Forewarning:  This story concerns adult fantasy topics, especially

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

also hopefully contains characterizations and a plotline interesting

enough to make the reader briefly forget about where the sex scenes went

to.  Since all of the above are considered to be adult topics, especially

the idea of plot, you have to be over the age of discretion in your home

country to read further.  Sorry about that.



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

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



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

and { } for typed communication.  _ _ underlines words in between.  The

RTF format is being worked on by the same dedicated team that repairs

your local roads.  If they ever get back from their lunch break...



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

By now, you should have burned a minimum of 300 calories.



Once upon a time...







































                                In Sequence



                    31. 95:  TransAtlantic DataFlow



    Pamela looked at the blinking answering machine light with

annoyance.  They'd gotten back to the apartment at nine p.m, after

going to Cypher's for fresh data.  The phone company _still_ hadn't fixed

the line at the lab, and her Email account hadn't been large enough to

hold all the information he'd tried to send.  (They'd had to buy a new

system so he'd have a place to send it _to_:  her home computer was still

in the lab)  She'd run in at six, intending to grab the latest files,

checked her overflowing mailbox, and run out again without checking her

messages.  It had been two a.m. London time when she'd finally heard the

recording.  Pamela had decided to wait until morning to return the

aggravating call.

    The message had been short and sweet:  "Pamela:  call me immediately."

Aunt Susan liked her money, almost as much as the Princess, but she'd been

given a _month_ to make the first payment.  She wasn't even close to the

deadline.  Aunt Susan could be mad because Pamela had sent the three bras

back...

    Pamela glanced at the boxes that had been shoved between her bed and

the window.  If that was the case, she was about to get a lot angrier:

even if Sadira materialized in the room while she was dialing, she'd be

too big to wear anything in the original shipment, and the remaining

unworn bras were too large for the Princess to plausibly sell.

    Eight in the morning here, one in the afternoon there.  Pamela dialed.

The phone was grabbed in the middle of the first ring.

    "Hi, Aunt Susan.  Returning your call.  What's --?"

    Pamela listened.  Then she listened carefully.  Then she asked her

aunt to wait, grabbed paper and pencil, and asked her to begin again.

They went over the details until Pamela was sure she had everything.

"All right.  Hang on a few seconds."  Pamela got up, grabbed one of the

Princess' discarded bras and her measuring tape, then recovered the

phone.  "You've still got my complete measurements on file, right?  I've

got an idea, but I'm going to need it for two people, and it has to fit

really well.  I've got the bra here.  Underbust 33, overbust 57, five-

five -- get the interior dimensions of the cup?"



    "Mouse.  Hey, Mouse!"

    Jason rolled over and looked up at Pamela.  "What?  Time to work out

again?"  But Pamela had already moved away, and was busy rousing Jasmine.

After being offered the limited remaining floor space, Douglas had chosen

to stay in a hotel five blocks away.

    Jasmine sat up and rubbed weary eyes.  "What's going on...?"

    "Aunt Susan found Sadira."

    Jason and Jasmine completely woke up.

    There was a quick triple-knock on the door.  Pamela checked the

security port, then let a panting Douglas in:  She'd called him a few

minutes before waking the others, having decided things would go faster

if they were all together.  He leaned against the television, recovering

from the run as the floor occupants got to their feet.

    "Your aunt?" Jason asked.  "How did she find out where --"

    "-- the bras," Jasmine broke in.  "They needed bras for her."

    Pamela nodded and sat down on the bed.  "She got a call late last

night:  she'd been working on some new designs -- and she was using

Sadira's underbust size.  I had been due to call soon when Sadira was

taken, if the growth hadn't stopped.  When I didn't call, she figured all

was well -- but kept working on the patterns, solving some of the

structural problems, and then made the bras.  Intellectual challenge.

Maybe she was going to put them on display..."

    She shook her head.  "The customer placed almost the same order I did:

he asked for forty-four bras, all with a 32 underbust, climbing an inch at

a time.  He said they were making an adult movie, and they needed the bras

for special effects."

    "Some movie," Douglas said, getting his breath back.

    Pamela nodded.  "He wanted the shipment as soon as possible.  She told

him she had some prototypes around, and got him to pay extra.  Figures.

They went out last night, from ninety on up."  <She's been braless for a

week, with all that weight... Bastards!>

    "Where?" Jasmine asked.  "Where is she?"

    "The bras got shipped to Cascade, Montana."  A glance at Jason.  "It's

one of the underground ones.  The mailing address isn't the lab,

but it's probably close.  I tried calling Cypher, but his roommate said

he had an early class.  We'll have to wait to check on those codes, make

sure they haven't changed..."

    "Trap," Douglas said.  They all looked at him.  "Pamela, why would

they order bras from a _Shaw_?  It's not the most common name, but given

any selection, would they take a chance?"

    Pamela frowned.  "There's more to it.  Even given the limited number

of people to order from -- and have any chance of delivery _without_ a

visit to customize that size -- he said some odd things.  Aunt Susan

said the man seemed to _want_ to talk, but it was like he kept catching

himself, making sure he didn't say too much.  He mentioned the name of

the female lead."  She took a deep breath.  "Robin Yeoman."

    "Archer," Jason breathed, "Twice --" then frowned.  "Isn't that a

little too obvious, though?  I want to believe that someone could slip up

like that -- but Douglas is right:  They could be trying to lure us in."

    "After paying me off?  It's possible -- but I haven't even gotten to

the best part.  He also mentioned the name of her co-star:  a Mr. Argos.

He's late for the filming.  The man who placed the order --" she glanced

at her notes "-- Thomas Cintia? --"  Jason shook his head:  no

recognition "-- hopes that everything is all right."

    "So there might be a fifth column," Douglas admitted, finally

straightening up.  "Or maybe even a _sixth_.  Jason, does Sadira have any

good friends at your little hellhole?  If this is a lure, then they're

sending the bras to Cascade and forwarding them somewhere else -- and

then we go to Cascade, and snap!, done.  This is a war, and that is a

battle tactic.  But if she has an ally..."

    Jason shook his head.  "Acquaintances within the leukemia project.  No

one close that I know of.  What's a sixth column?"

    Jasmine, who had read Heinlein, answered for Douglas.  "Any active

ally that you don't know you have.  Someone could be feeling sorry for

her, but that person would have to be able to call out the order...  It's

either the boss calling, or someone that the boss trusts to make the call

-- and it can't be the first, because Nigilo wouldn't call someone named

Shaw, unless he was trying to rub it in.  But that's stupid."

    "I wouldn't put it past him," Jason decided.  "Emotion or

intelligence.  And being cute like that -- Robin Yeoman --"  He thought

it over.  <I want to believe it, but...>  "It would have to be a lure."

A glance at Pamela.  "He's dismissed you: you're paid off, and nothing's

happened since then.  Why throw it back in your face?."

    "You told me about him," Jasmine reminded him.  "He doesn't trust many

people, does he?"  Jason nodded.  "And this is a high security project.

Who would make the call?  He wouldn't, he doesn't trust many other people

not to mess it up, so it has to be someone pretty high up."

    "But the name is so obvious..."

    Pamela thought it over.  "But they named the accelerator project Sixth

Gear.  These are not subtle people."  She glanced at the notepad.  "And

Aunt Susan said that the man kept interrupting her when she tried to

mention her brand name -- and her last name:  same thing."

    "What was his tone?"  The journalist investigating.

    "Too happy, like he was forcing himself into it."

    A long moment of thought, and then Jasmine said, "She's there."

    Douglas shook his head.  "It's possible, but --"

    "She's there."  Solid, defiant.  "I _know_ she's there.  She's found a

friend, and he's trying to help."

    "How do you know?" Douglas gently asked.

    Jasmine focused on his eyes, opened her mouth, tried to find the

words, force them into existence, explain the feeling that had taken

residence in her gut -- and couldn't.

    Pamela did it for her.  "She knows because she's an Archer, and the

bra size isn't the only thing that runs in the family."  Surprise washed

over Jasmine's face.  "The Princess says Sadira's at the Cascade site.

The guy who called says she's there.  She's there."

    "And if she's live bait?"

    Pamela looked at Douglas, her eyes blue steel.  "Then we get her off

the hook."  She nodded.  "It could be a trap, and we're going to prepare

as if it _was_ a trap -- but we're going to prepare."



    Sadira let go of the Goldentone's pull bar and reached back, setting

the weight to its maximum, nearly double her estimated mass.  She then

used the suddenly-unmovable bar to pull herself into a sitting position

before shifting back to the wheelchair, back aching all the way.  It

didn't hurt as much as it had, though:  the forced sitting was allowing

her to heal.

    Based on her last pre-infection workout, she was about thirty percent

stronger in the affected areas -- but only her legs had been available for

full testing.  Her back exercises had been gentle, trying to build

strength without causing further damage.  Her first real attempt at an arm

workout had been awkward:  the machine was adaptable, and could be used

for almost any exercise -- but it wasn't designed for her build.  The

pull-down bar couldn't be pulled down too far before reaching her breasts,

and doing curls meant working around the side bulges.

    <I have to keep trying.  If I'm stronger, it might help me escape --

or just help me walk -->

    Someone knocked.  Sadira looked at the door.  <Well, _that's_ new.>

"Come in."  The door opened, and Carmody stepped through.  "Is the lunch

break over already?"  She'd told the guards she wanted to eat in her

cell, scarfed three Powerbars upon arrival, and headed for the machine.

    "You have some extra time."  Carmody gestured towards the hallway, and

the guards carried a long folding table in, set it up, left --then

returned with boxes in their arms, and started stacking them on the

table.  "Your bras have arrived."

    "Bras."  The word rolled from her tongue, sounding for all the world

like a drug addict staring at an open warehouse of white powder.  "I have

bras."

    Carmody nodded.  The boxes continued to pile up.  "This should be good

for a week or more -- less if you finish the second virus, of course."

    "How did you get them to ship so fast?  I thought you'd have to take

me out to a customizer."

    "I was able to locate a manufacturer who handled unusual sizes and had

a large selection in stock.  They shipped last night."

    She didn't notice the neutrality in his tone:  she'd gotten used to

that.  Sadira _did_ notice the side of the nearest box:  there was an

uneven patch on the cardboard, as if a label had been peeled off.

Carmody reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a huge

measuring tape.  "You'll be taken back to the lab when you're done."  He

gave it to her, then left, signalling for the guards to follow.  A few

seconds later, it was again down to Sadira and the cameras.

    She looked at the boxes.  None of them had labels:  from, to, or

contents.  No inventory list attached to the exterior, no bills.  The

boxes were stacked and spaced on the table so that she could handle them

from the wheelchair without stressing her back -- and the chair lifted,

which would make it easier to sort through boxes.

    <It's possible.  It's just barely possible that someone screwed up and

called England.  But how could they make that kind of mistake?

Pamela and her aunt have the same last name...  And why take off the

labels?>

    The bras would have a brand label.  She opened a box --

    -- the tape was uneven, as if the box had been opened and resealed.

Sadira internalized the reaction, reached in, and pulled out a bra.

    <What the hell?>

    The huge garment looked like a cross between a swimsuit, a workout

leotard, a suspension bridge, and a straightjacket.  Instead of extra-

wide shoulder and back straps, it had expanded to cover the entire torso

and a portion of the legs, drawing on the strength of the entire body for

support.  There were visible brace points, reinforced plastics, hooks,

straps, zippers, snaps, and velcro.

    The cups seemed to have a limited adjustment range:  they expanded

slightly when she put her arms inside and pushed, as if they were

breathing.  The back was like flexible armor:  bands of tough material

separated by slightly softer buffer zones.  It allowed a normal range of

motion (even though that range was now impossible) while strengthening

the area.  There were force lines running to the buttocks, and miniature

embedded cables to bring in the power of her thighs.  Most of the

measures were inside the material (and what was this thing made of?), and

could be felt from the exterior -- but not from the cushioned interior.

    Even with all the features installed, the fabric was cool, and

breathed well.  But the bra was _heavy_:  Sadira guessed ten pounds, with

most of that weight in the back.

    The label read 32 LII X.  <Forget the 32:  the muscle adds another

inch or two to the underbust number...>  Wryly, <I'm getting to be quite a

big girl.>  Everything below the "X" had been cut away.  Sadira noticed

it, but was distracted by the bra itself.

    "By the time I figure out how to put this on," she muttered, "I'm

going to outgrow it."  She put the bra down and dug through the box,

looking for instructions.  There weren't any.  "April Fool's Day is

_tomorrow_..." She picked up the bra again and looked at it closely,

letting it lie on top of her breasts, turning it over in her arms, holding

it out to her right and letting it dangle from her hand --

    -- her intellect rose, reached out to encompass the garment,

surrounded it --

    -- and sank down, puzzle solved.

    <Okay,> Sadira thought.  <Now how do I put it on _without_ the

assistance of the 7th Fleet?>

    Silence.  She shook her head and went back to the boxes.  <Which one?>

Based on her original four-inches-a-day figure, she had a possible number,

but she had to be sure.  Sadira shifted forward in the chair, trying to

get some room between her back and the seat without tipping it over --

    -- thought better of it, wheeled over to the bed, then got out of

the chair.  She sat down on the edge of the bed and stripped.  The straps

were reluctantly undone, with constant worries about vial slippage --but

they stayed nicely in place.  <Forget a pencil.  A _typewriter_ wouldn't

slip.>

    Sadira looked down at her breasts and couldn't find her lap.  They

were overflowing in all possible directions, including forward, going off

her knees.  She could no longer reach her nipples in a sitting position:

 she had to lie down and pull her breasts up towards her -- a complicated

operation, to put it mildly.  Her washing was now being done with the

help of an extension brush.

    She unrolled the measuring tape (which went to 150"), and wondered how

she was supposed to use it.  <And I really don't want to ask for

help -->  The image appeared, and she regarded it with some amusement.

Nothing better materialized.

    Sadira took hold of the ends and swung the length behind her.

<Okay.  Think of something arousing.>

    Right.  Find a sexual thought and hold it in _this_ environment.  That

was more of a challenge than building BE-2.

    Sadira closed her eyes and saw Pamela standing in front of her,

completely nude.  She'd just gotten out of one of her own ultra-hot

showers, and steam was rising off her body from the contact with the

colder air.  Ivory smiled and stepped towards her, reaching to provide

what Sadira could no longer give to herself --

    -- but she couldn't hold the image, she didn't even know if Pamela was

still alive --

    -- and in her mind, another set of hands began kneading her shoulders,

and she could almost feel the pressure on her real body,

easing the pains, taking away the worries, but Pamela was still in front

of her, approaching with a smile, and the ghostly hands were too large --

    -- she knew, and that completed the need.

    Sadira breathed deeply, and forced herself out of the dream.  She

couldn't see her nipples -- certainly not with her head tilted back,

gazing at the ceiling -- but she knew they were erect.  <I can't even

make a decision in my imagination...>  Another, smaller breath.  <All

right.  This is just like skipping rope.>

    She whipped the measuring tape over her head, across her body, and

whipped it back as it crossed her breasts, pulling the ends behind her

back.  Too early:  the tape came in over her nipples and slid back up to

her shoulders.  <Missed.  Try again.>

    It took five tries, but she finally got the tape hooked under her

nipples -- which was where the fullest part of her breasts should be, if

she remembered _anything_ from Jasmine's "demonstrations".  It wasn't

going to be the most accurate reading, not while sitting down -- but she

wasn't going to stand up just yet.  <Careful, careful -- allow a little

extra for growth and mistakes -- at four inches a day, I should be

approaching ninety-six, maybe a little more with the muscle development.

This says -- close enough.  Try two inches larger for room.>

    The _really_ fun part began.  The bra could be assembled in halves,

putting on the front and then attaching the back with the zippers and

straps, but Sadira was having trouble _reaching_ that far.  It was also

possible to close it like a vise, opening one side and bringing it around,

or she could try to step into it and work it on from underneath -- but

again, her arms weren't long enough.  And no matter what tactic were

taken, there was the small matter of getting her legs in:  the lower

portions weren't all that flexible.

    The bra-maker had apparently decided that anyone who had reached

Sadira's size was married or had a lot of friends, because getting it on

alone while in a sitting position was impossible.

    Her first try got one cup on, which left everything else out of reach.

After some thought, she lifted the contained right breast using both arms

and tried to swing it against the naked one, figuring the momentum would

swing the straps within reach -- if she could drop her breast and grab for

them before they moved back.

    Sadira shifted, braced, _swung_ --

    -- her right breast hit her left breast.

    Several inconvenient laws of momentum kicked in.

    Sadira found herself lying on the mattress for just a second before

gravity exerted itself, and her breasts, now partially hanging over the

edge, began to pull her down --

    -- the floor was cold.

    She could hear the guards laughing outside

    Slowly, she pulled herself back up to the bed, and resumed her sitting

position.  <Next plan.  _Better_ plan.>

    After several more false starts, four other moments when she could

hear laughter, and a few really frustrating almosts that got stopped by

her own mass, Sadira wound up using the vise method.  She tied the

measuring tape to the open end in a V-draw, and guided the bra around.  It

was awkward, and took a lot of poking, prodding, and outright pushing

(accompanied by hefting) to get everything arranged, and there were

moments when she was convinced she was going to lose the vials --

but it worked, it was just going to be much harder to get to them --

    -- and the bra didn't fit.  It was much too small.

    Sadira tried the next few bras,  moving up several inches -- and they

still didn't fit.  She didn't get comfort until after she reached triple

digits.  The bras seemed to be designed for someone more dangly than she

was:  her breasts were still holding firm.  A lot of the "size" in the

label was simply distance towards the ground instead of inches out front,

and it made a difference.

    <For breasts and bras of this size,> Sadira decided, <inches are bunk.

Someone else at this level might just be down to their knees.  I guess

these are the best I can ask for off the shelf...

    <No label.

    <Could they have?  Would Pamela's aunt figure it out?  Would she

tell them?  And who removed the labels?  And why?  To keep me feeling

isolated, or because they didn't want Nigilo to know where they were

ordered from?

    <Who had the authority to order the bras?>

    Sadira sat, and wondered at the thought.  <No, I can't get my hopes up

yet.  He could have made a mistake and tried to keep from getting caught.

But still...>  She looked at the boxes.  <I'll watch him.  At least I'm

set for a while.>

    She got in the chair and wheeled over to the full-length mirror that

had been installed on the side of her wardrobe.  The bra wasn't designed

for her exact shape:  she was pushing it around a bit more than it was

adjusting her.  Overall, she was out to the front a little more, to the

sides a little less.  Working with her arms in front of her body had just

become more difficult -- but everything was done sidesaddle now.  Even so,

the bra felt good.  Her breasts still rested in her lap, but they had more

support.  Instead of seeming to overflow, they simply formed an awning.

The counterweights had seemed to vanish once she'd gotten the bra properly

fitted:  they would probably kick in if she stood up.  With her current

size and position, her breast weight was taken by her lap.

    Viewing herself straight-on in the mirror, she saw her face, shot

through with tired relief, then a slim neck, and then a huge, garish

mostly-orange muu-muu that swelled out rapidly from her shoulders to the

point where it shrouded her knees -- and then dark-blue jeans covering

increasingly-muscular legs.

    Sadira had weighed about a hundred pounds before the infection.  She

still didn't have a scale, but she guessed she might be up to 170 --

and a little of that increase was muscle, but virtually all of it was

breasts.  <Nothing visible but breasts and the face of the person who

made them.  And getting bigger...>

    It had taken over an hour of struggling to find the right bra.  Sadira

laid out the next three and went to the door, ready to return to the lab.



                      32. 98:  Alterations on a theme



    Pamela and Jason walked into the apartment carrying several large

grocery bags apiece.  Pamela headed for the counter and spotted Douglas

on a stool, applying blush to Sadira's face.  She nodded at them --

    -- <Sadira?> --

    -- and collided with the counter.

    Behind her, she heard bags crash to the floor.  <I'm glad _I_ had

the eggs.  Ow...>

    Douglas looked at her.  "Are you all right?"  She nodded.  "It

works, then."

    It did.  Jasmine's features, so close to Sadira's to begin with, had

been subtly altered into an exact match.  Her hair had been dyed a deep

black, and darkening makeup applied to her face and hands.  Douglas had

Pamela and Sadira's graduation picture on the counter, and was using it

as a guide.

    "My makeup skills are well if intermittently developed," Douglas

explained.  "I am occasionally alone but for the model on a shoot, and

the new ones sometimes require assistance."

    "Damn," Pamela breathed.  "So when you went out with her --"

    "-- we were getting makeup supplies," Jasmine answered.  "His idea.

They won't want Sadira hurt, not when she can still do work for them --

and if they get confused..."

    "Confusion to our enemies," Douglas added, "as well as despair and

failure.  This may help somewhat.  Even a split-second doubt will aid us."

    Pamela wasn't sure how she felt about it.  It reminded her of the

Princess trying to pass herself off as Sadira during the raid --

    -- but the look in the Princess' eyes said she was aware of that,

and this was something different, something that might help.  Pamela

nodded at her.  "Do we use padding and really confuse the issue?"

    "We could, but even as filler material, the amount would impede

movement.  It would be a further aid to confusion, but a possible

deterrent to Jasmine's survival."

    Jason recovered the bags.  "They don't know you at all, Douglas.

You don't need anything done."  The photographer nodded.  "They might not

be expecting me alive..."

    They were all looking at Pamela.

    "What?" she asked -- then figured it out.

    Silently, she put down her bags, then headed for the door.

    "Pamela --"

    She didn't look back at Douglas.  "The shops close soon."  She left.



    Jonas glanced at the clock.  "Archer, it's ten," he pleaded.  "Time to

knock off for the day."

    "You go home when I _say_ you go home," Sadira told him.  "Dose of

us fortunate enough to _have_ a home can dam well wait for dem."  She

was deliberately slipping into Brooklynese when speaking to him.  She'd

noticed he didn't like it.  "Get yer skinny ass back to de computer."

    He meekly turned and resumed typing.  Sadira kept the grin internal.

<Great.  Jonas is uncomfortable when I speak and Temperi can't stand my

being around, period.  Now if I had a handle for Menken, I could put it

all together and distract three at once -->

    Sadira reached up and fiddled with the brightness controls on the

monitor, adjusting it back and forth before settling on the original

settings -- and brushing her hand against the keyboard as she pulled

away.

    "Menken, could you turn on the modem?  I need a link to Bethesda."

The bald man strode over, unhurried -- it looked like he was sliming his

way across the floor.  She wheeled away from the computer and let him link

in, glancing across at Temperi, who now took the position in the lab

farthest away from her.  His back was turned -- which took some

contortions:  working normally within his station would have meant having

a side view of her.

    "What did you want to get?"

    "_Journal of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery_.  Let's see if anyone

did tissue analysis on virginal hypertrophy cases."

    "But Paul is already looking at that data --"

    "-- from last week.  The new issue should be indexed in the database

by now.  Just check, okay?"

    A nod, light reflecting from his scalp, and he waited for Sadira to

turn so he could enter the password.  She wheeled away, gazing at the

blank metal of the Mutator --

    -- the blank, clean, perfectly reflective metal, and tried to look

impatient.  <The angles are wrong for the cameras:  they can't see this.

Easy, don't look eager...>

    Menken tapped the password into the keyboard, working carefully:

any mistake would get off the alarms.  The new angle and her memory of

the Dvorak setup were enough to let her figure out what he was typing.

<R-7-Q-2-L-R-6-Q.  Get it fixed.  R-7...>  She mentally repeated the

sequence all the way back to the computer.  <All I need is two minutes

and I can get a message out.  But what should it say?  I don't even know

where I am.>

    The door to the lab opened, and Nigilo walked in.  "Team," he said

curtly.  "Sadira."

    <'Asshole.'>  She ignored him and looked at the keyboard.

    He walked over to her and loomed on her left.

    Sadira was typing sidesaddle again, working with her right arm,

staring at the screen.  Nigilo's reflection took up most of the glass.

She ignored him for four minutes, until it became clear that he wasn't

going away until acknowledged, and then wheeled around, almost catching

his legs.  "Mr. Nigilo."

    "Sadira," he said again.

    She nodded.  "I have to get back to work."  She tightened her grip

on the chair control --

    -- Nigilo's right hand came down and covered hers.

    Their eyes tore into each other, driving through the layers,

reaching the souls.

    Sadira saw the truth.  Nigilo saw only what he wanted to see.

    "_Let go of me_."

    Nigilo's hand shot back, and he stared at it, unwilling to believe

that it had been removed from his control -- then dismissed it.  "What

work?" he said conversationally.  "You've been here a week, and we don't

have a second virus."

    "We're running down possibilities," Sadira answered, keeping the

tension out of her voice -- which let some of the anger leak through.

"None of them are working out.  When we find the one that works, we'll

have it.  It might help if you could stick me with smarter people."

    "I have many flunkies," Nigilo said, "but very few available grafters.

These are the best you can get.  And it doesn't matter anyway, does it?"

   Sadira waited.

   "It took you three weeks to complete both viruses," he continued.

"Assume ten days for one, eleven to be generous.  Two-thirds of your time

has passed.  Even if you had somehow acquired total amnesia regarding

your work, you should be close to finishing it.  So why do I get the

feeling that something's wrong?"

    The anger was swelling, moving closer to the surface, she could feel

the energy surging, and the power was overwhelming her controls...  "I

don't know.  Maybe because there never _was_ a second virus?"

    And she _saw_ him dismiss the words.  "You're stalling," came the

low hiss,  "because you're insane.  You had to live with your sister, and

your freak roommate, and it was just too much for you.  You don't want to

stop growing.  _Ever_.  You'll give out false leads, distort data, waste

time, anything to keep going until you fill this lab."

    She stared up at him.  "I am working on this virus."  <Stay under

control, damn it, if I hit him, I lose all the privileges, including the

bras, and what if they remove this one and find the vials?>  "I can't

work while I'm talking to you."  Sadira spun the chair back into position

and resumed typing.

    She heard him grip the armrest, felt the edge of his hand just above

her elbow, and forced herself to keep typing.

    Seconds later, he released his grip, and left.

    <_Now_ I want to quit for the night...>

    But she worked for two more hours, just to drive the other three nuts.

And there was always the chance that they would come up with something, or

that she would.  She had to hope for that, and hope for it soon, because

it felt like time was running out...



    Carmody looked up from his portable screen and automatically tuned

it to another location.  He couldn't switch his internal viewer so

easily.

    The first time he'd seen Sadira, after the infection, he hadn't

known what to think.  He'd looked over her profile for Nigilo.  Nothing

had indicated a person crazy enough to test a virus on herself --

although she might build it for the sheer love of problem solving.  And

then Stan had alerted Nigilo while he was reviewing the previous day's

security tapes, looking for the moment Sadira left her lab.

    He'd found it, seen the numbness, the shock in her face, realized that

the infection had been accidental -- and it had been too late.  <There was

only so much I could do,> he argued to himself.  <Anything overt would be

caught.  Nigilo got me once.  Stay in the shadows, feed false information

or sometimes 'forget' things, buy them time, throw him off the trail.  I

would have been caught, I would have been killed.  I did what I could.

Shaw must have her location, she has to believe the information is real.

No one's questioned me on the call.  I picked up the boxes, I removed all

the identification.  All I can do...>



    "Pamela!"  Jason was hopping mad, almost literally:  he was starting

to verge into furious, and he was reaching the limits of his bladder

control, which meant he was about to start hopping.  "If you're still

alive in there, get out of the bathroom!"  She'd returned to the

apartment with an assortment of brown bags and vanished into the

bathroom.  Nearly an hour had passed.  Douglas had gone back to his hotel

room.  He'd heard running water from behind the door:  nothing else.  He

was hearing it now.  His teeth ground together.  "And if you're dead,

I'll step over your body.  Just give me a minute --"

    The door opened, and Pamela stepped out.

    The Donatello sketch had been colored in.

    He heard Jasmine's jaw drop.

    "Go in," the blonde said.  "I'm done for now."

    Jason stared.

    Her skin was a light pink, an echo of England and a long-ago meeting

with Norway.  There was color in her cheeks, and highlights in the light

blond hair.  Her eyelashes shared in the yellow tint, the red lips were

drawn into a thin line, and she was absolutely beautiful.

    <You were cheated,> his mind said -- no, it wasn't quite true,

because --

    He was staring, and they both knew it.

    "Well?" Pamela said.  "Do you have to go or don't you?"

    He said the words that were hovering in his head.  "I like you

better the other way."  She blinked, and looked up at him.  "I could see

the colors on my own..."

    Another blink.  "Go in."

    Jason finished in record time and emerged to find Jasmine checking

Pamela's makeup.  "The shading is pretty even on your face," she said,

"but you have to be more careful with your hands.  They're blotchy."

    "It's still pretty cold in Montana," Pamela argued.  "I can wear

gloves."

    "Just in case," Jasmine pointed out.

    Pamela reluctantly nodded.  "I haven't done this in six years.  I

was bound to forget something."  A quick glance at Jason.  "'See the

colors...'  Never figured _you_ for LSD.  But if you were stunned for a

second, maybe they won't know how to react either."

    "Why did you do it the first time?"  Honest curiosity:  both of them

could hear it.

    Pamela sighed.  "Only time," she said simply.  "Because I was tired.

Because high school is a nightmare, and I wanted to spend one day where

if people were going to stare at me, _all_ their attention would be on my

chest.  I was never going to be normal, but just once, I wanted to be a

little closer.  So I studied books on makeup, blew my allowance on

theatrical supplies, and practiced at home.  When I went to visit Aunt

Susan that summer -- well, she had a new shop, profits from some big

event.  No one in town knew me.  I applied everything in the shop's

bathroom on my first day in and tried to go for a walk.

    "_Tried_ being the operative word.  She caught me on the way out and

made me wash it off."

    "Why?" Jason asked.  "You were experimenting."

    "She said I was lying to myself," Pamela answered, "and that if I

started then, I'd be doing it the rest of my life."  She turned towards

him.  "I tried to tell her that it was just an experiment, to see what it

felt like to walk outside without -- but she didn't listen."

    "I think she was wrong," Jasmine said.  "You weren't going to do it

every day --"

    "-- wasn't I?" Pamela said quietly.  "Maybe every day that summer.

I never found out."  A shrug.  "Sometimes I like me better this way, too.

But if I found a sequence that would let my body produce melanin -- I

really don't know."  <I am _who_ I am because I grew up like this...>  She

brought her left hand up to her face and whispered, "Who is this?"

    She looked at Jasmine.  Softly, "There's your ammunition, Princess.

Want to fire the gun?"

    Jasmine shook her head and went back to examining Pamela's hands.

    "You're learning."

    "I've learned that you'll hit me."

    Pamela grinned.  "That too."



    Pamela washed off the last of the makeup -- she'd picked simple

bases that came free with cold cream -- and rinsed the last bit of color

from her hair.  The mirror reflected her own face back to her again.

    She looked into her eyes, so falsely blue.  Pamela needed the

contacts:  without correction, her vision was 20/80, and she wore

lenses because she'd learned that glasses _always_ got knocked off in a

fight.  But they didn't have to be colored lenses.

    Ordinary contacts were clear.  If she dropped one while trying to

put it in, she'd never find it again.  Therefore, colored lenses.  It had

always been a good enough excuse before.

    "I'm allowed _one_ exception," she told the mirror, then left

the bathroom, stepping over the sleeping bodies on her way to the door.

    The drive over was surprisingly quiet, and there was immediate parking

available.  She didn't take it as a sign.

    Pamela walked in and found herself alone.  As far as she was

concerned, she was alone on every level.

    "Just this once," she muttered, and strode to the cross.  Pamela

looked up at the figure, and met its sculpted eyes.

    "I want her back," she ordered.  "No arguments, no deals.  You owe me:

I'm collecting.  And if you fuck this up, or decide to work for them,

I'll get an expansion joint, stick it through those holes in your hands,

and open it all the way."  <And if he does exist, I just insulted an

omnipotent being...>  She stared at the painted pupils.  Neither party

backed down.

    "One wish, lifetime," she said, more quietly.  "Fair enough?  Alive

and whole, physically and mentally.  Hear me?"

    She didn't expect an answer.  She got one anyway.  "He hears you."

Pamela turned to see the old priest walking across the front of the

church, coming towards her.  "And I thought _I_ heard someone.  Do you

need to talk?"

    "I just did."  She pointed at the sculpture.  "Let's see if he

_listens_."  And she left.



                        33. 100-102:  Quiet truths



    Sadira woke up with a wonderful sense of anticipation ringing in her

bones.  There was a feeling that a milestone had been reached, some sort

of special occasion -- and then she'd glanced at the date on her clock.

The first of April, the day where pranks were mandatory, expected, and

still fallen for.  Her favorite day of the year.

    She'd been a little behind in her practical joking lately -- she

counted the trick with the American Express card as one of the better

moves -- but this was the day to catch up.

    <Except that if they catch me, they'll strip away everything I've

acquired, and then they'll strip _me_.>  Her spirits collapsed.

    "Great," she said, using the overhead bar Carmody had installed to

pull herself up.  "First time in _years_ I can't do honor."  Which

probably confused the hell out of the guards.  Sadira started getting

dressed, using her tape-pull to good effect.  The practice was helping.

<There's got to be something I can do.  I can't just let this go -- okay,

if it means my life, I can.  But -->

    She smiled, tight and vicious.



    "Hi, Fred.  Whatcha doin'?"

    Temperi jumped:  the wheelchair was fairly silent, and he'd gotten

very involved in his work.  It was the best way to avoid dealing with the

-- thing -- in the room.  And now it was right next to him...  "I'm

working with those new hormone samples," he said, forcing control into

the words until it leaked out of the letters.  "Just like you ordered me

to.  I'll give you the results when I'm done."  Which was several more

words than his ideal speech to her:  _Go Away_.

    "Oh," Archer said, voice soft and --

    -- <No.>

    "You know," she continued, running a finger across her lower lip,

"that intense look you have when you're working -- it's really something.

Almost --" oh God, she was licking her lips, wetting the finger, out of

her mind "-- sexy."  He was going pale, he knew it, why didn't she see

it, why wouldn't she _stop_...

    "I've been putting in a lot of hours lately," the demon said, low

tones and a small smile.  "I bet Mr. Nigilo would be willing to let me

have a visitor..."  And she reached out and drew the wet tip across the

back of his hand.

    His senses shattered, and he threw himself backwards, away from the

_touch_, almost falling, air emerging as a series of tiny squeaks.  His

balance came back, enough to scramble for the door, to find a place where

he could throw up and scream...



    It had been years since Carmody had laughed.  The image on the

screen almost did it.  He watched Temperi's frantic run past the guards,

down the hall towards the big bathroom, so distressed he nearly ran into

the ladies' area, and the guards were confused, all they had seen was a

come-on by someone they _knew_ to be changeable, crazy...

    He felt the left corner of his mouth start to quirk up, and stifled

it.  It wouldn't do to have someone see him smile.  He practically never

smiled.  They would wonder what he was taking.

    Carmody retuned his portable screen to the interior of the lab and

went for a walk.  It was about time for him to eat, and then he'd check

on Sadira.  He wasn't quite in the mood for the cafeteria, though:  maybe

a quick run into Cascade for a steak.  Perhaps he should check with

Sadira before he left --

    "Carmody."

    "Sir," he said automatically, looking up at Nigilo.

    "I just got in," Nigilo told him.  "I stayed up very late last

night, thinking about our current situation, and I overslept."

    Which meant he hadn't seen Sadira's prank.  "Did you come up with

any ideas, sir?"

    "I did."  Nigilo gestured for Carmody to walk with him.  They fell

into step.  "Today is the first of April."

    Carmody waited, then said, "Yes, sir."

    "When we started this project, you told me that Archer's parents

were on vacation in Europe."

    Carmody's temperature dropped twelve degrees.  He'd shown Nigilo the

travel arrangements to keep him from using Sadira's parents as hostages.

"They still should be, sir."

    "But they'll be back soon."  Nigilo picked up his pace.  Carmody

accelerated.  "I was thinking about the long-term problems associated

with keeping Archer here.  She hasn't exactly been cooperative.  The more

I see of her, the more I'm convinced that her dementia has overwhelmed

her intellect."  Nigilo looked at him, and Carmody could see the faintest

hint of confusion in the angry face.  "She doesn't want to stop growing,

Carmody.  I don't think there's a point at which she'll ever be happy

with her size.  I've been watching the cameras:  she enjoys her breasts

too much, and more every day -- in several senses."

    <What cameras have you been watching?  The ones hooked into your

head?>  "I think there's a point at which she would be content, sir."

    "You do?"  Nigilo stopped.  Carmody halted.  "I don't." He snatched

the screen from Carmody's hands.  "Look at her," he hissed.  "Is she at

triple digits yet?  Does she want to go for the next power of ten?  Where

is she content?  Is this building big enough to hold her when she is?"

    "She would die before that," Carmody pointed out.  "There's a limit to

the mass the body can support..."

    The screen was thrust at his face.  "Do you think she cares?"

    Carmody said nothing.

    Nigilo looked at him, looked at the screen, then handed it back to

him.  "She's not cooperating.  She's stalling, trying to buy time to get

larger.  Her parents will be back in the States soon.  Even a insane

genius probably calls her family every so often.  Do you think we can

trust her to phone them under supervision, keep them from getting

worried?  Or are we lucky, and her dementia has estranged her from her

family?

    "The alternative is to kill her parents --"

    Carmody fought back the reaction.  He won.

    "-- or kidnap them.  But if we bring them here, it's two more people

to keep hidden _forever_, and the perfect murder is more difficult than I

like to think about.  Perhaps we can scare Archer into placing a proper

call, assuming she's still sane enough to care -- she didn't react enough

when I told her that all her friends were dead, instead of just

Pterros --"

    <Because she doesn't want to believe you.  You _bastard_...  He thinks

Pterros is dead, without proof of it.  Is he?>

    "-- but eventually, she might be asked to visit home.  We can, with

the proper effort, keep up the pretense for a long time -- but it will be

something short of forever."

    Carmody had figured it out long before they'd brought Sadira to the

Cascade site.  He knew the logistics of keeping someone under control for

a lifetime were formidable -- and he also knew Nigilo was capable of

being more short-sighted than Sadira, who at least had the intellect to

recognize the problem and try to correct it.  He'd been hoping Nigilo

wouldn't think of this.  He'd almost been praying.

    If Sadira had enough time in the lab, with the better equipment, she

could find her cure, and then Carmody would -- do something to start the

dominos falling which would knock down her walls.  That had been the plan.

When he'd asked for the bras, heard Nigilo's tone, he'd risked his most

direct action, because just for a second, he'd been afraid for Sadira's

life.  He'd been forced --

    -- and now those hopes were being dashed, as Nigilo followed the chain

to the last link.  The terminal point.

    "I don't think she'll ever really cooperate, Carmody.  She's too crazy

to see the benefits.  But I want the money from the viruses.  So I'll give

her a little more time to work.  I'm not sure how much yet," he said

seriously.  "A few days, at least.  But it might be more practical

to just hire other geneticists, people corrupt enough to have common

sense, and ask them to finish this, and complete Sixth Gear.  It's a pity

to lose a mind like that -- but the cost of keeping her is growing --" he

smiled at the word "-- much more expensive than the benefits."  Nigilo

shrugged.  "Who knows?  She could have cured leukemia some day, but..."

Another shrug, and he started walking again with another gesture to

Carmody, who followed.

    "So a few more days," Nigilo casually remarked, "and if I don't see

any results, she's dead.  It should look like a sexual killing with

mutilation:  we'll have to cut off the breasts.  No small job.  Of

course, since people know she was flat-chested to begin with, some damage

should be done to other parts of her body.  Do some research and find out

what kind of injuries are normally inflicted.  We'll try to duplicate

someone else's style, make it look like a copycat killing.

    "And I think I'd like my money back from Shaw, if there's any left.

General principles, really, since you found a way to pay it back.

Perhaps she could die in a robbery -- successful, not botched.  Take a

few days, plan it out, and have some proposals on my desk Thursday

morning."

    And then he stopped in front of his office door and looked at

Carmody's eyes, and the look said <For years, I've held the deed to your

soul, and I've twisted it, little by little, until you're a mirror of me.

I just told you to kill someone for me, and you will.  I own you.>

    And Carmody's look said the same thing his voice had for all those

years.  "Yes, sir."

    Nigilo nodded and went into his office.

    But this time, there was a difference.

    This time, Carmody had been lying.



    He went back to his office and began the research on sex killings,

writing notes, comparing and contrasting methods, in full view of the

cameras.  He did this for eight hours.

    Carmody then went to Sadira's lab and checked on her progress and

needs.  There was nothing to report on either end.  There was no way to

tell her anything without getting them both killed.

    And then, since he'd missed lunch, he left the building and went to

dinner.

    Carmody rarely took very long to eat:  his place was at work.  On

the rare occasions when he went out to eat, it was somewhere close, and

he ate at a speed just barely below that which would give him

indigestion.  Everyone at GenTree knew that.

    But he was also a slow, cautious driver who took forever to get

anywhere:  they knew that as well.  He'd gotten the time to remove the

labels by driving quickly for a short stretch, arriving at the employees'

house just ahead of the delivery.  Carmody had disposed of the evidence

in a roadside trash can, and sped back until he was within five miles --

then crept up, the same as always.

    This time, Carmody thought every car was following him, and he

didn't know if he could risk accelerating, if he would be reported,

killed, and what good would that do Sadira?  There were very few cars on

the Montana roads to worry about.  It was still enough to descend into

paranoia.

    He drove until he found a roadside dinner where he'd never eaten

before -- none of the Cascade employes went there:  it was out of the

way, and the food was bad.  They openly disparaged it.  Carmody still

checked the parking lot, and found no cars he recognized.  There was a

pay phone at the edge of the lot, at the proper height for use from the

car.  It would help.  Unless his car was bugged...

    <Why would it be?

    <Can I take that chance?>

    He parked the car far away from the lights, got out, found a dark

patch of the cold Montana night, and patted himself down, trying to find

listening devices.  Nothing.  The ones he bought for GenTree use were

large enough to detect when proceeding very carefully, and he knew what to

feel for.  He didn't think anyone had purchased new supplies without his

authorization.  And if they had, then he and Sadira were dead anyway.

    And at the very least, he'd die trying to do something good.  He

didn't know if it mattered anymore, in the larger scheme -- but the

attempt would have been made.  He would die with one clear spot on his

soul.

    Carmody had plenty of change.  He dialed the number from memory, and

prayed someone was home.



    They were looking at a printout of the Cascade site.  The apartment

had reached maximum crowding:  Cypher had come by to drop off the

information and pick up his phone.  They were arrayed around the bed (box-

free for the moment:  they were next to the counter), examining Jason's

copy.  He was still recovering from his last twenty times around the

block.

    "One story up, four down," Cypher said.  "There's one major entrance

here, and fire exits here and here, controlled by heat sensors.  They go

off seconds before they're burned out -- in theory, anyway.  Government

regs.  There's also a computer control:  I can override that and let you

in there -- but you'll still have to get to it."

    "It's just a standard fence," Douglas noted.  "No electricity, no

barbed wire.  They don't want anyone to think that anything odd might be

going on.  Security guards here at the gate, possibly others wandering

the parking lot.  All of us but this old body can get over the fence

without trouble, and then we move quickly."

    Pamela and Jasmine looked at each other and winced.  Their respective

sizes made climbing a fun experience.  "I'm better with poles," Jasmine

said.

    Douglas smiled.  "We'll boost you over.  It might be best to enter

_here_, for a straight-line dash."

    Jasmine nodded and looked at the interior diagrams.  "What are those

double lines with the center breaks in the corridors?"

    Jason knew the answer to that one.  "Hazard breaks.  If something gets

loose, the air vents are sealed, and the barriers drop.  The contaminated

area is contained --"  He sighed.  "And anyone who's _in_ the red zone

gets to stay there with it.  Cypher, if you can raise and lower them at

the right times, it'll be a great way to cut off pursuit."

    The hacker nodded.  "They're individually controllable, to cut off

an area of any size.  Just let me know where you are."

    Pamela looked at the third floor blueprints.  "That looks like a

kitchen.  If anyone's living on site, that's the place."

    Douglas sorrowfully shook his head.  "And that's also a kitchen," he

said, pointing at another area, "and so are those," indicating one on the

second level, and two on the fourth.  "They're apartments, but they might

be for anyone.  Sadira is probably in one of them, but there's no way to

tell which one.  Do we stay together, or split up and check them, then

try to regroup?  According to the printout, the normal security assignment

is nine -- but they have someone to guard.  There may be more."

    "If we stay together, we can be taken out together," Pamela said.  "If

we separate, we get picked off..."  She looked at Douglas.  "You're right.

It's different when it's real."

    Douglas nodded.  "At least you've learned that beforehand," he told

her.  "Some have to die for that lesson."

    "I'm still getting deja vu every ten seconds.  All we need are some

dice."

    Douglas stroked his cheek.  "Fixed, please.  I don't like the honest

odds.  The money you have is enough to hire a mercenary or two for

assistance -- but I know of none I could trust with this knowledge."

    The phone rang.  They all looked at it.  Jason was closest.  Pamela's

normal diving route was blocked.  She reluctantly nodded to him.  He

picked up the phone and passed it across.  "Shaw," she said, too tired to

come up with anything better.

    The voice was neutral, focused, with the faintest hint of

desperation lurking at the back.  "Ms. Shaw, listen carefully.  I don't

know how much time I have, and Sadira's life depends on this."

    Pamela's fist slammed against the top-level map, creasing it.  The

others jumped back.  "Who is this?"

    "My name is Carmody.  I called out the bra order."

    "Carmody?"  Jason went rigid.  "Why didn't you call us directly, if

you can do it now?"

    "The need wasn't great enough."

    "Like _hell_ it wasn't! --" and she realized she was speaking to a

potential ally.  And, quite possibly, an even deadlier enemy.  "Why

should I trust you?"

    She could hear him take a measured breath, then, "I can't give you a

reason.  But if you don't believe me, then Sadira will die.  She has

until Thursday morning, but possibly no longer."

    "Is it medical?"

    "No."  Stark, matter-of-fact.  "Nigilo has decided that keeping her

alive and hidden is too great a risk.  He will have her murdered, mutilate

the body to look like a sexual killing, and leave her in a ditch to rot.

And then he is going to send someone to kill you.  Ms. Shaw, I have had

this number all along.  I took Sadira's phone bills and made sure Nigilo

didn't see them.  I have been trying to keep you all safe, as best I

could."

    "You've done a lousy job."

    Another breath.  "I know."  And a pause.  "I'm a coward, Ms. Shaw.

But I'm a coward who is _acting_, and I don't have much time.  Will you

listen?"

    Pamela gestured for Jason to come around the bed.  He scrambled to her

side and put his head close to the earpiece.  "Talk."

    "I have access to Sadira, but there are guards, and Nigilo has the

ultimate authority.  I am the only ally she has inside the building.  I

cannot get her out on my own."

    "Where is she?"

    "On the lowest level.  The elevators are handprinted.  The fire

doors only open for emergencies.  It will be difficult to reach her.  If

you can cause a distraction, then I can try to bring her up, or you can

work down to meet us.  I'll keep her safe."

    "How do you propose we do that?"

    "I don't know.  I do not have access to all systems.  I can't fully

control the security measures.  I can override nearly any door with my

handprint, but I can't open them via remote.  That function is controlled

from the third underground level.  If I'm guarding Sadira, I cannot reach

that -- and even if there is a distraction, they will eventually think to

come for her.  We can't hide in her rooms or hold them off for very long."

    Jason was frantically writing on the back of a map with one hand,

waving for her attention with the other.  She glanced over as he held up

the sign --

    -- which read {Don't tell him about the computer!}

    Carmody didn't have full access.  They did.  If he was lying and they

kept quiet, it was their ace in the hole.  Lying, they told him, the

access would be lost:  he'd scramble everything as they went in.  But if

he was telling the truth, it was a pleasant surprise.

    Jason and Pamela looked at each other.

    <I wish this was a speaker phone.  I can't _read_ this voice, it's

like looking for music in a dial tone.  Maybe Douglas could pull the

truth from him...>

    Could she trust him?  _How_ could she trust him?  If he'd had her

phone number, then he'd had access to her all along --

    -- and with the number, a region of the city from the exchange

numbers.  From the region, a narrowing search.  And it _hadn't happened_.

    A coward for an ally.

    "The authorities will need warrants.  By the time they get them,

Sadira will be dead.  The media can't get in.  The only thing that stands

a chance of succeeding is a raid."

    "Like you did to us."

    "Exactly," and now she could pick out a tone:  irony.  "But I did

not direct the attack.  I have tried to control as much as I could.  I

mentioned your existence and profession to Nigilo because he allows me to

direct what I discover.  He would have found out about you on his own and

pursued.  I believed that by revealing, I could later mislead.

    "But he directed his own forces without my knowledge, and the final

discovery --"  She could almost hear him looking around, checking his

safety.  "Ms. Shaw, she has two full days remaining to her.  If she can

produce the second virus, she will gain more time -- but eventually,

Nigilo will kill her.  You must try --"

    In the silence, she heard a car pulling up -- and the connection was

broken.  Pamela put the phone down on the bed.

    "Shit," she said evenly, and looked around the bed.  Slowly, she

repeated the conversation while Jason hung up the phone.  Douglas

started scribbling notes, getting down the few facts that had emerged.

And they all listened, and thought.

    Cypher finally gave the question voice.  "Is it a trap?"

    Jasmine answered for all of them.  "Does it matter?"

    "No," Jason said starkly.  "Because he's right.  Eventually, they're

going to kill her."

    Douglas put X marks in the two kitchens on the fourth level.  "We

still don't know how many guards there are," he observed, "or what

weapons they're carrying.  We have no idea if any of us will survive."  A

faint smile, no more than a ghost imposed on the flesh.  "And we're going

in anyway, aren't we?"

    "I can't be there with you," Cypher suddenly said.  "I have to be with

the system.  If I could just --"

    "You're there in electric spirit," Jason assured him.  "You're the

key.  Without you, we can't get into the building, or get that _far_ in."

    "Two days," Pamela said.  "One to get ready, and one to go."  She

looked at the maps, then at the phone, then went back to the maps.

    She kept glancing at the phone through the long night as they drew

up plans, trying to find a path into the fort.  It never rang.



    Carmody moved into the shadows near the phone, flattening himself

against a thin tree trunk.  The car drove past him, the headlights

sweeping within inches of his position.  He could see the driver.  Lisa

Trevor, out for the evening.  All of her previous work had been at

Helena, she didn't know about the bad food, and she wouldn't listen to

someone else's opinion...

    He stayed in his position for eight minutes, counting evenly to six

hundred, trying not to become disrupted by the faster beat of his heart.

He watched her move through the diner, sitting down by the window.  And

if she was visible from the phone, then --

    Finally, he moved slowly through the shadows, stepping carefully

despite himself -- she would never hear any twigs snap inside the diner,

but his feet wouldn't acknowledge that.  He got back to his car and drove

to GenTree.

    Carmody didn't think Trevor had spotted him by the phone, but she

could have seen his car pull away from the diner.  There was an easy way

to discover if she had reported any suspicions.  Carmody was sleeping at

the Cascade site, in the lower second apartment.

    If she had seen him, reported it, and led Nigilo down the proper path,

he would never wake up.



                     34. 104-106:  Two to get ready...



    "But does it fit?"

    "It fits."  Jasmine scratched the base of her neck, fingers sliding

under her shirt.  "And it is the _least_ comfortable thing I've ever

worn."

    "Consider the material," Pamela suggested.  "It's a pretty good job

when you think of what she had to work with.  And we need it.  At least

she had it on hand -- she uses it for reinforcement.  And we got it fast."

A small grin.  "FedEx.  When it absolutely, positively has to be there..."

    "I know."  Jasmine scratched again.  "It's still uncomfortable."

    Pamela looked down at her left hand.  The fingers twitched.  She

fought the itch, almost won -- then scratched.  "I noticed.  But the

sooner we get used to them, the better."

    Douglas and Jason walked out of the Army-Navy shop carrying two huge

bags each.  "Got nearly everything," Douglas declared.  "Walkie-talkies

for all of us.  Batteries, flashlights, the works.  What's our next

stop?"

    "Ammunition," Pamela answered.  "I wish we had more than three

guns..."

    "I can use the taser," Douglas assured her.  "I will save my aim for

the camera.  My current attachments should be up to recording the scene,

however, and my body strongly desires to survive it.  I will dodge with

great proficiency."

    Jason hefted the bags, using the handles to create improvised weights:

more exercise.  "Can't we buy more weapons?  A taser's no good at long

range."

    "Sure," Pamela said casually.  "Anywhere on the street.  Presuming

we don't get caught in a police sting operation, or walk into the middle

of a gang war.  I bought my guns the legal way, waiting period for pickup

and all.  We're a few days short."  She glanced over at the photographer.

"You?"

    "If we were in Beirut, I could get you missiles," he replied.  "A side

trip would not be advisable."

    "The flight time would be a bitch -- oh, _shit_!"

    She felt their eyes focus on her as she expanded on the curse.  "We

_can't_ bring the guns on the plane, and we'll have some fun explaining

the other things!  We don't have time to drive --"

    Jason touched her shoulder.  "Douglas worked that out in the store.

We can't take the guns on a _public_ plane.  And I think I know where to

get some extras."



    She'd had no chance at the modem.  The avenues of research were all

dead ends.  Her conservative drawing time estimate for the vials was five

minutes.  Her measuring tape/handle had finally frayed while pulling her

latest bra around, leaving her stuck half-in, half-out, and completely

pissed until a guard had responded, brought her a short length of rope,

handed it to her as she huddled under the blanket -- and then stood there,

watching her.  (She finally finished by improvising a grappling hook with

bound forks from the kitchen, being smirked at all the way)

    Her morning bath had led to a horrible conclusion:  she was getting

wider than the tub -- and even when confined in the bra, her breasts

touched the edges of the wheelchair:  it would open no further.  Most of

the doorways were extra-wide, to allow equipment to move freely, but in

another week...

    And the Powerbars were, unbelievably, starting to taste worse.

    On the bright side, her back felt better, her exercise program

seemed to be working, and Temperi made little whimpering sounds whenever

she got within ten feet.  But overall, the scales were balanced into the

negative.  If she even _had_ a scale...

    Sadira sighed, and tried to put on her shoes.

    If her back had been whole, it would have been relatively simple:

extend foot out to side, contort so that arms are reaching down said side,

slide shoe onto foot.  And avoid laces, since the position wouldn't be

comfortable to hold for long.  Or just place them on the floor well in

front of her, try to remember their exact position because her breasts

were going to hide them, and slip in.  But she couldn't stand to slip her

feet into the loafers, and she couldn't bend sideways to reach her feet

while in the wheelchair.  _Forward_ was out of the question:  her breasts

would only compress so much.  Which also might make _sideways_ an issue...

    Sadira had picked the shoes up with her toes, and was trying to use

the wheelchair's foot rests as braces.  Every time she tried to push her

foot in, she knocked the shoe off.

    She wasn't sure why she was bothering.  She wasn't walking.  She

couldn't see her feet.  Nobody was going to look at her feet.  She'd given

up on socks.  And as long as she had the muu-muus, fashion wasn't a

concern.

    She still put them on.  It took six minutes.

    The guards opened the door, and Sadira wheeled into the hallway.

Nigilo was standing against the opposite wall.  He wasn't leaning:  it

didn't look like his body was capable of bending.  "Good morning, Sadira,"

he said pleasantly.  "Ready for another day of work?"

    She nodded and steered the wheelchair down the now-familiar path to

the lab.  The guards moved into position, one in front, one in back.

Nigilo took her right.

    "You seem to be outgrowing that wheelchair," he noted.

    Sadira shrugged and shifted the joystick to the left.

    "Well, you're very close to being finished.  I can always donate this

wheelchair to charity.  It won't be a concern for much longer."

    <The only way I'm going to get rid of him is to acknowledge him

directly.>  She turned to look at him --

    -- and he was walking away, back down the hall.  She returned to

steering.  <'Almost finished,'> she mockingly paraphrased.  <It must be

nice to be delusionally optimistic.>  At least he was in a good mood.

    Sadira had started worrying about motivating factors.  Nigilo hadn't

threatened to remove privileges in an attempt to get her to work harder,

but there was every chance that he'd think of it eventually.

Near-homicidal fury one moment, masked under a friendly demeanor the next.

If he decided that she needed additional motivation, then she could lose

the wheelchair, her bras (and the vials -- and wouldn't he be happy when

he saw them?), the bed -- or worse.

    She hadn't wanted to think about _worse_.  Not thinking about it had

kept her awake until two a.m.

    The guards opened the door for her, and Sadira wheeled into the lab.

She was the only person there.

    Sadira looked around.  Every time she'd been brought in, the other

three had already been present and working.  She had the lab to herself --

    -- and the lab was subtly different.  There was a new electron

microscope occupying the space where her workstation had been.  Sadira's

computer had been shifted to the left --

    -- the cameras couldn't see it anymore.

    She risked a longer glance, double-checking the angles.  The scan

range stopped about a foot short of the keyboard, and had no chance of

seeing the monitor.  No one could see what was on the screen.

    One of the guards stepped into the room.  "They're late," he gruffly

observed.  "Can you start without them?"

    <All three?>  "No problem.  I'll just work with what I've already

got."  The guard found a comfortable corner and settled in.  Sadira went

up the computer and elevated the chair a little more than usual.  She was

now reaching to the side and _down_ to type -- and she was blocking the

guard's view of the monitor.

    The computer took forever to boot up.

    Sadira worked on the project for a minute, praying that the others

didn't walk in, waiting for the guard's attention to wander a bit -- and

then she moved the mouse arrow to the modem icon and double-clicked.

    {Enter password.}

    The computer could be monitored.  There might be a relay to another

system that would mimic everything she did.  And any program tracked where

mail was being sent...  <I can tell them I'm in Montana.  I can knock the

drive over and break the system.  If I send something out, it might have a

really detailed Email address:  maybe they can track me.  Sadira's_prison@

insanity.com.  I've got to chance it.>  Sadira typed the password.

    The drive light flashed twice as the computer thought about it.

    {Password expired.  Enter password}

    Sadira quietly closed the window and lowered the chair back to base

level.  <Of course.  Only an idiot would maintain the same password on a

communications line.>  She wheeled the chair over to the new microscope.

<Nice.  I've never seen this model before.  The best of everything...>

    The door opened, and the Three Stooges walked in.  "-- don't know

why the system went crazy," Jonas said.  "They could have at least let you

two go in while they checked for me."

    "And why are you three late?" Sadira inquired, putting all of her

anger into the words.

    Temperi scurried to his workstation.  Menken glanced at her.  "The

scanner didn't recognize Paul's handprint," he explained, nodding to

Jonas.  "They held us all up while they looked at the system.  It cleared

itself about three minutes ago."

    <It probably didn't want him touching it.>  Sadira shook her head and

turned back to the microscope.  "Did anyone remember to get the placenta

sample?"



    "As close as possible to Cascade, Montana, without using the Helena

airport."  The pilot spread out the map.  "How about near Great Falls?  I

can land you at one of the smaller airstrips, and you can drive from

there.  There's a good little 'port at Fort Shaw."

    Pamela looked at the map.  "Fort Shaw?"  There it was, about ten miles

from Great Falls.  "I wonder if I'm entitled to royalties?"

    "It's close enough," Jason said.  "We can rent a car and drive to Eden

from there."

    "A van," Jasmine corrected.

    "Sound good to you folk?"  They all nodded.  "All right.  I'll go gas

up the plane, file the flight plan, and we'll be on our way in under an

hour.  Just make yourselves comfortable."  He left the office.

    Pamela glanced at Douglas.  "Nice work."

    The photographer smiled.  "Many Air Force pilots choose to continue

flying after leaving the service.  And after following orders for so many

years, they don't think to question requests.  We can trust Henry to fly

us without complaint or metal detectors, but no more.  He has a fear of

germ warfare."

    Jasmine looked at him with new respect.  "I didn't realize you knew so

many people."

    "Some, here and there, and I keep track of them.  Politics makes

strange bedfellows, but war creates stronger friendships.  But then, you

were never interested in asking me anything -- except when I would be

leaving your presence."

    Jasmine's eyes slowly rose to meet his as the blush spread across her

face.  "I'm going to be spending a lot of time apologizing to people,

aren't I?"

    "Your reputation among your fellow performers is less than sterling,"

Douglas confirmed.  "It will take work to mend."

    She turned and gazed out the window into the hanger, eyes drifting

across the little plane that would fly them from New Haven, Connecticut to

Fort Shaw, Montana.  Silence fell over the room.

    "Any reason we need a van, Princess?" Pamela finally asked her.

    "A cargo van," Jasmine expanded.  "With sliding doors."  She kept

looking at the plane.  "Because Sadira won't be able to get into a car.

Give me the phone:  I'm going to call Cypher."



                       35. 107-110:  Cascade failure



    Pamela leaned back in her seat and tried to get comfortable, shifting

the thin blanket into a new position.  She couldn't sleep, and she _had_

to sleep.  <Last chance for rest before the end of the world.>  It was

past midnight New York time:  the clock had moved to Wednesday, the third

of April.  If they screwed up, it was Sadira's last full day alive.

    She looked around the aisle.  Douglas was asleep.  His hands lay atop

his blanket, clenched tight.  One more war zone, one more battle.  Had she

meant to drag him into this, to this level?  She'd wanted someone with

knowledge of how the media worked, who could tell her how to distort

someone's perceptions and make them thank her for it afterwards.  She

hadn't expected another combatant.  And yet here he was, ready to risk his

life with them.  To preserve beauty -- and when he said the word, Pamela

heard "spirit," and "life."  She wondered how much blood he had seen.

    The Princess was sleeping as well as she ever did, shifting and

stirring.  It helped remind Pamela that she wasn't looking at Sadira.

Neither of them had their makeup on, but the resemblance had started to

move beyond the physical.

    <Not all that far apart,> her mind whispered.  <She's finally trying

to change.  I can see it, a little more each day.> The Princess was still

the weakest link in the chain, the least effective fighter in the group.

She didn't care.  She was going to get her sister back.  But she'd broken

once before, and if she snapped again --

    <At least when she was a total bitch, I knew what to expect.>  Pamela

didn't know what to make of the Princess anymore.  She might save her own

skin, or she might save Sadira's life.  There was no way to tell until the

opportunity arose.  But Pamela was hoping for the second option.

    There was an overhead light on three seats in front of her.  Mouse had

been doing push-ups and sit-ups every two hours, rapid sets that seemed to

blur his body -- and then, when his energy levels returned to normal, he

studied the maps until it was time to work out again.  She wished he would

sleep.  She was afraid of what would happen if he did.

    <Eventually, he's going to miss a session.  If he's knocked out during

this, and we can't wake him up so he can shed the excess energy, he's

going to die.> They were all risking their lives on this run, but his had

been hanging from a frayed thread since his leg finished healing -- and it

had healed perfectly:  no limp, and only the smallest of scars.  <Sadira

has to choose between this man and me.  The first _good_ man I've seen in

years.  She's known me longer: that's a point.  We've made love: two

points -->

    She tried to push away the thought, but it clung to her.  <If she

picks him, we'll still be friends.  There's always that.>  She could see

so many scenarios where they pulled Sadira out of the pit, cured her, and

she went into the Mouse's arms.  It was harder to focus the visions which

ended with Sadira and Pamela flying off together, ready to resume what

the bond had broken apart.  <I want a happy ending.  I just can't make

myself believe in one...

    <I have to sleep.>

    Pamela reached under the blanket, unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled

down her pants, then slipped her left hand inside her panties -- and then

deeper still.

    The action wouldn't send her to sleep, not immediately, it might even

key her up -- but it would impose an artificial relaxation as the

afterglow settled in, and perhaps she could ride that into sleep.

Masturbation as tension release and knockout pill.  Nothing else was

working, so it was worth a try.

    It didn't work.  Done properly, it was a concert sung between mind and

body, stimulation and images blending into smooth harmony, steadily

escalating to a crashing crescendo with a chance for an encore.  Her

nerves were doing their part, but the images kept breaking up as waves of

pain and blood flooded her dreams --

    Pamela quietly withdrew and put her pants back on, wiping her hand on

the blanket.

    A few minutes later, the Mouse came down the aisle.  "Still awake?"

    "No kidding.  Why aren't you asleep?"

    "I've been trying, but it just won't come."

    "Neither can I," Pamela replied -- caught herself -- then realized

that he didn't know what she was talking about.  _One_ slip got past him.

She could die happy.  "Maybe you need another workout."

    "The last one was thirty minutes ago.  I don't want to chance dropping

too low.  It's just a question of relaxing."

    Pamela patted the empty seat.  "Sit down."  He did.  "Just close your

eyes and try to drift."

    "No leg room," he said.  "I'm firmly anchored.  I'd sleep on the floor

if I could keep from sliding around every time we changed altitude.  Maybe

you should sing me a lullaby."

    Pamela grinned.  "The _last_ thing anyone needs is to hear me sing.

You'll have nightmares."

    "Fair enough."  He shrugged.  "We're up for the same reason, anyway.

Want to go over the plan again?"

    "Not now.  I'm too tired to think -- and too tired to fall asleep.

Great combination.  Every time I try to picture the plan, it ends in

disaster."

    "Me too," came the soft reply.

    There was a long pause as they both closed their eyes and tried to

dismiss the inner visions.

    "Try to make it a partial disaster," the Mouse suggested.  "Everyone

gets out alive but me.  That way, two problems get solved."

    Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up straight.  "I don't want to win

by _default_ --" she saw his face.  "Not funny, Mouse."

    "Sorry.  Gallows humor."

    Pamela lay back against the seat.  "You've been thinking about it too,

huh?"

    "Yes."  A small sigh.  "But the priorities are rescue, then cure, and

_then_ you can call off the truce."

    "Out of one war and into another," Pamela said.  "Maybe we could just

ask her to decide."

    "Maybe."  It didn't feel like a serious option to either of them.

    "Can you sing?"

    The Mouse looked at her, startled.  "Pretty well."

    "Fine.  Sing _me_ a lullaby.  Maybe it'll help."

    "You're kidding."

    She sat up slightly and met his eyes.  "Do I look like I'm kidding?

Sing."

    He sang.

    There were no words to the song, just a pattern of notes and tones,

gently drifting through the small airplane.  Time slowed, became tangibly

warm, then vanished entirely.  Jasmine's movements stopped, while Douglas'

hands slowly relaxed and opened.  Pamela let the music wash across her.

There was a tune there, something almost familiar, she would have it if

she just listened more closely, so she paid attention, tried to _look_ at

the music...

    Her eyes closed as she murmured, "Thanks, Jason..." and fell asleep.

    He quietly stood up and looked down at her.  Pamela was free from her

fears, if only for a few hours.  He still had to deal with his.

    The plane was small and slow:  they weren't going to reach Montana for

several hours.  He went back to his seat, recovered his maps, and returned

to Pamela's side, reading in reflected light, guarding.

    "Jason?" he softly asked her sleeping form.  "Who's Jason?  No one

here but us mice."



    Fort Shaw wasn't a one-horse town.  Someone had shot the horse.  It

was small, still, and didn't have a car rental agency anywhere in sight.

Pamela disavowed her relationship within three seconds of arrival.  They

called out a taxi from Great Falls, and rented the van there.  Pamela and

Jasmine put on their makeup during the half-hour wait for the ride.

    They still weren't sure what to do about Jason.  There were two

schools of thought:  one said that the longer GenTree thought they had a

more or less random assault (unlikely), the more time Sadira would have.

The second school thought that Jason might be presumed dead, and seeing

him alive would generate a ton of extra chaos -- which might also generate

time.  They couldn't find a decent fake moustache, so they let him be.

    The weather gave them a small break.  For an April morning in New

York, it would have been an incredibly cold day.  In Montana, a high

temperature in the teens was just slightly unseasonable.  Ski masks

became _sensible_ apparel instead of _suspicious_.  Pamela passed out the

ones she'd brought from New York.  They hadn't been a serious

consideration for the raid itself:  Pamela knew just how well they blocked

sight and hearing -- but if any GenTree employes were passing by, it gave

them an extra margin of safety.  They still spent most of their time

looking behind them.  Pamela found it ironic:  two macromastics who were

too large to bind down trying to disguise themselves with skin tones and

masks -- but every bit helped.

    Douglas called Cypher during the ride to Eden, double-checking their

connection strength.  The relay occasionally faded and crackled as they

moved through different zones, but they were in contact.  Cypher had

skipped his classes, and was spending the day bracing his equipment for

the assault.  His roommates had been given movie money and told not to

come home until the theaters closed -- which in Manhattan, translated to

six in the morning if they avoided the X rating -- and _never_ if they

sought it out.

    The phone had a special feature:  a speaker and microphone pickup on

the side.  "Good news and bad news.  Good first.  Jasmine, you were right.

Payroll files, with number of employees per section and work times.  I

know how many guards you've got at any time, and when the shifts change."

    "Bad news?" Jasmine asked.

    "Fifteen of them at _any_ damn second, and I can't tell you where they

are in those seconds.  The computer doesn't track their movements.  Once

they start shifting, The End.  Current assignments give you a few on each

floor, and six down on the fourth.  Here's the shifts."  Jasmine took

notes.

    Douglas sighed.  "The moral state of this world gives the enemy the

numerical edge."

    "But our strength is like the strength of ten, because our hearts are

pure," Jason semi-quoted.

    "Speak for yourself," Pamela said.  "Your strength is like the

strength of ten because your metabolism is nuts."

    They could hear Cypher typing.  "I'll keep looking for edges up to and

through the last second.  Call back."

    "We will," Douglas assured him.  "Luck to us all."

    "Luck to you four first.  I'm safe unless I get a killer surge.  Watch

your asses, all of you."  The hacker hung up.

    "Fifteen guards," Jason repeated.  "Let's get more firepower."



    "Nobody home?" Jasmine asked.

    Jason looked at the empty driveway, then at the fields.  "Looks like

it.  Heracles is still at college, Mom is teaching, and the twins are at

school.  Dad probably went into town."

    Pamela was still looking around.  She'd been expecting red barns, rows

of wheat (despite the cold), and a tractor parked on the lawn.  What she

saw was large, modern buildings with heating vents, and several huge

pastures.  "What kind of farm is this, anyway?"

    "Cows and sheep, mostly.  Some pigs.  We grow a few vegetables on the

side.  We had horses when I was a kid -- until the day my dad wound up

with a fractured kneecap.  Never since."  He looked at Pamela.  "And

that's why I can't ride.  Mean critters.  I can take a fall pretty well,

though."

    Pamela smiled.  "Actually, I don't go riding too much anymore.

Vibrations."  She looked at the old house.  "This is still a Rockwell

painting."

    "Rockwell paintings don't show six year olds up to their ankles in

muck trying to help their dad deal with a breech birth," Jason pointed

out.  "The horse could have kicked me, too.  Dad slept on the couch for a

week."  He smiled.  "A professor and a farmer.  Don't ask."  He got out of

the van.  All of the heat left with him.

    Jason climbed the steps onto the porch, reached under the swing, and

removed a key.  He unlocked the door and went in.

    He emerged twelve minutes later with a large duffel bag slung over his

right shoulder, and got back in the van, undoing all of the heater's

repair work.  "Got them," he said.  "Still in the attic.  I guess the

twins finally learned not to go into my things."  He opened the bag.  "One

extra .22, and my best rifle."  Jason looked at the Daisy's shoulder

strap.  It needed oil.

    "We are armed, if not ready,"  Douglas observed.  Jason passed him the

gun.  "It will help to think of it as an especially vicious flash.

Pamela, you said that the men who attacked the lab were armed with both

normal guns and tranquilizer pistols?"  Pamela nodded.  "If Sadira had

rebelled before the kill order was given, they would have wanted to

eliminate the immediate threat while keeping her alive.  There may be such

weapons in the complex as well.  We should use them if we find them."

    "Leave them alive?"  The words emerged through clenched teeth.  "I

already made that mistake.  Dead people can't come after us again -- and

if we don't do this _exactly_ right, they _will_ chase us."  Pamela pulled

out her gun.  "The darts are a temporary solution.  This is a permanent

one."

    Douglas leaned forward, locking his eyes into her reflection in the

rear-view mirror.  "All too," he agreed.  "They won't wake up again, ever.

None in that building are blameless -- but do they all deserve to die?"

    Jasmine looked at Pamela.  "We can't go through the building on a

death hunt," she said plainly.

    "Let me guess.  Because _then we'd be no better than them_."  Softly,

"Bullshit."  Pamela looked at the Magnum, then at her reflection.  They

all saw her brow furrow in thought.  "I don't want to kill them all,

Princess.  I'm not too clear on the idea of an afterlife.  It's nice to

think that they're all going to burn in hell -- but if they're going to

suffer for this, they have to be alive.  So we'll kill only if we have to,

but _the option is open_.  Agreed?"

    Jason nodded.  "Agreed."

    Douglas and Jasmine nodded.  Pamela started the engine, and they

pulled out of the driveway.  "So now we've got the second-hardest part to

deal with.  We wait."

    Pamela checked the mirrors as she turned the van into the street, and

quietly checked her face at the same time.  It showed nothing of the

decision she had reached.

    Jason had concentrated mightily to dredge up any details of Carmody's

face -- but his description of Nigilo had been solid.  Pamela had a very

clear picture of the man.  It made a nice target.  She shot him ten times

every mile.



    Carmody walked over to Sadira.  The scientist was lost in her data.

"Any progress?"

    "None," she answered, still looking at the screen.  Her attention was

focused on the clock:  eight p.m.  "If you want to know what isn't

working, I can give you a long list.  Anything else is going to take less

time." She turned off the monitor.  "Got a few dozen aspirin?"

    Carmody reached into his breast pocket.  "Your back is getting worse?"

She'd been in the chair for days.  It should have given her a chance to

heal...

    "My head."

    <Work,> Carmody thought.  <Come up with the answer, buy us both some

time.  If your friends don't arrive soon -->

    What if they hadn't trusted him?  It was too easy to believe.  But

they had to care about her, they had to come.  Despite what Nigilo

believed, the entire world didn't walk along his paths.  Other people

loved, and would try to save the one they loved.

    He couldn't do it alone.  He wasn't sure it could be done at all.

If Pterros was still alive, and Jasmine came with him and Shaw, then he'd

have staked his last hopes for Sadira's life on two geneticists and an

exotic dancer.

    It was almost funny.

    Sadira dry-swallowed the pills.  "Maybe I should just try to sleep on

it.  My waking mind is out of ideas."  She turned in the chair as much as

she was able, her breasts jamming against the armrests, and looked at him.

    Carmody had never believed in telepathy.  He had just received lack of

proof.

    "Perhaps that would be best," he heard himself say.  "The others will

continue to work."  A side glance.  "I'll arrange for a new wheelchair in

the morning."

    "Check with your boss.  He may have already ordered one."  Sadira

headed for the door.  "You're more efficient, though."



    He met Nigilo on the way back to his office.

    "Ah, Carmody."  Nigilo matched his pace.  "How goes the research?

Have you found someone we can sincerely flatter by imitating?"

    "I'll have my recommendations on your desk tomorrow morning, sir,"

Carmody replied.  "I still have to sort through some data.  There are a

surprisingly large number of sexual killings, with many varieties of

mutilation."

    "I'm sure you'll pick a good one."  Nigilo smiled, the face of a cobra

seeing a place to strike.  "I've got to catch up on some work.  I've been

putting in too many late mornings in my bed lately.  I'm not as tireless

as you are."  Another smile.  "One day, you'll have to tell me how you do

it so naturally."

    <Willpower.>  "What sort of work, sir?"

    "Hiring.  I have to find some geneticists to replace Archer.  I've got

a pile of resumes, work records, and legal charges to sort through.  It's

a matter of finding the right mindset and blackmail material.  And I've

also got to locate a temporary -- someone who would be willing to dispose

of our little problem.  Murder for hire doesn't come cheap, and for this,

I want to use an intermediary to draw up the contract.  Perhaps several.

This will not get back to us."  Nigilo stopped.  Carmody stopped.

"Ideally, I'd like to have her dead by Thursday night, but arranging this

properly might take more time."

    "It's not something you want to rush, sir," Carmody said.  "We can't

be too careful in covering our tracks."

    Nigilo nodded.  "Better to do it correctly than to do it fast.  We

won't get a second chance at it.  Once she's dead, that's the end of it.

But I'd still like to get it done before the end of the day tomorrow.

It's a question of putting in the hours.  You're putting in yours, I'll

put in mine."  He looked at Carmody, and there was a quiet satisfaction in

his face.  "This is something I want to get involved with personally.  You

go back to your data, and I'll start on my own files.  We _will_ have this

finished before the weekend."

    Carmody nodded, and headed for his office.  Nigilo went towards his.



    Eight-fifteen p.m.  They had driven past the site, then parked the van

in the woods and walked back towards it, using the roadside lights to

navigate.  Jason had eaten his last tank-up snacks on the way.  The group

stopped fifty feet from the fence.

    "Last chance for review," Pamela said.  "Let's make sure we've got

this straight."  They backed up a few dozen feet.  Douglas pulled out a

small flashlight.  Pamela's gaming experience had made her try to put a

fictional premise into operation:  the backpack filled with every piece of

conceivably useful junk known to humanity.  Douglas had looked over her

list and cut it down to a few pounds of equipment each, in pockets and

_small_ backpacks.

    Jason pulled out his maps, and Jasmine dialed the phone.  "Cypher?"

    The transmission was relatively clear.  "On line and scrolling."

    Jason brought the ground floor map to the top of the thin stack.  "We

run across the parking lot _here_, to this fire door.  Cypher unlocks it,

and we work our way down."

    "We head straight for the fourth floor," Pamela continued.  Jason

pulled out the map.  "We've got two apartments where Sadira could be:

this one's closer to our entrance.  Check that one first, then head for

the second if she isn't there."

    "I keep people off your backs," Cypher said.  "Drop the breaks on

them, screw up the systems.  If I get any indication that they're moving

Sadira, I let you know.  Updates anytime I hear something new."

    "We get out as quickly as possible and head for the woods," Jason

continued.  "It'll take a minute or two to reach the car.  We carry Sadira

if we have to."

    Jasmine looked at the dead branches on the ground, then at the trees

which surrounded them.  They'd picked up a wheelchair in Great Falls.  It

wasn't going to work:  they couldn't steer it through the woods.  "We stay

together," she said.  "They might try to split us up:  if we move as a

unit --" she looked at Pamela, who nodded "-- we can cover more angles and

watch each other's backs."

    "And once back at the vehicle," Douglas finished, "we drive for our

lives.  That assumes the most basic success:  recovering Sadira and

departing.  We don't try for the contingency plans unless things are

breaking our way.  But whenever I'm not firing the gun, I trigger the

camera.  Both at once if possible."  The camera was hung around his neck.

He'd assured them the case was bulletproof.

    "Don't count Carmody out one way or another," Jason said.  "We might

stay unnoticed all the way through the stairwell, but once we're in the

corridors, someone's going to notice us."

    "I can turn the cameras on and off," Cypher added, "and I've been

looking at nice empty corridors for a while now.  The camera images are

fed into monitors, but they're also directly broadcast to mobile receivers

from a central point _before_ they go through the computer system.  I've

got blank-space images saved for everywhere.  The monitoring stations will

see what I want them to see if I move fast enough.  Anyone with a hand-

held tuned to the right place can pick you up.  And once you run into

someone, that's it:  on your own."

    "Once they know, then Carmody knows," Pamela pointed out.  "He either

springs his trap or tries to meet us halfway."  She looked around the

group.  "We've also got fifteen guards to deal with.  Shift change is at

ten:  this is late enough so that they'll be tired, early enough so that

no fresh troops show up.  And don't forget the rest of the staff:  there

won't be many around at this hour, but someone could always try something

stupid.  We might have to fight our way out.  On the other hand, the

secrecy works both ways:  we can't bring in the Armed Forces, they can't

call the cops."

    "We avoid the elevators unless absolutely necessary," Jason said.  "We

can move in the stairwell, even if it's only in two directions.  We can't

let them box us in.  The door opens, they shoot inside --"

    Douglas nodded at the map.  "We don't have to worry about anything

exotic," he noted.  "No gases, no pits, and no lasers.  Even no viruses,

since they're hardly immune to their own agents.  It'll be toe-to-toe all

the way, guns and fists."

    "Best case," Jason concluded.  "We get Sadira, get all the information

we need, head for Helena for the final confrontation, and win it.  We work

on the viruses there, use whatever data Sadira's found while we were on

the plane, and she's cured by morning."  Jason patted his right coat

pocket.  He was carrying BE-1 in a shatterproof syringe -- surrounded by a

steel case -- ready for modification.  He'd wanted to leave the viruses in

the van, but Pamela had insisted on bringing them, and distributed the

syringes.  (There was a small chance that Sadira's bluff would work

twice.)  The syringe in his left pocket held a mixture of sugars, in case

he or Sadira needed a fast boost.  They were all carrying one.

    "Worst case," Pamela countered, "we're all dead."  She looked around

the group.  "And no matter what happens, whoever's still standing heads

for the goal line.  We don't get any second chances.  This is it."  The

faintest of smiles drifted across her face.  "If anyone has to go to the

bathroom, do it now."

    They all looked at each other -- and then a small blush tinted

Douglas' face, and he walked into the shadows.

    Jasmine took out her gun and looked it over.

    Pamela moved closer to the fence.  Jason followed her.  "We are _so_

unqualified," she told him.  "Photographer, stripper, and two lovesick

scientists.  And maybe one flunky turned renegade."

    "And it doesn't matter, because we're all she's got," Jason replied.

"How many cliches do you want me to toss out?"

    "I'll throw the last one," Jasmine said, coming up behind them.  "One

way or another, it ends tonight."  She stopped, then looked at them in

turn.  "I'm scared," came the frank admission.  "But I'm going to use it

for something good this time."

    Pamela looked at the dancer.  "Want to know something, Princess?"

Jasmine nodded.  "If we live through this, you just might wind up human."

    Douglas approached, zipping his pants.  Jasmine looked at the phone.

"Ready, Cypher?"

    "Fingers on the home keys."

    Pamela looked at the fence, and at the small white building in the

middle of the parking lot.  The sign by the road had said {GT Industries}.

The vast bulk of the building was underground.  The portion that was

visible could be anything.  It was an iceberg of corruption:  you saw the

top and never suspected how much more might lie underneath.

    <One shot,> she thought.  <Sadira, if we live through this, we're

going to have one _hell_ of a story for our kids.>  The smile was purely

internal.  <Sure.  Like we could _have_ children.>  Jasmine moved close to

the fifteen-foot fence.  Pamela joined her.  Douglas and Jason got behind

them.

    "We're clear to run," Jasmine whispered.

    "Computer's got the outside camera showing empty footage," Cypher

replied.

    "Boost on three," Pamela said, bracing herself for the contact.  "One,

two, three --"



    Sadira eased her way out the wheelchair, her breasts rubbing against

the armrests.  <I'm not finished, but this chair is.  I hope Carmody talks

Nigilo into getting a new one soon.  Maybe two chairs linked together.  I

sit in one and my breasts sit in the other.>  She piled the pillows behind

her and sat up against the headboard, legs extended.  Her breasts rested

on her legs, stretching out well past her knees.  Her best guess put her

lower slopes at mid-thigh when out of the bra -- there weren't many

moments when she was anywhere near a standing position, and very few of

those were braless.  She still wasn't sagging.

    <If I get this stopped, I _will_ work out until I'm lying in a puddle

of my own sweat, and I'll wear a steel bra whenever my position heads for

the vertical, but I will _not_ let myself sag.  I just got my arms and

legs back for the first time in over ten years.  If I can walk at all, I

refuse to trip over my breasts.>

    And a little voice said <A few more weeks and they'll be touching the

floor without sagging -->

    -- and she pushed it back.

    Sadira reached for the remote and turned on the TV.  "Powerbars, power

bras," she said to the cameras.  "You know why I _really_ want to be

cured?  So I'll be on my feet when I burn down the Powerbar factory.

Better view."  She looked at the TV screen.  "Something dumb," she said.

"A bad _Voyager_ episode.  Throw my mind into neutral, and maybe it'll

unlock the final sequences."



    "Unlocked," Cypher said.  "Go."

    Jason opened the door, and they headed in, Jasmine taking up the rear,

everyone rubbing their hands, trying to get warm.  They headed down,

moving as fast as they could without making noise --

    -- and the phone crackled, hissed, and went quiet.

    Jasmine looked at it, then took two tentative steps back towards the

surface.  More hissing, and, "-- happening?  Are you guys okay?"

    "We're fine," Jasmine whispered.  "But the local transmission isn't

strong enough to carry underground."

    Douglas, who was in front of her, sighed.  "Apparently this is going

to be one of those operations where everything goes wrong from the

beginning.  Saves us from having to wait for it..."

    "I saw that movie," Pamela said.  "Can we leave the phone here, and

put one of the walkie-talkies next to it?  Relay the transmission?"

    "We can," Douglas answered, "I bought dual-band VOX transceivers so we

could send and receive without having to manually switch modes.  But if we

leave one here, it's vulnerable.  So is anyone we might leave behind to

guard it."

    They all looked at Pamela.

    <Since when am I the leader?> part of her mind asked.  <Since always,>

the rest replied.  "We can't split up.  We'll have to secure it."

    Douglas reached into his jacket and handed Jason a roll of duct tape.

The tall man took phone, tape, and his own walkie-talkie, then secured

them high on the wall.

    They moved ten steps down.  Jasmine took out her transceiver and

pressed the talk button.  "Can you hear me?"

    "I'm getting you."  The voice was distorted by the double-link, an

inch of space doing what two thousand miles hadn't been able to.  The

distance between them was suddenly real.  "Hope the boy scout stuff holds

out."

    They kept moving, approaching the second landing.  There were only

four levels to the underground portion, but they were descending eight:

the between spaces held the hazard walls.  Jason looked at the door.  Two

levels deeper into the pit, and then they'd exit into Hell.  Pulling

Sadira out of the underworld.  His mother would approve.  It was so

Greek...

    Another step, the .38 drawn and ready, rifle over his right shoulder,

waiting.  And another, and another, and --

    -- the door opened.

    "-- told you I could rig the computers," a female voice said.  "We'll

get some privacy in here, sweetheart --" and she looked up and saw Jason.

    His first thought was that he didn't recognize her.  The second said

he didn't know the man behind her, either.  The third told him to stop the

screaming.

    "Oh, _that's_ torn it," Douglas said through the screech.  "Jason!"

    He was already moving, jumping over the last few steps.  The woman had

run back into the corridor:  Jason reached the man and without hesitating,

cracked the gun against his skull.  Pamela moved past him as the man

dropped, moving into the corridor.  She wasn't fast.  She didn't have to

be.  Most of the woman's energy was going into her vocalization.  Pamela

hit her, twice, fast, and hard.  She went down.  <No one missed that

noise --> began the thought --

    -- and she realized she was standing in the hallway, and there was a

camera pointed at her, and no one had told Cypher what was going on, or

where she'd run into.  The camera was working, turning, scanning, and

looking at her.

    If they hadn't heard the scream, they were enjoying an eyeful.

    Two guards came around the corner as Jasmine reached the landing, and

Jason ran into the hallway behind Pamela -- and then he was in front of

her, moving with incredible speed.  The taller guard had just enough time

to yell "Intruder alert!" at something in his left hand before the first

bullet shattered the device -- and then proceeded through his hand.  The

second one grazed his skull, and he fell over.

    Pamela took a split-second to stare, amazed at his speed and

marksmanship.  She heard Jasmine yell "Close the break door on the second

level, the hallway in front of our fire escape!  Cut them off!"

    The second guard had his gun out, and was taking aim --



    Carmody heard the guard's yell relayed outside his door.  "Intruder

alert!"  He dived for the computer, patched into the cameras, and saw --

    -- he dismissed the insert screen, typed as fast as he could, snatched

the zip disk from the drive, then headed for the door.  His office was

only a few doors from Sadira's cell.



    Nigilo was descending the right inner staircase with an armful of

files.  He heard the alert and dropped the lot, then ran for his office.

He had to tap into the security center, find out what was happening --

    -- and if the source turned out to be the cause of all his recent

problems, he was going to take care of it personally.



    On the third level, in the security center, a flood of adrenaline was

being channeled.  Orders were screamed to guards, cameras were focused,

weapon closets unlocked, and buttons hit --

    -- including the one that scrambled the manual security override input

codes according to a pre-determined pattern that wasn't in the computer.

Anyone who needed to know it had memorized the shifts.  Anyone who had

stolen the codes was out of luck.  The scanners would respond to

handprints and hidden keypads:  nothing else.



    Cypher saw the motion in the corner window, spared an instant to

look closer and found the codes changing, saw the remote operation lock-

out commencing, and his hands blurred, trying to send a counter-command

while bringing the hazard door down, saving Pamela and Jason, and somehow

the commands got confused, merged, dived into the heart of GenTree's

system, met the warping codes, the new creation veered off into the

security system --

    -- and the whole thing went to Hell.



    Pamela pulled the trigger, taking the second in the knee.  He fell,

pitching forward, his gun flying from his hand towards Jason --

    -- who reached out and caught it.  "Tranks," he said, and shot both

guards with the new pistol.  "Get the other one."

    Pamela moved forward as Jasmine said "Cancel the break door."

    A steel wall slammed down across the entrance to the stairwell.

    Pamela and Jason turned, startled.  "What the hell --?" Pamela

began --

    They heard it at the same time, and looked up to see the ceiling

open, and the wall start to descend, directly above Pamela --

    -- Jason reacted first.  He _thrust_, pushing body and arms forward,

ramming her shoulders, knocking Pamela back a split-second before the wall

came down.  Her transceiver came off her belt as she hit the floor.

    The sound of the wall's impact reverberated through the hallway.



    Sadira heard the commotion outside and looked up towards the door, her

visual field intercepting a camera just as it stopped moving.

    "What's going on?" she breathed -- and then, with the sharpening of

senses that accompanied the adrenal flow, she heard the handprint scanner

start up outside her door --

    -- and it beeped.  The door stayed closed.

    In the middle of the surprise, she figured out exactly what Nigilo had

meant by "close to being finished."

    Another scan.  Another beep.  Still closed.

    Sadira reached into her blouse, pushing past the bra to reach the

right-side vial.  The acuity of her hearing seemed to be increasing:

cursing outside, a desperate jingle as long-neglected keys were examined.

The vial was coming free --

    -- and another sound, a softer one, compressed air escaping --

    -- silence --

    -- and then the sound of a body hitting the door.

    More keys, and the door began to open as she got the vial out.  She

pulled it back, ready to throw.

    The guard's body slumped into the room.  Carmody stepped over it.

    "Ready to go?" he asked neutrally, no expression on his face.

    Sadira looked at him, looked at the tranquilizer gun in his right hand

and the second one strung on his belt, then madly shifted for the

wheelchair.  Carmody scrambled to help.



                          36. 111:  Dungeon crawl



    Pamela sat stupefied for a moment, staring at the grey steel and the

crushed remains of her walkie-talkie -- then scrambled to her feet.

"Mouse?  Can you hear me?" She heard another wall slam into the floor.  It

was the only response she received.



    Jasmine yelled past the frenzied swearing coming through the

transceiver.  "Cypher, what the hell is going on?"

    "Computer crash!" he yelled back.  "They tried to scramble the codes,

I tried to put them back, and the whole thing just blew!  All the security

systems are going nuts!"

    "Can you open the hazard doors?" Douglas said, somehow still calm.

<Of course, he's seen worse...>

    "I'm trying!  Nothing's responding!"

    "Keep trying."  Douglas looked at Jasmine.  "We keep going."

    She stared, then nodded.



    Jason beat his fists against the steel.  The wall didn't notice.

<Calm down!> his brain screamed.  <You're burning energy, and you'll use

too much, and you'll die -->

    Somehow, he pulled himself away from the wall, then withdrew a

Powerbar and practically swallowed it whole.  He ate another, and noticed

the cameras had stopped moving.  "System failure?" he queried empty air.

His walkie-talkie was taped up in the stairwell, and they hadn't thought

to bring a spare.  Somewhere in the complex, another wall slammed down.

    If they were all coming down, then eventually, every possible route

was going to be cut off.  He had to get to Sadira.  That was the plan.

There was no way to get back to the others.  If they all headed down,

they'd eventually meet --

    -- the maps, memorized from long hours of study, flashed into vision.

He followed them.



    The blocked fire escape entrance formed the top of the T-intersection.

Pamela risked a glance at her map:  the last place they'd been seen was

the second floor, so that was where most of the guards were going to go.

With ridiculous luck, they might even draw a few away from Sadira.  They

were officially due for a break.  <The left.  There's an inner staircase

about four turns away.>  She moved down the hall, checking over her

shoulder, trying to scan all sides at once --

    -- and found a third guard, coming down the hallway with weapon drawn,

a real gun this time, running straight at her.  Pamela fired and missed

badly, the bullet impacting by his feet.  The dark man jumped, his finger

squeezing the trigger.

    Pamela ducked.  The bullet flew over her head.  Way over her head:  it

hit the ceiling.  She fired again, missed narrow left --

    -- the bullet slammed into her right breast, knocking her back,

driving her to the floor --



    The exit on the fourth level was blocked, and Cypher couldn't get it

open.  They climbed back up.  The third level's door opened on the first

try, and there was no barrier.

    Douglas and Jasmine exchanged glances.  "The long way, then," the

photographer said, and they moved into the hall.  Douglas kept his taser

in one hand and his camera in the other, and took pictures as they moved.

    Twenty-two feet below them, the hazard door blocking their gate

retreated into the ceiling.



    Carmody took a moment to drag the guard inside and close the door.

"We'll shoot them as they open it," he said.  "They'll need to use their

keys -- and only six of them have keys for this level.  Five now.  I can

open it from this side with mine.  But we can't stall here forever." He

gave Sadira the second gun.  She had grabbed her notebook from the

nightstand and tucked it into the wheelchair's side storage.  "Is there

anything we need to save?"

    "We should wipe the data from the computers if we have the time."

    "We don't.  I'd set the place on fire, but the suppression system is

too good -- as I'm sure you know.  What's in the vial?"

    She held it up and let him look at the contents.

    Carmody nodded.  "Somewhat faster than an empty syringe.

Congratulations:  I never guessed."  He ran into the kitchen and came out

with a handful of Powerbars and two knives.  "They're nicely balanced:

you might be able to throw them.  Start eating.  We can't risk a burnout."

    Sadira took the knives and Powerbars, eating two and tucking the rest

between breasts and lap, next to the vial, then removed the second vial

and secured it, Carmody turning away while she worked.  "Why can't they

use the scanners?"

    "I fired them."  She looked up at him.  "I control the general

personnel programs below the executive level.  When someone is fired,

their handprints, codes and all emergency variants are wiped from the

computer.  I tested it on Jonas yesterday.  The entire security staff was

just let go for general incompetence."

    Sadira fought the urge to laugh.  "So they can't move?"

    Carmody jumped as they heard another slam.  "Only within their

current sections -- and from the sounds outside, those are changing by the

moment.  Do your friends have computer control?"

    The realization burst nova-bright across her mind, and a thousand

emotions sang in her heart.  "They're here?  You're not doing all this?"

    "I saw Pter -- Jason and Pamela on the cameras before they went down.

I would guess that they're using the hazard doors as a distraction."

Another slam, this one close by:  the sound echoed through the room.  "If

so, it's working to perfection.  I hope they have their route timed,

because I don't know what their plan is."  He reached into a suit pocket

and withdrew a thin syringe with a narrow needle --

    -- and before Sadira could react, he pushed up his left sleeve and

injected the contents.  "Insulin," he explained.  "I'm a diabetic, Sadira.

I used to be other things.  I have a great deal of experience with

needles, and I can't risk collapsing on the way out, either.  Ready to

go?"

    Sadira wheeled to the side of the door, and got the gun ready.

"Ready.  If you're sure there's no way we can wipe the data --"

    "If your friends have computer access, they can take care of that

problem later," Carmody pointed out.  There was an odd sound, a sort of

reverse slam, accompanied by the whine of stressed gears.  "Although I'm

starting to doubt that anyone has control right now.  We can return with a

large quantity of dynamite." He opened the door.

    There was a guard running up.  Carmody calmly shot him twice.  Sadira

saw the man's eyes open in surprise -- and then he staggered, swayed, and

fell.  Carmody reloaded, pulling extra darts out from under his suit

jacket.  He'd stopped at the armory on the way.

    "Most of them will use darts to avoid hurting employees, and they have

no orders to kill you yet.  There will be exceptions."  He looked at

Sadira, emotionlessly gauging her size -- and weight.  "I can't push the

wheelchair up the stairs, and I can't carry you."  Carmody said.  "I

can support you and aid in balance for a time, but we'll be slowed.  Can

you walk?"

    "I don't know.  I think my back is healed, but I'm carrying so much

weight..."

    "We'll have to risk the elevator.  Let's hope your friends take out

most of the guards before we get there."



    Nigilo found his progress blocked by a steel wall.  He quietly turned

and went into one of the nearby labs.  It had doors on both sides of the

barricade.

    It didn't matter that the computer was down, or that the entire site

was in chaos, or that he still didn't know who was attacking, with the

link to the security center down.  He didn't know where _she_ was, but

none of it mattered.  The bitch couldn't run, couldn't use the elevators,

couldn't even crawl up the stairs.  No matter how much time it took him to

move, she was moving more slowly.  He would reach her.



    Eric Boyle slowly moved towards the body.  The woman had fallen

backwards and to the side:  he couldn't see where the bullet had hit.  She

wasn't moving.  The mass of her chest was still.  Her eyes were

half-lidded, staring at nothing.

    He approached slowly, ready to kick over the body over and check the

wound.  She'd taken a direct hit, she wasn't wearing any armor, she was

dead, or close to it.  He stepped closer, looking at the puddle of blood

beneath the wound --

    -- the place where the puddle _should_ be:  her clothing couldn't be

soaking up all the blood --

    -- her eyes snapped completely open, and her leg flew up, hitting him

in the crotch.  His cup protected him from the worst of it, but it still

staggered him back.  She was getting to her feet, and her left hand

snatched at his belt --

    -- and came back with the tranquilizer gun.

    "So long, sucker," she said, and shot him three times in the face.



    Pamela watched him slump, and affectionately scratched the base of the

Kevlar bra.  <You were worth all the discomfort.>  All it had taken for

the Mouse and Douglas was a quick trip to the Army/Navy shop to buy

second-hand bulletproof vests, but Pamela and the Princess couldn't use

them.  The vests wouldn't _close_.

    Aunt Susan used Kevlar to reinforce some of the bigger bras:  the next

step had been a completely-Kevlar, full torso-and-crotch garment, with

some extra shielding on her thighs.  If the bulletproof material breathed,

or was the _least_ bit comfortable, it would be perfect.

    That, and the fact that Kevlar _distributed_ impact.  Too many

bullets too quickly, and even the spread-out force could do major damage:

 hydrostatic shock.  She hadn't been able to breathe for a few seconds,

and her breast _hurt_.  One more thing to be paid for.

    Pamela quickly searched the guard, found his screen, decided to take

it with her in case the cameras started working again, and kept moving.



    The man came through the door just behind Jason.  He never saw him.

He _heard_ him, turned, grabbed, and threw him against the wall before his

mind caught on to what he was doing.  He barely felt the effort, and

marveled at the speed.  <If it wasn't for the possible death, I could get

used to this...>  He looked at the man.  "Temperi?"

    "Don't kill me!  Don't kill --"

    The irony washed over him.  <Then maybe _he'll_ break.>  "Don't tempt

me," Jason growled, feeling the anger pulsing outwards, a thousand times

more convincing than at the airport, a lifetime ago.  "Where's Sadira?"

    "I don't know!  Nobody can get anywhere!  I was just using the

bathroom before I left, sneaking out early, trying to get to the exit now,

nothing is working, she's insane --" Mad eyes locked into his.  "You don't

know what it's like, Jason, she's a demon, she spits and scratches and

tries to lure me in, but no, I won't, I won't go under, I won't --"

    Jason aimed the tranquilizer gun and shot him on general principles.



    Jasmine's first bullet hit the guard dead-center in the stomach.

She'd been aiming for his gun arm, but she'd pulled the trigger too soon.

He was carrying two guns, and the one in his hand shot bullets.  Kill or

be killed.

    He staggered, teetered -- then caught himself on the wall and

straightened up --

    -- just in time to be tackled by Douglas, barreling in with taser in

hand, his greater weight carrying the guard to the floor.  He pressed the

taser against the man's neck until he stopped twitching, then grabbed the

tranquilizer gun and shot the guard in the left leg.  "Handy thing to have

around," he said, looking at the taser.  "Aim for the extremities,

Jasmine.  The torso is armored."

    She nodded.  "Why aren't we seeing more guards?"

    "There are fifteen of them scattered over five floors.  A maximum of

twelve, now, counting the two Jason and Pamela took down.  They'll have as

much trouble reaching us as we're having reaching them.  And the ordinary

citizens seem too scared to get involved."

    This was a hiss overhead, and they both stepped quickly to the right,

now alert to danger from above -- but this wasn't a descending wall.

    They watched the spray of foam fall to the ground.

    "Cypher?" Jasmine asked.

    "The systems are still going crazy," the relay crackled.  "I think the

fire extinguishers just went nuts.  It's harmless stuff, but watch your

eyes:  don't want to get clouded at a bad moment.  I'm still trying to get

control of the doors.  So are the folks at the main computer.  We're

having a race to see who can build a new program first.  Some of the

staircases are open, but that'll help _and_ hinder you guys, depending on

who uses them."

    "We're still on the third floor," Jasmine said.  "That's where the

control center is.  Maybe we can do something."



    The hallway was blocked -- and then it wasn't.  Machinery whined, and

the wall receded back into the ceiling.  Carmody sprinted across, and

Sadira pushed the chair to its limits.  They got across with time to

spare, and the steel slammed down behind them.

    "Were these things in Helena?" Sadira gasped.  "Where were they?"

    "In the side walls at strategic points," Carmody answered.  "There

weren't as many crucial areas --"  Foam rained down from the ceiling in

front of them.  "It would seem someone found the fire controls.  Let's

hope no one plays with the elevator."



    The spray caught Pamela in the face.  She fell back, coughing, wiping

the foam off with her arms.  It cleared easily, and she recognized the

slight odor.  <Harmless.  Eyes are safe, lungs are fine --> She stared at

her sleeves.  They were heavily streaked in pink, with yellow patches.

<--but it removes makeup and basic dyes.  Trivial, that's more

important -->

    -- because _that_ was the staircase leading down, and it wasn't

blocked.  She went in, and shot a very large guard on the way down.  She

wasn't in the mood to wait for the drug to kick in:  it took four darts to

make him drop fast enough to suit her.



    Jason reached the fourth floor, and found the hallway blocked by

barricades on both sides, with no labs to cut through.  He waited twenty

seconds in case the walls decided to retreat, then ran back up the stairs,

listening carefully for grinding gears.



    Jasmine shot the scanner, shot the lock, and threw open the door.  The

guard spun, and Douglas aimed.  They fired at the same time.

    The guard slowly sank to the floor, feebly pulling at the two darts in

his right arm.  Douglas moaned and rubbed his stomach.  "Kevlar and fat,"

he said, "and still not enough to protect."  He looked at the two stunned

technicians and pointed the gun at them -- then took a picture.  "Still,

we're not doing badly for rank amateurs.  There doesn't seem to be that

much difference between aiming a gun and a camera."  Another moan.

"Except that the camera is deadlier.  Cover them, will you, Sadira?  I'll

watch the door."

    One of the technicians -- a woman -- looked at Jasmine as she started

to grin.  "Sadira?"

    Intuition flashed across her thoughts, illuminating the con.  "Right."

Jasmine said, advancing.  "I've got the breast-shrinking virus right

here."  She withdrew the syringe case with her free hand:  she was

carrying the accelerator.  "I decided this is the size I want to stick

with."  She expertly appraised the woman's figure:  C verging on D, then

quickly opened the case and displayed the needle.  "You -- well, it would

put you where I started.  Sound like fun?" The woman shook her head

violently.  Her male companion kept staring.  "And did I mention the

possibilities for the penis?  There seems to be an analog effect.  If I

could just get a chance to test it..."

    She watched his reaction and decided that Pamela had the right idea.

It was more fun being a bitch for a good cause.  "So you listen to my

friend --" she held out the walkie-talkie "-- and do everything we tell

you to, or you're both going to go through puberty again -- in the wrong

direction.  Deal?"



    Carmody punched in his code again.  "It's not working.  The controls

are gone, and it's not responding to the key.  There's a chance that the

other elevator bank is operational, but it won't take us directly out.

We'd have to climb to the top level."

    "How do we get there?"  Sadira was spinning the wheelchair, trying to

cover all sides while Carmody worked on the elevators:  they were in the

middle of a large intersection, with corridors leading away from the

elevator doors.  It was making her slightly dizzy.  All around them, there

were the sounds of slamming and grinding.  They'd taken out two more

guards on the way, and Sadira had been hit by a dart in the chest -- then

discovered that her bra was strong enough to block penetration.  Carmody

had shot the second guard before he got to test the bullets.

    "Follow me."  Carmody turned away from the elevator controls and ran

towards the nearest hallway, turning left --

    It was the first time she'd seen any real expression on his face.  It

was surprise, and it lasted only a fraction of a second before the pain

took over.

    The bullet ripped through his body, and Carmody fell.



    Jason was on the third floor, running through the corridors, cramming

food into his mouth with his free hand, scanning for new targets -- and

saw Douglas standing in a doorway.  "Jason!  In here!"

    He entered to see Jasmine holding the walkie-talkie between two

rapidly typing people.  Her left hand had the transceiver.  The right held

a syringe, and it was continually switching aim.

    "Sadira," Douglas began, stressing the word, "is helping our friends

hook the walls back up, with a lot of help from our other friend."

    "Among other things," Jasmine said.  She glanced at the portable

screen Douglas had taken from the fallen guard:  it had been left on the

console.  "Hook them up.  And if I see that screen go on, your sex life

goes to zero."

    "What are we doing?" Jason asked.

    "Finding Pamela, among other things." Douglas answered.  "Sadira's

idea.  We'll get the cameras running in here, but the remaining guards

won't see the results:  the transmitter has been disabled.  Once we know

where everyone is, and get control of the walls, our task should be

eased."

    <If they're still alive.>  But Douglas was right.  They needed to be

able to move:  it was random chance otherwise, and he'd already been

blocked.  "Get them up, and I'll get there."

    "They're coming back on line," the male typist said.  "I don't have

all of them yet."

    "Then show me the ones you do have, moron," Jasmine suggested.

    Several monitors lit up.

    Jason looked, analyzed, and ran for Sadira's life.

    "Get the walls up!" he screamed as he accelerated down the hallway,

his soul praying for chance to favor him, to save her --



    Jasmine stared at the screen as Jason raced out.  She was too far

away, no way to reach her or protect her, Sadira was going to die and

there was nothing she could do --

    -- and a phrase flashed across her memory, something she'd heard

Sadira say years ago.

    "Divert the orcs out of the dungeon," Jasmine said, then, "Get the

voice transmitters on line.  And say what I tell you to say."

    The woman was confused.  "You're not Archer --"

    Jasmine touched the needle to the back of her neck.  "I'm her meaner

sister.  _Turn the fucking thing on_."



    Nigilo stepped around the corner as Sadira got the gun up.

    He shot it out of her hand.

    "Sorry," he said calmly.  "I'm rather good with these things.  I've

used them before."

    His posture was calm and relaxed beneath the rumpled suit.  Sadira

noticed that his necktie was perfectly straight, and there was only a

little foam on him, at the corners of his mouth.

    He kept the gun trained on her as he glanced at Carmody, who was still

breathing slowly.  "I heard you from down the hallway," he told the dying

man.  "Hard to make out over the noise, but I heard you."  Quiet madness.

"I guess you really can't find good help anymore," he softly added.

"Twelve years of loyalty, and now this."  He gazed curiously at Sadira.

"Tell me, how did you seduce a gay man?"  Nigilo seemed to be expecting

surprise from her at the revelation, because when he didn't get it, he

kept speaking as if he _had_.  "Yes, he's gay, and he used to be an

addict, and all sorts of fascinating things.  A very interesting man,

Carmody.  I thought I knew everything about him:  that's why he was so

valuable to me.  His service kept me from telling other people."

    He stepped towards her.  Sadira's right hand inched into her lap,

pushing under her breasts.  Nigilo noticed.  She stopped.  "A final

caress?" he said.  "Your madness amazes me, Sadira.  On the verge of

death, and all you can think about is your breasts.  A freak mentally, and

now physically as well."

    Her hand started moving again:  he ignored it.  It had been

incorporated into his view.  He didn't even bother with her left hand,

heading for the chair controls.

    "I was planning on making your death look like a sexual killing," he

told her, taking another step, "and I was going to have your breasts cut

off."  He smiled.  "But I suppose there must be some fiend out there who

practices gunplay, _then_ mutilation.  If not, I'll just have to make one

up."

    Taking his time, enjoying the moment, he began to level the gun,

aiming at Sadira's head.

    Wasting no time, Sadira grabbed the vial and whipped it at him, trying

for his eyes -- and her arm brushed against the curve of her breasts as it

came forward, throwing off her aim.

    But the _force_ was there, Nigilo was a wide target, and the vial

broke against his chest as Sadira pushed the chair backwards at top speed,

trying to get out of the path of the bullet.

    He didn't fire.  He just looked down, quietly, insanely curious,

confident that it was nothing, _she_ was nothing -- and the chlorine fumes

hit his eyes.

    "YOU BITCH!" a _howl_ as he clutched at his face -- and it emptied his

lungs, he needed to breathe -- and took a lungful of the green gas.  "YOU

--" and a spasm of violent coughing.

    Sadira kept wheeling back, steering with one hand, reaching for the

knife with the other.  She couldn't recover the gun while in the chair,

her arms couldn't touch the floor.  She didn't have the time to try

getting out.  She had no way of telling how strong the chlorine

concentration was:  he could be blinded for hours or seconds.  Her second

vial contained mercury, handy for ruining any circuitboards she ran into,

but mercury poisoning took too long to work unless she somehow got it

inside his mouth --

    She turned right, cursing the limits of the chair.  She had to get to

one of the fallen guards:  their prone bodies might be within her reach,

and she could recover one of their weapons.  <Faster,> she urged the

motor.  <Go faster, damn it, I could move this slowly on _foot_...>  All

around her, she could hear the grinding of gears and the echoes of impact

as the walls moved, a maze changing configuration every second, and the

cameras were starting up again around her, she had an audience for the

finale, life or death, everyone will be on the edge of their seats, and

somewhere around her a repeated drumbeat of approaching footsteps, she

couldn't tell where they were coming from <left, turn _left_>, and she

pushed the joystick, pushed the chair, tried to lean into the turn --

    -- and she hit a patch of foam.  The chair skidded, tires losing

contact with the floor, then a dry area, partial friction --

    -- and it went down.  Sadira was thrown partially out of the seat, and

was left sprawled on the floor, her left arm pinned under her breasts.

    "Get up," she whispered, trying to roll, push, _anything_.  But there

was so much weight...  "Come on, move --"

    Footsteps, coming closer, faster now, her senses were going wild, she

couldn't isolate the direction with all the noise around her, and she

_couldn't move_ --

    -- and one word cut through the chaos.  "Sadira!"

    Her gaze whipped up.

    Sadira's first thought was that Pamela had found a virus that

generated melanin in its host, and it was having an _extremely_ uneven

effect.  Her face was a patchwork of color, the normal white showing in

streaks between runs of pink that covered every shade within the hue.  Her

hair was mostly white at the front, mostly blond at the back.  Sadira had

never seen her look so beautiful --

    -- she could still hear footsteps, heavy and fast.

    "Pamela!  He's right behind me!"

    She didn't ask who:  she simply leveled her gun.



    Pamela saw Nigilo come around the corner, rubbing at his watering

eyes, and fired.

    She'd forgotten that she was holding the tranquilizer gun.  She'd

never checked to see how many shots it held.

    It held one less than she needed.

    Nigilo fired four times.  Pamela fell.

    A raw voice from burned lungs.  "And one left for you."



    And Sadira screamed -- but there was no fear in the cry.  It was

sorrow and rage exploding in a primal outburst, an anger beyond reckoning,

and Nigilo stepped back, staggered by the force, just for an instant --

    -- and in that instant, Sadira got her right hand under her breasts

again, found the items that were still held in place, and grabbed one.

    She had never thrown a knife before, and despite what Carmody had

said, they weren't all that well balanced.

    Inexperience and inferior equipment combined, and created a success.

    The knife went into Nigilo's right arm, blade first.  He screamed,

long and loud, the sweetest sound Sadira had ever heard, and the gun fell

from his spasming fingers.  It went off as it hit the ground, the last

bullet fired at the ceiling.

    He staggered, not seeming to know whether to claw at his face or his

arm, hands jerking about in pain, and Sadira pushed with her right arm,

got the second knife with the left, positioned her legs and _thrust_ --

    -- and somehow, she found the strength to stand.

    "I can get up, asshole," she breathed heavily, muscles channeling the

power, rage providing motive.  And using the wall as her brace, she took a

step forward.  "I can _walk_."  Another step.  "And I can make you pay."

He turned to face her, and she threw the second knife.  His hand started

to move up --

    -- the handle bounced off his cheek.

    His head snapped back, then came forward again.  Nigilo pulled out the

first knife out of his arm, somehow focusing on her through the tears

streaming down his face.

    "And I can kill you," he rasped.

    Sadira pushed off from the wall and let herself fall on him, her

weight carrying them to the floor.  She got his left arm up, her breasts

compressing between them, pushed against her body, and she kept her grip

on him, rolling off to his left side as they went down, balance destroyed.

They both hit hard, Sadira impacting against floor and wall, and pain shot

through her, but she kept her grip on his wrist, the hand with the knife,

and she squeezed with all her strength.

    The calories flowed.  The bones shattered.

    Another scream, even louder, and his right arm flailed, cracked across

Sadira's jaw, stunning her.  Her grip was broken, and he wrenched his arm

free.

    "You fucking bitch," and the voice belonged to another world, where

nothing lived that was remotely human.  "Everything lost because of you.

_Everything_."  And he was standing, and his foot was rising over her

face, and she had no strength left, and the lights were shifting, shadows

moving across her vision --

    -- as Pamela threw herself into Nigilo, momentum and fury substituting

for mass, knocking him down again, her right fist taking him in the

stomach, blasting his lungs clear, and Sadira saw a glint of metal in her

left hand.  "You haven't lost everything," Pamela gasped, her breaths

short and hard.  "You're still alive.  Let's remedy that."  She rammed her

left hand into his chest as her thumb closed on the plunger.  He howled

again, a lesser thing compared to the previous two, and Pamela pushed

herself away, taking the syringe with her, still gasping for air.  Pamela

reached into her right jacket pocket and extracted a rectangular case,

then removed a full syringe with a sterile needle wrapping.  She scrambled

to Sadira's side.  "Calorie shot," she forced out.  "Pure sugars."  Her

voice grew very slightly stronger.  "Thought you might need this."  She

injected Sadira.

    Nigilo was starting to move again, air returning to his damaged lungs.

"Freaks," he rasped.  "I'll kill both of you --"

    "How?" Pamela asked, her voice faint, somehow more quiet than its

volume, eerily peaceful.  "Get up.  I'll wait."

    Nigilo started to push himself up with his one good arm --

    -- and fell to the floor.  His fingers spasmed, as if they were

mocking him in sign language.  He slowly raised his head, breathing

heavily -- but working too hard for the tiny amount of air he was pulling

in.

    "You like completed projects?"  Serene, relaxed.  "We all worked on

this one.  This is the second half of the metabolic accelerator.  Or maybe

its evil twin."  Pamela put her arms around Sadira and tried to pull her

into a sitting position.

    Nigilo tried to rise, arm pushing, legs kicking -- but slower, weaker.

    "The first one goes from three to ten.  You're going from three to

zero."  Pamela's voice dropped lower.  "It took three minutes to cross the

extremes of the dial.  You should take a bit less.  I'm sure you'd like to

tell me how it feels.  The same way you asked those women at the

enhancement project."  Soft, almost teasing.  "It's all in the name of

science."

    And all of the energy Nigilo had left went into one final effort as he

grabbed the knife, heaved himself off the floor, looming over the women,

bloody blade raised, he would fall, Sadira couldn't move, Pamela couldn't

move her fast enough, stabbing into them with his death --

    -- the large hand thrust out, took his wrist, and shattered it.

    The knife clattered to the floor.

    "No," Jason said.  "Never again."

    Nigilo used his final bit of strength to look at him, and a bit of

amazement crossed his eyes in that last moment, disbelief that his last

attempt to kill had been stopped by a man he had believed dead.

    And like everything else in Nigilo's life, belief had not created

fact.

    Jason released him, and he fell.