

tie something around his leg.  Her blouse was too sheer:  it would

probably rip if she pulled it tight...

    Jasmine whipped off her blouse with one practiced motion and got her

bra on the way back.  The straps were thick and heavy:  there was no way

they were going to tear.

    His eyelids flickered as she lifted, getting the limb up, and he

gasped as the leg came back down.  She risked moving his hands:  she had

to see exactly where the wound was so she could tie above it -- but the

shadows were still thick, and his pants were mostly intact.  She forced

herself to work by feel, widening the tear and moving her hands up until

she felt whole skin, then sliding the bra up to just above that point.

    Jasmine pulled tight and made the best knot she could manage.

<Never should have quit the damn Girl Scouts...>  The blood made it

slippery work:  she had to wipe her hands to get a better grip on the

straps, streaking red across her pants and, accidentally, her sides.

    There were footsteps behind her:  she turned around, the fear

speeding back as she focused...



    Pamela staggered up and knelt down, pushing her mask back as she

moved.  It was almost too much to coordinate:  she was so dizzy, so

tired...

    Her night vision was excellent:  a quick glance at the Princess

saw her topless and covered in blood, but none of it was hers.  Mouse

was in worse shape.  "Tourniquet?" she pushed past the fog.

"Creative..."  Pamela checked his pulse:  weak but steady.  There was no

way to tell how much blood he'd lost.  He was going to need medical

care, a transfusion --

    -- from where?  Any gunshot wounds that appeared in the emergency

rooms had to be reported to the police.  The police might be on the way,

and they could help if they showed up, but she had to improvise, had to

treat Jason herself.

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

    The Princess was staring at her -- at her breasts.  Pamela wondered

what the hell was drawing her attention in the middle of a crisis.  She

automatically looked down.

    Three darts were embedded to varying degrees in her sweater -- no,

in her bra.  Only one had penetrated her skin, and only just, on a

strange angle.  The other two had gotten through the garment, hit the

bra, and become stuck in the heavy fabric, been blocked by the fine

network of fibers within the cloth, or blunted on the underwire.  She'd

only taken a small percentage of the drug carried by the darts, which

explained why she'd woken up so quickly, and why she felt so bad now.

"Son of a bitch," she whispered.  <Note to Aunt Susan:  design a Kevlar

bra for use in law enforcement, sale to the army...  No, they'd be stiff

and uncomfortable -- stay focused...>  She looked up at the Princess.

    "Keep your hand here, in this position," Pamela told her.  "That's

his pulse.  I've got to get the lights back on so I can see --" the

dizziness washed across her again.  <All my fault.  If I'd just shot the

one in the park...>  "-- see what I'm doing a little better.  Night 

sight isn't enough.  Yell if the pulse rate changes."  She pulled 

herself up, using the filing cabinet as her ladder, and staggered 

towards the light switch.



    Roger had turned off the ambulance siren long before they got to the

George Washington Bridge.  It wasn't unusual for a city ambulance to

venture outside the borders:  they occasionally got "loaned" to other

hospitals, and a few of the privately affiliated ones simply went

wherever they wanted to go.  A few quick decals had turned this one

nicely generic.

    He'd borrowed the vehicle from a contact on Nigilo's recommendation:

no one ever questioned paramedics coming out of a building with

unconscious bodies.  Neither of the two homeless people on the street

had blinked as they'd carried Archer out on the stretcher they'd left by

the door.  So that part of the operation had been successful.  And all

of it might have worked if Gordon hadn't turned out to be a chickenshit.

    Carter had basic medical training.  It was the main reason he was on

the team.  Nigilo wanted an IV feed hooked up to Archer, no questions.

Do what they were told, or someone would find out about some of the

other things they'd been told to do in the past.  Standard deal.

    At the moment, Carter was finished with the sleeping geneticist, and

was busy checking the dressing on Gordon's wound.

    "I'm telling you, it'll heal perfectly," he insisted.  "The bullet

passed completely through.  It's cleaned, it's covered, it'll be back in

one piece in a few weeks.  A little conditioning, you'll never know you

were shot.  Now hold still so I can apply more disinfectant."

    Gordon winced and cursed softly as the liquid was applied, but held

still.  Stan was snoozing in the passenger seat:  the noise didn't

disturb him.  And Archer had enough chemicals in her body to tranquilize

a good-sized bear.  "How long until we get to Stamford?" he grunted.

    "At least three hours, with these local roads," Roger replied.  "I'm

not going to push the speed limit around the yokels.  Some of them might

ticket an ambulance just for the fun of it."  The smaller roads weren't

in the greatest shape, either:  the heavy-duty shocks on the ambulance

still rocked as they went over potholes.  Gordon cursed again.  "You

know, you should be glad we left three of them behind.  It would have

been pretty crowded in here."

    Gordon's glare was visible in the rear-view mirror.  "There were

shots fired, remember?"  Carter briefly closed his eyes.  "Did you want

to be around when the cops showed up?"

    "And what happens when they do show up?  If they show up?"  Seven

floors up, no other occupants, early in the morning, Alphabet City...

"They're going to tell the cops something.  Think they might accuse us

of kidnapping?"   

    "Well, the descriptions are shit," Carter reminded him,

briefly rubbing his makeup.  "And Nigilo implied that they wouldn't go

for help.  Remember, if things went wrong, it was grab Archer and run.

We did that."

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

    "He seemed pretty confident on this one," Carter replied.  "And it's

not our asses.  So we didn't copy out the files, or grab any specimens."

 He smiled and patted Gordon's sore shoulder.  "We can just blame that

on Old Faithful here."  The mercenary in question glared, but said

nothing.  "After all, if he hadn't been taken by the Shadow Ninja..."

    They went over another pothole.  Carter adjusted his balance and

glanced at Archer:  she was in place, strapped to the trauma stretcher,

each limb separately stabilized.  They hadn't been able to get a strap

around her chest.  The IV bag was still attached, the needle was holding

nicely -- according to the doc who had spotted the target, he was

supposed to change it every three hours, who knew why -- and Archer was

still sleeping, her fingers flexing slightly...

    She had taken five full doses of poractudine, and _her fingers were

flexing_.

    Carter had put the dart gun on one of the shelves, out of the way,

he was going to have to reach past Archer to get it --



    Sadira's eyes snapped open as she finished running through her

fastest wake-up check ever.

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



    Archer's arms came up, at least from the elbows, straining against

the straps -- and they were beginning to give.  Carter could see the

white bands starting to appear in the thick plastic as she strained,

back arching, mouth open in a soundless scream.  He reached across her,

spotting the dart gun, grabbing it --

    -- her right arm broke free, swung up, and nailed him in the crotch.

He was wearing a protective cup:  standard equipment for covert

operations.  The impact was hard enough to dent the plastic:  he went

down anyway.  The gun flew from his fingers, out of sight.  Gordon was

just starting to get up as her left leg broke free, and now there was

sound, screaming and wailing, all the pain in the world coming from a

single mouth as she thrashed and strained, an explosion of energy that

was almost too much for the body to contain.  The plastic over her left

arm was starting to stretch and break --

    -- three darts thudded into her left leg, fired from the front of

the ambulance.  The scream went higher, reached a crescendo as her left

arm began to pull free -- then cut off, a thousand decibels to zero

without intermediary steps.  She collapsed against the stretcher.

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

    Carter got up, oxygen coming back to him in short bursts.  It felt

like his virility was going to take a lot longer.  "She couldn't have

woken up," he gasped.  "She processed all five darts in one hour.

That's impossible..."

    "That," Gordon said slowly, "is why Nigilo wants her.  The question

is, can we make more money giving her to someone else?"

    They thought it over for half a mile.  Roger finally said, "No.  I

don't think we can get enough money in one shot to make up for an entire

career's worth of blown reputations -- not to mention retaliation.  From

what I hear, Nigilo knows some people."

    Gordon nodded.  "You're right.  But if we play it right, we can get

some extra money for keeping our mouths shut."

    Carter sat down and took a deep breath.  The air reached his balls

and made them hurt.  "And personal injury compensation."  He exhaled and

tried a second breath.  "Lots of it."



    Pamela carefully extracted the bullet with the long tweezers:  it

had come to rest just next to what she judged was the femoral artery,

the major blood supply line for the leg.  A hit there would have meant

bleeding to death within a few minutes:  Jason had just had many other,

not-so-major highways nicked.  She'd force-fed him as many painkillers

as she dared, a few of which had sleep aids added.  The combination of

medications had taken effect:  he had passed from shock into sleep, and

she was carefully monitoring him to make sure he didn't slip deeper.

    She'd come up with a formidable number of medical supplies (or

workable substitutes) in her search of the lab:  Pamela disinfected the

wound, then stitched it using a hastily-sterilized sewing kit from the

Princess' purse (for emergency costume repairs on the road).  They'd had

sterile tubing and sample kits.  The Princess and Jason were, by dint of

welcome luck, both AB positive, and Pamela's blood was O negative, the

universal transfusion factor.  A quickly-growled question established

that the Princess was AIDS-free, and they contributed three pints

between them.

    Pamela had loosened the tourniquet after finishing the stitching,

giving full circulation back to the leg.  There was no seepage from the

dressed wound:  she passed the bra back to the Princess, who was still

kneeling next to Jason, her fingers clamped against his wrist.  She

looked at it and tossed it behind her:  it was soaked with blood.  Her

blouse still lay on the floor.

    One more look at Jason:  even in sleep, the pain was still etched

into his face.  They'd made him as comfortable as they could, putting

Sadira's wadded jacket under his head, cutting away the blood-soaked

portion of the pants leg, and covering him with their own jackets.

    "He'll live," Pamela said.  The bullet had damaged a lot of muscle

tissue on the way in:  she wasn't sure what the exact effects would be,

but it didn't look good.  "He might need a lot of physical therapy to

avoid limping for the rest of his life, and any activity is going to be

restricted for weeks."

    Pamela glanced at her watch.  Seven in the morning.  The police had

never come.  Either no one had heard the shots, which was certainly

possible, or no one had cared, which was also possible and much worse.

The last of the drug's effects had been beaten down by raw necessity.

"All right, Princess," she said, turning to face the dancer.  "Your

turn."

    "What?"  She'd been fading in and out of shock, regaining enough

insight to tie the tourniquet and remember the sewing kit, then

forgetting the pulse point every time she had to move her hands.

    "Medical attention.  You've got some bad bruises starting there.

Stand up:  I need to look you over."  The Princess stood up:  Pamela

straightened slowly and looked her over.  "You hit pretty hard, and

you've got some bruising on your wrist -- did you hit your jaw on

anything?"

    "No -- I don't think so --"

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

    She obeyed without thinking.

    "Perfect."

    It was perfect.  It was the single most perfect left hook she'd ever

thrown.  There was barely any pain in her hand as the impact rocked the

Princess, sending her reeling backwards, stumbling, heels locking into

the bra straps --

    -- she fell backwards, hands shooting back in time to take most of

the impact.  She sat there, propped up, breasts falling to the sides,

eyes fearful.  Pamela liked the look.

    "You bitch," she hissed.  "You goddamned _Judas_.  You'd sell out

anyone to save your own hide, wouldn't you?"  Her fist tightened again,

and she was closer, curled fingers in front of Jasmine's eyes.  "You

killed her, you pulled the fucking trigger --"

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

I was a witness!  He was going to kill --"

    "And that's why you said you were Sadira?  So they'd kill her

instead, and you'd have another day before they found out they had the

wrong person?  Piece of rancid _shit_ --"  She brought back her fist,

aiming for Jasmine's nose --

    -- there was a soft groan behind them.

    They both froze.

    Pamela slowly, slowly uncurled her fingers before standing up and

going back to Jason.

    "How are you feeling, Mouse?"

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

    Pamela paused.  "They did."

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

    "That makes two of us."  She wiped sweat from his forehead.  "I just

got a little farther."

    "My leg?"

    "The bullet's out, and everything's clean.  If we take you to a

hospital, they're going to ask questions..."

    "I watch television."  His face contorted as another wave of pain

washed through it.  "I can't think of any good lies to tell them right

now, either.  Jasmine?"

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

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

    "I know."  If she just had some morphine, any stronger painkiller --

but she didn't, and the chemicals in the lab couldn't make a decent

synthetic.  She didn't trust the stuff on the street.  "But I'll go.

You're not going anywhere for a while."

    "Bullshit," Jason gasped.  Jasmine came up behind them.  He didn't

see her:  all his attention was focused on Pamela's eyes.  "We can leave

almost immediately, once we find where they've taken her."

    "Mouse, you can't walk.  There's got to be doctors around here who

treat gang wounds:  I'll find one and trade services for chemicals."

    "No need."  Another spasm of pain.  "We've got all the medicine we

need right here."  Slowly, he raised an shaking arm, waving it to the

general east.  Pamela turned to look, and saw only assorted machinery --

 then guessed.

    "No way."  Fast, almost violent head shaking.  "We don't know what

the long-term effects are.  There's been no testing, no idea if it'll

work when it's separated from the breast growth sequences.  We've

already -- misplaced Sadira: we can't risk losing you --"

    In the single worst Tonto imitation she'd ever heard, he said, "What

do you mean _we_, white woman?"  A small smile.  "Fuck it.  Sadira came

up with it, and I trust her.  I trust you to make it the right way, and

we'll find a way to slow me down later.  Besides --" he pulled a breath

between clenched teeth "-- I like Powerbars."

    Pamela smiled.  "You know the risk."

    "Ivory, if you were on the floor with a hole in your leg, you'd be

begging me to inject it."  He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, cracked

them open again.  "Okay, ordering."

    Pamela considered the reversal.  He was absolutely right.  "Point."

She drew the line on his arm.  "I always wanted to play mad scientist.

All right, Mouse.  I'm going to test it on some cell samples first, but

if it looks good, you get the accelerator." She stood up and pushed past

Jasmine as Jason's eyes closed in triumph.  She'd left the Mutator on

standby power:  it wouldn't take long to finish the virus.



                       23. 68:  Sic transit Sadira



    They had been waiting at the private airfield for three hours.

Carter stood by Archer's stretcher, finger tense on the trigger of the

dart gun.  They'd tried to regulate the dosage, keep her under without

putting her out for good, but they'd played it a little too safe:  there

had already been two other near wake-ups.

    The weather had taken another swing during their wait:  it was now

comfortably warm, the air finally verging into spring.  It made Carter

nervous.  He preferred a bit of cold:  just enough so that it kept him

sharp, not so much that all he could think about was how cold it was.

    At one p.m, the plane finally showed up:  a twin-engine Cessna.  It

braked to a smooth stop on the runway as they wheeled Archer's stretcher

towards it.

    A burly, heavily-tanned man hopped out from the pilot's seat.

"Somebody call for a package pickup?"  He marched up to Carter and put

out his hand.  "Harold Adams.  Pleased to meet you."

    Carter, somewhat bemused, shook the pilot's hand.  "Carter.  This is

the package.  I hope you brought tranquilizers with you:  it has a

tendency to unwrap itself."  Two other people got off the plane and

headed for the stretcher.  One was carrying a fairly bulky phone:  a

cheaply-made satellite connection.

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

others?"

   Gordon stepped forward.  <Good; it's his fault.>  "This is the only

one we got.  We met heavy resistance."  He displayed his wounded

shoulder.  "The minimum objective was accomplished, but that's it:  no

data, no specimens, and the others were -- left behind."

    The woman holding the phone stepped up to Gordon.  "Then this is for

you," she said with malicious amusement, and gave him the receiver.

    Gordon visibly swallowed, then put the phone to his head and began

to carefully explain things to Nigilo.



    Pamela was whipping cell samples in and out of the microscope at top

speed, watching the effects of the acceleration virus on each type,

changing samples, observing, and trying to mentally combine the data

into ramifications for a full organism.  It wasn't working.

    The computer simulations said it should work for a generic subject.

The breast growth triggers weren't present:  Sadira had simply deduced a

way to recreate her body's metabolism in another human.  The factor

sequence wasn't complicated.  It was the genetic equivalent of finding a

dial and turning it from 3 to 10.

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

it.

    But the Mouse was right:  if she'd been shot, and he'd turned down

the request, she would have dragged herself to the Mutator and completed

construction from the floor.  She wasn't sure she would have bothered

with the testing, either.

    Pamela felt the gaze and turned to see the Princess standing off to

her right, just out of swing range.  "He's sleeping again," she said.

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

looking at you."

    "You'd rather look at my sister, right?"  She took a small step

back, moving out of kick range.  "Fucking dyke."  The words lacked any

real strength.

    "Not as often as I'd like and not entirely," Pamela replied.

"And she's got a beauty that you'll never have or understand."  She

checked the screen, then looked at the Princess' eyes, her own

narrowing.  "Bouncing back quickly, aren't you?  I guess you've

forgotten exactly what happened."  Her fingers were starting to curl.

    A long hiss of words, emerging under high pressure.  "I know exactly

what happened.  I gave her up because I was going to die.  You can't 

understand that."

    "If it had been me," Pamela said slowly, measuring each syllable, "I

would have fed him an elbow.  I would have dropped and let my weight

pull him down and bring the gun off-line.  I would have lied until

someone else could get to us.  I wouldn't have caved in."

    "Yeah, and you're just so damn tough," Jasmine spat.  "Nothing

scares you, nothing could make you break down and --"

    Pamela took one step forward, stopping with her breasts just short

of touching Jasmine.  "Look at me," she hissed.  "I've lived like this

for twenty-two years.  Guess how tough _that_ makes you?  It wouldn't

have been the first time someone held a weapon on me.  No, I wouldn't

break.  I'd fight and stall and struggle because only fools are too

impatient not to wait for miracles."

    "And you charged out," Jasmine shot back.  "You didn't think.  You

just ran through!"

    "I _was_ the miracle!" Pamela yelled, leaning in -- then leaned

back.  Jasmine blinked.

    "At least," Pamela said slowly, "I was supposed to be.  I just

fucked up.  So did the Mouse.  You snapped and the entire chain went to

pieces."  Her left hand came up, seemingly without her knowledge, and

covered that side of her face.  "I lost control and ran to help without

thinking about meeting someone on the way.  You broke first, but we

_all_ broke."

    Jasmine was standing quietly, looking as if she wanted to put her

hands on her hips, but resisting.

    "I hate you," Pamela said, her voice cold.  "And it's not anything

Sadira said, either:  we were roommates for four months before I knew

you were alive.  All she told me was basics.  I guessed the rest from

watching her.

    "I hate you for what you did to her.  I hate you because you won't

change.  With what the Mouse has told me lately, I can read between the

lines.  She didn't ask to be smart and you didn't ask for your body."

    She looked at Jasmine, and for a moment, Sadira flickered into view.

Her voice became softer, more thoughtful, without losing any of the ice.

"The difference is that she never flaunted in an attempt to make someone

feel worthless, and you did.  Any offense you took, you picked up on

your own.  You were kids:  _get over it already_.  Both of you.  _She's_

sexy and _you're_ --" a long, long pause, then a reluctant "-- smart.  I

saw some of those books, and you were _reading_ them.  You both deny

your attributes, you're both impulsive, you're _twins_, damn it.  Maybe

it's time you were sisters."  She turned back to the screen and replayed

the last interaction.

    From behind her, a small voice said, "They're going to kill her,

aren't they?  Because of me."

    "No, not yet," Pamela said to the screen.  "Not until they get all

the work out of her, until they have the second virus."  <If they don't

have it already.>  But Pamela had seen the files, and seen the time it

took to construct them.  There was no way they could have finished

without Sadira to head the project.  "She'll stall.  She's got the

gaming experience.  We've got some time.  But we're loose ends."  She

thought it over as she switched samples.  "They may have wanted all of

us.  They may come after us again.  They may not.  I'm still trying to

figure out why that guy didn't take me or put a real bullet through me

after I was down."

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

    Pamela laughed.  "Typical.  He sounded scared and all of us were

down.  I _thought_ I hit him:  nice to know it was in a good place.  All

right:  I temporarily give up on trying to figure out Nigilo's logic.

Anyone walks in the door, I shoot them:  that's all."

    "So what do we do?"

    "We?"  Pamela started shaking her head -- stopped.  "You go read

files.  We're down to two, and I could use some insight."  Jasmine

started to walk away.  "Fucking dyke," Pamela softly mused.  "You were

enjoying yourself on the tape."

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

    Pamela shook her head.  <We should all be so lucky.>  The thought

was slightly ironic in tone.

    She went back to work.



    The Cessna had been chosen for size, silence, and proliferation:

there were thousands of them in the sky at any given moment.  Nigilo

didn't think anyone would track the air path, but he'd chosen a common

model in case someone talked.  He had not been happy with the overall

results of the operation, and after he finished talking to Gordon (who

had forgotten to try for extra money), he had expressed that feeling to

Harold.  However, it was a mixed sort of not happy:  it was as if losing

the rest wasn't really important.  He was mad because he thought he was

supposed to be mad.

    Angela bent over Archer, changing the IV needle.  The disadvantage

of the Cessna was its speed:  even with top speed, fast refueling, and

hurried maintenance, it would take nine hours to reach Montana.  Keeping

people out of the plane at their stops was easy.  Nigilo seemed to feel

keeping Archer _in_ the plane would be hard.

    The plane was carrying, in addition to the miniature pharmacy, a

full array of medical equipment:  Angela had been monitoring the

geneticist since she'd come on board, keeping her asleep and beginning a

battery of tests.  Aaron, who was there for security, stood around and

looked bored.  Angela finally took a break and joined Harold in the

cockpit.  "A walking fission plant," she summarized.  "Everything at

full power, even with the tranks."

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

    "Yes," she said frostily, then, warming slightly, "Couldn't miss it.

I saw her around the fifth floor before this.  Always the quiet ones,

right?"

    "Yeah," Harold said.  "As long as she stays quiet all the way to

Montana."  Carter had taken a perverse delight in pointing out the

broken straps.



    Sadira's asleep.

    She dreams frequently -- everyone does, the mind can't survive

without that release -- but she never remembers them.  Her mind works on

levels:  there's the one that deals with the world and makes the

everyday decisions, that higher plane where all the real thinking takes

place, and deeper ones, including one where she never goes.  Where the

fears are.

    The dreaming level is many layers down, and she can't access it, not

consciously.  But now, between hormones and drugs, she's aware of the

dream, though unable to control it.  She's watching it, as if locked

into a seat in front of the stage.

    She's moving through the halls at GenTree, and she's got her old

body back, the one without any breasts at all, and there's a curious

freedom to that:  she can remember the infection, and for a moment, the

dream selves think she's cured.  They're both a little wistful.  Sadira

really did want to have something, just not quite all that.  She thinks.

She's not completely sure.  Some small part of her has its own

competition with Jasmine.

    Someone's been redecorating the halls:  the old white walls have

double helixes covering them.  She recognizes some of the sequences.

She identified them.  She never told anyone that she'd been working late

in the science hall one night when she'd come across the frat party in

one of the labs, spent a few minutes outside the door, listening to

drunken ideas, then, with that highest level in full gear, gone in to

help.  She found the sequences, she found how to use them.  All about

her in the end.

    Nigilo comes down the hallway, grabs her hand, starts dragging her

off.  She resists, leaning back -- but it's no good:  he's a large man,

outweighs her by a hundred pounds easily, and he's just pulling her

along.  It's like she's surfing behind him.

    Her arms fling out towards the wall, trying to find some purchase,

and she hits one of the helixes.

    Her breasts start growing again.  Not like before, not where she

needs time-lapse photography to pick it out as it happens, but

impossibly fast, inches in seconds.  The lab coat is stretching with

her, covering evenly as she goes past C, past D, accelerating through

the alphabet, and Nigilo isn't compensating for the weight.  He's 

pulling with the same strength, but Sadira's getting heavier.  He pulls

forward and she doesn't come with him.  Their hands slip apart.

    She turns and runs again, but it's getting hard to move again, she's

in the forties and still going, and it's slowing her down, changing her

balance.  Sadira reaches her lab and gets inside, pressing her hand to

the door and the rest of her body just follows.  But it's Pamela's lab,

Terragen, she's working the computer sidesaddle again, looking at a

picture of Sadira, taken from the Christmas photo, that's morphing from

nothing to Level II and back again, and there's this wistful look on her

face that Sadira can barely stand to see.

    Jason is standing in front of the electron microscope and he's got

that look again, the one where he's got the really impossible problem

which changes every time he catches up to it, but there's a new

determination there.  He just keeps working, and tries not to look at

the picture.

    Jasmine is sitting at her desk.  Blood flows from the bullet hole in

her forehead, cascading onto a blank page.

    Sadira walks closer:  no one notices her.  She's still growing, and

she gets too close to the page and blocks her view of it:  she has to

turn sideways to read it.  It says, in letters of blood formed by

Jasmine's stream, {There are no children here.}

    Jason and Pamela turn, and they seem to see her for the first time,

but then they turn away, and glance at each other with guilt.

    Nigilo catches up and seizes her again, but he can't move her:

Sadira's breasts are down to her waist and out past her elbows, and

she's too heavy to budge, but she can't run anymore, the weight affects

her too.  She's frozen, sessile.

    That's when Pamela and Jason, and Jasmine, still bleeding, get up

and rush Nigilo, dragging him to the ground as Sadira's weight drops her

to her knees, and the frontmost portions of her breasts are touching her

knees, starting to overflow as Nigilo's struggles stop.

    The Sadira on the stage looks at the one in the audience as all

three help her to her feet, and smiles.  It's feral, like Pamela at her

best and worst, and there's some pain in it.

    The curtain drops.  Sadira is alone in the audience, and she doesn't

applaud.  She couldn't bring her hands together in front of her, anyway:

 her breasts are in the way.

    A rain of red roses falls onto the stage from the ceiling.  Two of

them bounce and land in her hair.

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

wakes up.



    Pamela knelt next to Jason, who was awake again.  She had a needle

full of vitamins and virus in her left hand.  "It'll work," she said,

"but only as long as you're hurt.  All the energy you generated would go

directly to healing.  Sadira could sleep at night because she was

growing:  the calories had a constant outlet.  You'll heal -- and then

you'll still have the same appetite, the same need for power, with

nowhere for it to go.  Either you'll wind up incredibly hyperactive,

unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time, or you'll just burn

out.  Pick one."

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

virus."

    "Simple," Pamela agreed.  "How?  I don't know what's going to turn

it off.  I've been thinking:  we've got some time, Sadira will stall

while they try to make her do the work.  You can heal enough to walk

normally and we'll go after her --"

    "Maybe," Jason said.  "She might be able to, we might have weeks.

The clock is still running on her end, remember?"  Pamela closed her

eyes, because in all the chaos, she had forgotten, just for a second --

    -- and in that moment, Jason grabbed the needle, pulling it out of

her hand, found a spot, and injected himself.  Pamela stared at him.

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

brakes."

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

almost blank.

    "Country mice aren't very smart."

    Their eyes met, and she kissed his forehead.



                       24. 70-71:  In conference



    They had gone to a hotel (after a quick trip to the store for fresh

clothes).  Jasmine had paid cash, and they'd registered under false

names.  Jason had originally thought that it really wouldn't matter,

they made a distinctive enough trio -- but Pamela had driven across the

border and gone deep into New Jersey.  She believed they were safe

enough for the night.  Jason, awake and in pain -- and having gotten

some sleep earlier in the day -- had taken first watch.  Pamela had

gotten the second, and Jasmine the third.  There were two bedrooms and

two large beds:  they each took one in turn.

    It was Jasmine's shift when Jason woke up.  He knew because she was

the one who woke him.

    She gently rubbed his arm until he came back, blinking up at her.

The adjustable lights in the room had been turned to their lowest level.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, working his way out of the sleep-fog.

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

    <And you woke me up to ask me that?>  But there was real concern in

her face.  "Shouldn't you be watching the door?"

    "One of the busboys who was about to get off shift is standing in

front of it.  I told him we didn't want to be disturbed for a while.  So

how are you feeling?"  All in whispers, with Jasmine's holding a faint

hint of bemusement.

    "Still hurting, but I can sleep past it.  It's a little weird.  I

can almost feel the new cells coming in.  It'll take a few days to get

back to normal, but that's as opposed to weeks.  Pamela may have to take

the stitches out tomorrow."  His brow furrowed.  "Are you that tired?

Can we trust the bellboy?"  God, he sounded like Pamela.

    "For the amount of money I gave him, he'd better be trustworthy."

She smiled gently.  "But there's still some pain?"

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

    The smile got gentler.  "Then I'll do all the work."  And she began

to take her blouse off.

    The fog dissipated, and sixteen expressions warred for control of

his face.  Confusion won.  "What --?"

    "You don't know?"  Bemused.  "This is going to take more work than I

thought."  She shimmied out of the garment, braless underneath, then

reached for the blankets.  "Let's get you out of those shorts..."

    Jason was about to say something -- was about to think of something

he could say -- and then Jasmine changed her direction and leaned in,

kissing him, long, hard, and desperate.  Again, he returned the kiss,

feeling the urgency behind it -- then stopped, withdrawing slightly into

the pillow.  Jasmine sensed it and straightened up, confused.

    He looked up at her, saw the bewilderment in her face, the residue

of fear, the hint of desperation he'd felt in the kiss, all honest

emotions.  "No," he said, surprising himself a little.

    "No?" she echoed, her voice very soft.  He had the distinct

impression no one in this situation had ever said it to her.

    "Jasmine --" She turned away and headed for the door, picking up

speed.  "Jasmine, come back."

    She turned around and looked at him for a long moment.  Jason sat up

and patted the edge of the bed.  She slowly walked over, then climbed

onto the bed, hands heading for his crotch again --

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

sit down.

    Confusion and betrayal crossed her face, almost too quickly to see,

but she sat down, back braced against the headboard.  "I don't want to

talk," she said, her position giving the lie.  "I want to fuck, and I'm

not going to ask Casper."

    Jason easily met her eyes:  while it was his first look at Jasmine

topless, being around the three women had made it easier to override

instincts.  "I don't want to."  He smiled.  "A little -- I can't say I'm

not curious --" <or aroused> "-- but I can't.  I couldn't even look past

a clothed photo of you in a magazine because I thought I'd be betraying

Sadira.  Too old-fashioned..."

    She looked away.  "So you love her."

    Matter-of-fact.  "Yes."

    "You, the ghost -- I guess she's making up for lost time."  She kept

staring at the doorway.  "I nearly died yesterday."  Slow, sad, "I just

want to feel alive for a while."

    "I can understand that," Jason said gently, automatically falling

into "just friends" mode.  "But I'm not it.  I like you, and if things

had been different, if I never met Sadira --"

    "-- then nothing would have happened," Jasmine cut him off.  Her

words were flatly honest.  "Maybe I would have picked you up off the

street and taken you back to my hotel for a fast run.  I don't spend

_all_ my free time reading.  But after that, I would have thrown you

away and forgotten about you.  I never would have looked at you in the

first place if I haven't thought it would hurt Sadira.  I would have

broken up her and Shaw if I could, but I couldn't figure out how -- and

then they just stopped touching."

    Pamela had been right.  It still hurt.  Even with his feelings for

Sadira, the commitment, it was nice to know someone else found him

interesting, good for the ego.  The idea that Jasmine had been using

him, hadn't been attracted to him at all -- the dagger quickly stabbed

through his heart.  "And now?" he said softly.

    She shrugged.  She still wasn't looking at him.  "I kind of like

you.  I don't love you.  I kissed you back at the lab because I was

scared, but I was using the fear...  And I just hurt Sadira as much as I

ever could.  I -- I don't think I can top that.  There's no point in

even trying."  Whispering, "I've spent so much time hating her that I

don't know how to stop.  And now I'm never going to get the chance..."

    With Jasmine, it was sometimes difficult to tell what was real and

what was artifice:  she was a manipulator, and she used emotions to her

own benefit.  Jason could see that manipulation now.

    She was trying to change herself, forcing her feelings out, make

herself face them for the first time in years.

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

have that chance."

    She turned to face him.  He reached out and hugged her.  She

hugged him back, and nothing more came of it.  

    Jasmine's own healing had begun.



    <Oh,> Sadira thought as the roses faded from her hair.  <So _that's_

the way things are.>  And then, before she opened her eyes, she realized

where she was.

    There was something almost indescribably wonderful about waking up

in her own bed after a long time away, an instinctive recognition that

turned into another layer of comfort.  Sadira was in that bed, but she

hadn't gotten into it herself, because the sheets were laid out flat

across her body.

    Sadira opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up.

    The white room contained most of her bedroom furniture, including

the wardrobe and nightstand, arranged in roughly the same pattern.

There was no debris on top of the little table, and all the drawers were

closed evenly, instead of being stuck in varying degrees of jut from bad

packing.  The past week-plus hadn't been a dream:  someone had just

decided to transfer her residence and made the ambiance-destroying

mistake of cleaning up.  It _felt_ wrong.

    That, and the cameras in the corners, swiveling to cover the room,

with two of them currently scanning the bed.

    Sadira got up.  Her bra was _much_ too tight:  she'd been wearing it

for nearly a day, and the fabric didn't have much give.  On the other

hand, her back felt pretty good:  she'd spent that day doing nothing but

sleeping and healing, and she didn't feel hungry.  More IV tubes...

    Had she seen one in the ambulance?  She remembered having briefly

been awake.  She didn't remember much beyond that.

    There were three doors leading out of the room.  Sadira explored,

finding a little kitchen, a bathroom (with an amazingly wide bathtub), 

and a solid lock.  She had to use the second.

    There were cameras in the bathroom.  One of them covered the

bathtub, the other scanned the toilet.

    Sadira looked up at the cameras and gave the operator the finger,

then looked at the toilet.  She briefly closed her eyes and tried hard

not to think about it.  It didn't help.



    She did think about Jasmine, Pamela, and Jason almost constantly as

she bathed, carefully following Ivory's washing instructions.  It took

much longer to wash her breasts now...

    Sadira had no idea what had happened after she'd been knocked out.

There was a good chance that the others had been taken out in different

vehicles, and were walking up in their own little faux apartments.

There was an equally good chance they were dead.

    <No.  They needed us alive.  We all worked on the virus, they have

to realize that -->

    Except Jasmine, whom they could kill.

    Her eyes squeezed shut, and the tears began to leak out as she sank

into the water.  <Oh, Jasmine...>  She understood, and even sympathized

with what might have been her sister's final cry.  Jasmine had just been

scared, just wanted to live...

    <Vengeance,> she thought softly.  <You don't fuck with a Brooklyn

girl, don't hurt her family.  Her twin...>

    But her sister, her friends, they might all be alive.  Looking for

her.  No matter what she was eventually told, she had to believe that

until she had proof to the contrary.  It was the best way to stay sane,

so she could plan that vengeance.  Try to contact the outside, arrange a

rescue -- or, if necessary, escape alone.

    And if she ran alone, she was going to have to run soon, because

even her walking was slow and deliberate, and in a few weeks, it was

going to be impossible.

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

    Still, she allowed herself to cry, splashing water in her face to

hide the tears, because she couldn't make herself stop.



    Her captors wouldn't give her any privacy, but they let her have

some time to wash, get dressed, and have a quick snack.  Most of the

clothing in the drawers was hers:  she got her lower body covered

without difficulty, but the shirts were a complete loss.  There were,

however, several large smocks of fabric, muu-muus with worse-than-

average design, sized for color-blind women a few hundred pounds

heavier, and equally huge belts.  She did the best she could.

    There were no bras other than the one she'd brought in.  She tried

to get it back on, but the discomfort quickly turned into pain:  the

cups were fairly rigid, and wouldn't stretch to accommodate her.  Flesh

bulged from the top of the cups, and the sides, and when she tried to

force it into a better fit, her breasts started to hurt -- she quit, got

the bra and muu-muu off, then improvised with a second muu-muu and a few

belts.  The result was almost completely ineffective, but it would have

to do.

    She noted the presence of knives in the kitchen with some interest.

Weren't they worried about her committing suicide -- or attacking

someone?

    Probably not.  Sadira wasn't the suicidal type, except for certain

very specific circumstances:  she had a living will in case of severe

brain damage.  They had her psych profile from the scholarship tests, 

they'd know that -- and she didn't know enough about the setup yet to 

risk a break -- and at any rate, she was probably outnumbered and 

outweaponed.  Basic gaming principle:  scout the opposition.

    The kitchen cabinets were well stocked.  Mostly with Powerbars.  She

groaned, took one, and closed the doors.

    Her radio was in the bedroom, and her television:  she turned both

on long enough to verify that she was back in Montana -- but, while

she'd never been in every part of GenTree, she found it hard to believe

that they'd set things up in the building.  The radio could still pull

in the Helena FM stations, but they were dim.  She was somewhere near

the limits of their range.

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

    At 9:30 a.m, someone did.



    The door opened.  Sadira looked up from the television.

    "Sadira?"

    It took a moment to place the face:  it even blended smoothly into

memory.  "Carmody," she replied.  "And it's Ms. Archer, or Miss, or

kidnap victim.  Whatever turns you on."

    He didn't flinch.  "I have to take you to a conference.  Would you

please come with me?"

    "Please?"  Perhaps Pamela was dead, because it felt like she was

channeling her.  "'Please' implies a choice.  I don't have one."  She

turned off the television.  "Any more lies?"

    He just stood by the door, waiting.

    Sadira thought about staying in place, making him haul her along, or

get a lot of help -- but it really wouldn't accomplish anything.  She

went through the door.

    White corridor, florescent lighting, two guards with odd-looking

guns -- probably more tranquilizers -- and hand-held screens that were

tied into the interior cameras.  <Perverts>  She had no doubt there were

more guards close by.  There were several cameras, and plenty of doors.

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

walk.



    It wasn't GenTree:  all the floors had the same basic layout.  This

was closer kin to Terragen, but on a larger scale:  a maze of corridors,

winding about without seeming pattern.  The guards paced them, five feet

ahead, five feet back.  They passed several other people on the way,

none of whom Sadira recognized.  All of them stared at her.  In one

case, she smiled and waved, remembering something Pamela had told her.

    "Just smile.  Wave a little."

    "Why?"

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

smile back."

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

    Eventually, they went in an office, large, elaborately paneled and

decorated, and the frost was waiting to greet her.



    "Ms. Archer.  Please sit down."

    Sadira sat in the plush chair facing the desk.  Her breasts brushed 

against her lap.  She leaned back a bit, lifting them.  Behind her, 

Carmody went into a corner and held position.

    "Mr. Nigilo," she replied.

    "Kyle," he said, smiling.

    "Not likely."  It had just slipped out.

    The smile wavered slightly, then came back full force.  "I have to

say, you look -- different this way.  Are you content yet?  Have you

beaten Jasmine to your satisfaction, or are you playing double or

nothing?"  The words were couched in friendly, conversational tones.

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

demanding.

    "Concern for the lab rat?"

    Sadira blinked.

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

    Sadira wondered if she could believe him.

    He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick file.  "I have

a little story to tell you.  I think you'll be interested, and I only

want to tell it once."

    Sadira sat and quietly listened as Nigilo told her exactly what had

led to her being caught, taking great pleasure in detailing the chase.

Some of the silence stemmed from confusion:  he wasn't covering

everything.  He laughed at the coincidence that had led Victor and

Claire Shalm past the lab entrance -- but the man whom Pamela and Jason

had confronted in Central Park was never mentioned.

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

    -- which made very little sense to Sadira.  She could follow his

logic and see the false premise he'd built his chain on, but it was

rough going.  She wondered what his family had been like to make him see

_everything_ in terms of competition.

    Nigilo, however, was enjoying his chance to show off, speaking to

her as if deconstructing a particularly enjoyable game of chess.  He

congratulated the driver on the brilliant car chase.  He commended

Pamela's ability to hide her tracks.  He really, really liked the trick

with the credit card.

    "So," Nigilo finished, "your luck has taken a turn for the worse --

but if you work hard, you might be able to reverse it.  Not all the way,

unfortunately, that's impossible now -- but it might eventually become

somewhat positive."

    Sadira waited for him to continue.  He obliged her.  "Sadira --"

first time for first name usage:  she wasn't sure how to stop him

"-- you used the virus too soon.  Two days, to be exact."

    "It was an accident."

    He waved a dismissive hand.  "Say whatever you like:  some of us

know the truth.  You kept up appearances well, though."

    <As well as you did?>  "Thanks," she said neutrally.  If he thought

she was less than sane, it might lead to underestimation later.  "So

what was going to happen in two days?"

    "If all had gone well, I would have come to you with a new

proposal.  I had been making some early inquiries -- but you interrupted

the work.  The project would have proceeded."

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

test the virus --"

    "Legally."  He smiled.  "No one ever said the control agencies had

to be involved, did they?  That performance in the conference room was

for the record only, so we could all truthfully say the project had been

rejected if something went wrong.  But we're going to test the viruses,

and we'll market them.  It's easy enough."

    "On who?  You're hardly going to get volunteers for an untested

_cosmetic_ enhancement!"  It felt good to throw the words back at him.

    Nigilo reached into another desk drawer and passed across a small

clear vial, filled with small white stones.  "Do you know what this is?"

    Sadira picked it up and looked at it.  She knew.  The local police

had taken a case full of samples to the high schools, warning the kids.

"Cocaine, in the "crack" composition."

    "Correct.  We're allowed to keep a few samples around for the

project on six."  Sadira knew about it:  the addiction breaker, removal

of the physical need for the drug at the cellular level.  "It's also a

very powerful motivational force, along with poverty."

    Sadira started to see where he was going, and was paralyzed by the

horror of the vision.  Nigilo kept talking.  "Montana has its share of

addicts, but most of the deranged people in our state don't need

chemical help.  Our  -- private Mexican branch works in a different

environment.  They are surrounded by poverty and drug addiction."  The

chill smile formed a layer of ice across her mind.  "This is deliberate.

    "Are you aware of the current organ market?"  She didn't respond.

He took it as a negative.  "Very poor people, or addicts desperate for

their next fix, find a network of contacts -- or sometimes they're

sought out.  Desperate people, corrupt doctors..."  Sadira shuddered.

He didn't notice.  "The human body has several duplicate organs which

can be transplanted out.  A kidney, usually, but sometimes a lung, and

some of them are desperate enough to give up a cornea and lose half

their sight.  The money is very good, especially at that economic level.

Admittedly, it's more common among the poor than the addicts -- would

you want a drug-soaked kidney?  But it's done more often than the media

likes to believe or bothers to investigate.

    "Now, if you were to offer people a fraction of that money, but told

them they wouldn't lose any of their body parts -- in fact, two parts

might be enhanced and allow them another means of earning a living..."

    "They'd talk," Sadira feebly protested.

    "They don't.  You just spent some time in a fairly poor area, and

you're originally from New York.  You know better than that."

    <Nobody talks.  Because if one person talks, then the money is cut

off -- or the person might vanish...>

    "We'd keep them locked down for a while, good food and clothing

while the virus does its job.  A pleasant change for them, actually.

After testing was complete, we'd begin _selling_ it."  The smile was

almost warm.  "You were right all along.  There are plenty of women who

would love to have larger breasts, and are terrified of silicone

poisoning, or the perils of the operation, even with saline."  This

time, Sadira managed to suppress her reaction.  "They would pay

thousands for a safe alternative."

    "But how do you keep it secret once you start selling it?

Eventually, someone's going to talk..."

    "Oh, you work through intermediaries -- investors, so to speak, and

we wouldn't sell it in the United States unless the money was simply too

tempting.  It's like the cancer drugs that get imported illegally:  no

one's going to reveal how they get into the country, because then

everyone's source dries up.  For this, gratitude suffices to keep things

quiet.  I'm not saying it would be easy -- there's more work involved

than I want to detail -- but it can be done.  It's been done before,

though normally with drugs.  Turning a profit is easy."  He opened the

file and passed her a chart.  "Based on initial inquires and

simulations, that's the profit picture for the first five years with an

ultra-conservative distribution scenario."

    Sadira looked over the chart.  Accounting wasn't her strong point,

but she could add, and she could see the grand total in the bottom right

corner.  Four hundred and twenty-three million dollars.

    "That's based on an average cost of fifteen thousand dollars a

treatment, with extra costs for more drastic enlargements.  If we

increase the distribution and number of patients treated, we can lower

the costs somewhat -- but why bother?  It's almost all pure profit.  A

breast enhancement performed by a professional can cost five thousand:

tripling the cost to account for absolute safety, and the added bonus of

being able to get as large as you like -- well, what do you think of a

base cost of fifteen thousand, with an additional two hundred for every

inch after the fourth?  That would allow a completely flat woman such as

you -- used to be -- to go from zero to D for the base cost."

    Sadira blinked.  "It seems somewhat expensive."

    He shook his head.  "That's what the market is prepared to bear.

Again, the more patients we treat, the lower the cost.  I wouldn't bring

it under ten thousand base at any rate.  I also have to consider the 

percentage our investors would take.  And even if someone talks -- we'll 

be difficult to track, and once thousands of people are walking around 

with no side effects at all, the biohazard agencies aren't going to make 

any real effort to go after the source.  Breast enlargement is too 

trivial to investigate."

   Nigilo reached out for the chart:  Sadira passed it back.  "So this

is obviously where you come in.  I wouldn't have presented it all to you

in these terms to begin with -- your profile is a little too clean.  I

would have told you we had a tentative approval outside the States, fed

you a few lies about the Mexican site, and given you a healthy piece of

the profits.  I do pay for good work, Sadira.  I run this company hard,

but well.  I'm not the owner, but they know better than to cross me.  I

have some connections, and information on most of the people in GenTree,

including everyone at this site.

    "You'll reconstruct both viruses for us.  It doesn't seem sensible

to give you any of the profits now -- after all, we now have to recoup

the price of the hunt -- but you'll get some of it."

    <No.  I'll finish the work, and you'll kill me -- maybe not.  It

might be to his advantage to have a pet geneticist, but the logistics of

keeping me hidden forever are formidable...  'You'll' reconstruct?>

    "If you're wondering about how you'll spend it -- eventually, if I

decide you can be trusted to some degree, you'll be allowed out with

company.  But that's going to take a lot of work on your part.  Call it

a goal to work towards."

    <Lie.  Maybe.>

    "There are places in India -- palaces which the government can't

touch -- where the maharajahs have "private" scientists who make drugs

for them.  You'll have the same status.  I promise fair treatment as

long as you cooperate.

    "And I suggest you start working fast, and cooperate fully.  I'll

give you a team to head up, and they'll be monitoring your work.  I

don't know how large you wish to be, but you must want to end the growth

at some point.  You can't just stage a strike and refuse to build the

second virus.  You may want to sacrifice mobility for --" his face

momentarily betrayed his disbelief of the next word "-- beauty, but how

far did you intend it to go?"

    Sadira thought about her next words carefully.  "Then I'd better

start working.  When can I meet Jason and Pamela?"

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

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

    "Lie.  The second virus was finished when you used the first.  You

had the data on another computer, or remembered to erase it beyond the

recovery of a file utility."

    Sadira didn't react, she _role-played_, seeing Nigilo's perspective

and working within it, gathering the information _she_ needed.  "Fine,"

with just a hint of a resigned sigh:  you're too smart for me, I give

up.  "But I still have to recreate it, and I need the partners who were

helping me _refine_ the virus.  I may be smart, but I don't have eidetic

memory -- with my metabolism so high, I'm running a small fever all the

time."  <Bluff, bluff, make it sound like a real concern, like I'm

scared of what he might do -- not exactly something I have to fake...>

"It makes it hard to concentrate sometimes."

    Nigilo said nothing.

    "You don't have them here, do you?"  <A small break, but still in

character.  Alive, oh please, alive, even if they're all stuck here,

Jasmine too...>

    "No," he said heavily, "I don't."  He stood up.  He loomed over

Sadira, a former football tackle who hadn't let himself go to seed:  his

_width_ was imposing.  "They were killed when they tried to keep you

from being taken, and the shots put holes in the computers.  The data

was lost.  I wanted to take you all alive, but they made things

difficult."

    Sadira felt the blood rushing away as the room began to tilt and

shift, disbelief and denial trying to work together, clashing with the

dead factual certainty of Nigilo's tone...

    "Now see what you've done," Nigilo said softly.  "You've gone and

killed them all.  I guess there's nothing left but the work." He stepped

around the desk.  "Whenever she's ready to move again," he told Carmody,

"take her to the lab and introduce her to her partners."  Nigilo left

the office.

    Sadira had forgotten Carmody was there.

    "Would you like some privacy?" he asked.  There was no sympathy in

his voice, just a question.  "There are cameras in the office, but I can

step outside."

    "No," Sadira said, and started the slow process of getting up

properly.  She thought she was up to about forty extra pounds (no scale

in the bathroom):  still mobile, but she had to be very careful.  Her

back twinged anyway.  "I don't believe him."  <Dead.  They might all be

dead.  All dead...>  "And I need to get to work."

    Carmody put his hands under her arms, helping her up.  She allowed

him to assist until she was standing.  He let go.

    Sadira turned, ready to head for the door.  She took one step,

placing her in front of Carmody, who was about to step aside --

    -- a right jab went directly into his stomach.

    He doubled over so fast that his descending upper body nearly hit

her:  she stepped back just in time.

    The guards, whose portable screens had been tuned to the office,

rushed into the room, weapons drawn and pointed -- but didn't fire.

Sadira just stood there quietly, arms raised, hands open.  Carmody

gasped, trying not to throw up.

    "He touched me," she explained, "and he's never going to do it

again."  She stepped towards them.  The guns swung to cover her.  "Now

where's my lab?  I have work to do."

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

room.

    Sadira carefully memorized the path as they walked.  <I am going to

use this team to build the second virus,> she decided, <and then I'm

going to use it.  And then I'm going to _get out_, and I'm taking the

data with me, or destroying it before I go.

    <I don't know what kind of projects they're testing in Mexico, but

they may be giving potentially fatal organisms to people who might not

understand the consequences.  They're treating humans like lab rats.

I'm not going to contribute to those projects.  Someone has to stop

them.

    <I wouldn't commit suicide from a disease, not if I could try to

find a cure -->

    And that was how the decision was made, with a simple realization of

fact.  <It'll have to be quick, something they can't fix.  They're

watching me all the time.  I can't cut my wrists:  they'll sew me back

up before the blood loss becomes dangerous...>

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

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

herself.

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



    Nigilo caught up with Carmody an hour later, in the cafeteria.

Carmody's appetite was just starting to return.

    "Is she working?"

    "She went into the lab, asked the rest of the team a few questions,

and began reviewing their data.  They were discussing sequences when I

left."

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

    "Recovering."

    "You shouldn't have let yourself get that close.  Women fake

weakness.  They use it as a lure.  Let it be a lesson to you."

    "I won't forget it, sir."

    Nigilo thoughtfully chewed his ham sandwich, swallowed, and said,

"Do you think we should hypnotize her to enhance her memory?"

    "No, sir," Carmody immediately replied.  "Hypnosis only works when

the subject is cooperative.  I believe Ms. Archer still has a core of

resistance."

    "Agreed," Nigilo reluctantly said.  "I'm not drugging her because it

might affect her mind, but I'd thought hypnosis might work.  Well, she's

got her incentive.  Work -- or not work."  He took another bite.  "Now,

the others..."

    Carmody waited while Nigilo ate.

    "They'll be waiting for us," he finally said.  "They'll expect

another raid.  Save the data, destroy the computers, shoot anyone who

walks through the door.  If we go after the data again, some of our

agents might die, and that might be a little hard for them to explain --

 but it could backfire on us.  I don't want to drag the police in when

no one's called them yet."  Carmody, posing as a reporter, had gotten a

copy of the NYPD's activity ledger for Alphabet City faxed to an

employee's house.  No one had reported the shots.

    "Now, we might need that data," Nigilo considered, "but we're not

going to get it.  Pterros may be dead.  If so, that leaves Shaw and the

dancer.  So we have to decide what to do about them.

    "If it's profit, Shaw may decide to cut her losses.  Who knows what

she's going to do with the lab rat?  But if that little "experiment" in

college resulted in an emotional attachment on Shaw's end -- and Pterros

is still alive..."  Another bite, chew, swallow.  "We can certainly lie,

deny, cover, fabricate evidence that could refute any charges they migh

decide to bring, but it wastes time, and there's always the chance that

something might stick.  If they're stupidly involved, then they may do

something stupid.  They may try to find her -- although I don't think

they can -- and come after her.  And they do have that data.  With

Archer present, I can talk to the investors, get more backing..."

    He ate.  Carmody waited.

    "I'm going to call an acquintance in New York," Nigilo decided.  "I

have a job for him."