Forewarning: This story concerns adult fantasy topics, especially in the area of (big surprise for this site) breast enlargement. It also hopefully contains characterizations and a plotline interesting enough to make the reader briefly forget about where the sex scenes went to. (We had one earlier, remember?) Since all of the above are considered to be adult topics, especially the idea of plot, you have to be over the age of discretion in your home country to read further. Sorry about that. Comments and correspondence can be sent to sam_tuirel@nac.net, with the understanding that the tone of the missive will be the tone of the reply. Minor note: in the absence of text tricks, I use < > to indicate thought and { } for typed or written communication. _ _ underlines words in between. The Rather Terse Fonts will be along sometime. For benefits of file space, mailing ease, and continuity, this is Part IV. If you haven't read the other parts and you're starting with this one, you may want to lie down for a while. I'm not sure you're feeling well. Once upon a time... In Sequence 19. 60: Troop movements Jason woke up at five a.m. It was hard to sleep with someone caressing his crotch. His eyes snapped open, and he quickly looked to his left. Jasmine, eyes closed and breathing deeply, had her right hand under his blankets and her breasts pressed up against him, gently kneading and massaging as she slept. Jason had heard of sleepwalkers, sleepeaters, and one disastrous instance of a sleepdriver, but someone attempting sex while out cold was new to him. He gently pushed her away, winding up touching some anatomy that he didn't want to go near (and that was still a debate, damn it) -- but that was hard to avoid. Jasmine had apparently chosen to sleep without a bra, and her breasts moved as he shifted her: clearing her shoulder didn't help with the torso. With a lot of care -- and a few feels that he really hadn't meant to cop -- felt guilty about _and_ enjoyed at the same time -- he got her off, then sat up. His eyes gradually adjusted, and he made out Pamela and Sadira, still fast asleep. Pam's left arm was draped across Sadira's waist, which hadn't been covered by her breasts. Yet. They were a few inches away from beginning the crossing. "Aw, come on," he whispered, then took it back. Pamela could hardly help what she did while asleep: he probably would have wound up in the same position. Still, he would have felt better if Sadira was sleeping on the floor. It was probably even better for her back. Then again, Pamela had been living with her own endowments for years: the mattress was probably designed for back support. And the pillows... Jason gave up and went back to sleep. When Jasmine was sure Jason had dropped back into sleep, she sat up, glanced at the bed, and decided it was interesting. Jason's reaction had been worth paying attention to as well. The egghead had never figured out that she was awake and, at the end, watching through half- lidded eyes. The feel, however, had been the most fun. She'd learned about as much as she needed to know about Jason's body -- actually, she wouldn't have minded a little more information. Jasmine wondered if she could risk another grope before morning. Reluctantly, she decided against it, lay down, and went back to sleep -- after arranging herself so that, from Sadira's angle, it would appear that she was lying with her breasts pressed against Jason. When Sadira woke up, she spotted the scene, and looked at it until Pamela finally stirred. Sadira watched Jason and Pamela head out the door. They'd all had another obsessive morning, which had somehow rushed into an afternoon without their notice, and was threatening to verge on evening. Sadira had simply nibbled at a Powerbar whenever the need arose, but the others were getting hungry for real food. (So was Sadira, but the bars took less time to eat) Finally, at five p.m, they'd declared a mutual need for nourishment, and headed out together to bring back food. This left Sadira and Jasmine alone in the lab, something neither of the two was happy about. Five o' clock on Friday, March the 22nd. One week ago, she'd been infected with the BE-1 virus. Seven days and twenty-eight inches. Sadira was currently wearing a I2 BI, whatever that meant. It was comfortable when worn, but heavy to hold, and made of something a lot tougher than ordinary cloth. The shoulder straps had widened, and, looking ahead in the sizing, hip supports were about to appear. Sadira was starting to wonder exactly what kind of clientele Pamela's aunt serviced... Her eyes unfocused, and the world vanished beneath an overlay of numbers, letters, and lines, carrying chemical interactions, DNA sequences, and genome alterations, all flowing before her in a steady stream of information. Jasmine, who had chosen that moment to glance over, knew the look. Her sister had gone _inside_ again, to that odd place where her highest intelligence was, and she wasn't coming back until everything had been resolved to her satisfaction. Jasmine would never admit it, but the expression scared her: it always looked as if Sadira had been taken over by something that wasn't sure if it wanted to let her go... It was the idea, really, being controlled by something instead of doing the controlling. After thirty seconds, Sadira blinked, then moved as fast as she could to a notebook, braced it against a support column, and began frantically writing. Jasmine put her book down and went to see what it was. It was an incomprehensible series of numbers, letters, and sketches, all coming out at incredible speed. Jasmine looked at it for a while, and realized she was going to wind up asking anyway. "Big brain find the cure?" Sadira didn't seem to hear her at first, but Jasmine didn't notice: she was too busy looking at her thoughts. Sadira finished writing and looked at Jasmine, who was standing on her left. "No. This is the metabolic acceleration program. It's pretty simple. If I constructed a virus with these sequences, it would induce enhanced healing, the ATP carriers, the works, without causing breast growth. Perfect for speeding recovery." She shrugged and closed the notebook. "But it's just the start sequence: no way to turn it off." "Have you thought about trying to shut down the metabolic thing by itself?" Jasmine asked. "You'd still be growing, but a lot slower." Sadira looked at Jasmine, and kept on looking, eye to eye. "Must be the isolation." "What the hell are you talking about?" "There's no men around to do things for you. You're starting to think for yourself." Jasmine thought. Sadira had the brains and Jasmine had the body, at least that was how it used to be... "Well, there's one guy around here." She artfully paused. "A pretty good-looking guy, actually." Another stop, just long enough to twist the knife. "You know, I think he might like me." "Fine," Sadira said, turned away, and went back to writing. Jasmine blinked. "Fine?" and blinked again. She hadn't meant to _say_ it. "Fine. Perfect. You want him, you take him." She wasn't looking at her sister. Jasmine got back on track: the next words had a teasing lilt. "So you don't have any interest in him at all? You've been working together: I just wanted to make sure --" "-- that there was something to break up," Sadira interrupted, words stark and matter-of-fact. "There isn't. No dates, no movies, just a lot of snacks in the cafeteria. He's yours. After all, there's nothing I can do to stop you." The sisters had been allowed to start dating at fourteen, and there had been a dozen little crushes before that. Jasmine had moved in, Sadira had fought back, Jasmine had won. It was their cycle. They had run through endless variations on "He might like me." It was Jasmine's official starting gun for the race. Sadira had never refused to run. "I was just checking," Jasmine said, keeping the stun from her voice. "Oh, he's clear, and available, and doesn't deserve what's about to happen to him. I've seen what you leave of your dates: mummification doesn't leave a corpse that dry. If you're in the mood to emotionally destroy a good man, go right ahead. It's your addiction. Feed it." Jasmine took one small, unconscious step back. "When I love someone, I give them _everything_. Some people can't handle that." "No," and the tone was a professor delivering a lecture to the remedial class. "you take everything. You drain whatever you need and move on. I may not know how to fuck, but you don't know how to love, and you can't even tell the difference between the two." "There is no difference --" Jasmine said -- and stopped. Sadira finally looked at her sister again, just long enough to say "I feel sorry for you," before she vanished back into the maze. Jasmine stood in place for a long time, thinking. "How long until we reach the lab? This bag is leaking all over my shirt." "So hold it straight out from your body. Another --" Pamela checked the street signs "-- seven blocks before we turn. We're pretty close to our section of Alphabet City." They were walking along the northern border of Central Park. Pamela had her mask off and was basking in the cloud cover. She hadn't cried out in delight upon seeing the weather forecast. She'd just sat on the bed, quietly smiling. It had been sunny ever since Jason had arrived in New York, and he could understand why she might be sick of it. "It's a nice fast walk. Enjoy it." Jason looked around, eyes penetrating into Manhattan's more old- fashioned jungle, gazing at the surrounding buildings, taking in the sights -- he stopped three seconds after the other people on the street pinned on the "hayseed" label. He couldn't help it. He was a country mouse visiting the big city, and there was just so much to see. The variety of people, shops, buildings -- Helena was a decent size, but there was only one Manhattan, and it was a little overwhelming. A block later, he started looking again -- "Pamela," he said, his voice suddenly low, "we're being followed." She shrugged. "Ignore it. People follow me all the time -- oh. Are you sure about this? A car is one thing, but this is pretty common when I'm on the street." "When I looked back the first time, he was glancing down at something in his hands: it looked like he was checking photographs, and then he looked up at us just as I turned back. He's dropped back a bit, but he checked the pictures again." "Damn," Pamela said quietly. "Okay, Mouse, follow my lead." She looked at the gate half a block away. "We're going for a walk in the park." The targets grasped hands and snuggled close, as if they had decided they were on a date, and headed into Central Park. Alex blinked and picked up speed. He didn't think he'd been spotted as a tail: the tall one had "tourist" inherent in every movement, and had been looking at everything around him. He'd had to keep checking the photos on him: there were more tall people wandering around New York than he wanted to think about. He was willing to bet there was only one palling around with a huge-breasted albino, though. Even if they hadn't seen him, he could very easily lose them once they were in the park, especially if they didn't keep to the main trails. His assignment for the two was specific: find out where they're going to roost. If nothing else, he'd spotted them together in Manhattan: that might get him the "first sighting" bonus. He went through the gate and looked around: there were, incredibly, no people in sight. The day had dawned cloudy and cold, more kin to January than March, and a lot of people had stayed indoors. No albino, no tall guy. Just a lot of trees in the damp, cold air. Alex started down the path, wandering from side to side, looking through the gaps. Unless they'd run full speed upon entering the park - - and the albino wasn't built for running -- they should still be in view. It wasn't like they were going to be hard to pick out of a crowd. Nothing past the first twenty trees on either side. He kept moving. Maybe they'd veered past the large oak on the left... He discovered he was right when the hand shot out and pulled him off -balance before dragging him behind the tree. The oak's trunk was huge, easily big enough to conceal a few people standing directly behind it. They'd probably been peeking out and shifting position to stay concealed, waiting for him to get close enough -- he didn't have instructions for being caught, he was just supposed to follow them -- and suddenly all of that was a secondary concern. "Tell me," the albino said, "is this a finger or a gun?" "A gun," he said softly, because it was. A .38 Police Special, hammer cocked and ready to go. The albino smiled. "Mouse, they're getting smarter. In fact, if he's smart enough to say the right things, he just might get out of this with three limbs intact." The tall man, who was holding him pinned against the tree, nodded once and said nothing. "So now I'm going to ask you a few questions," the woman said, "and you're going to answer them very truthfully. And don't give me any of that 'code of honor, can't betray my employer' crap. You need to be alive to apologize." When _really_ stuck, lie. "Look, lady, I'm sorry, I was just following you because you walked by me before and I wanted to get another look at your --" "Really?" Her face said she was entertaining the idea. She took a small step back, still holding the gun on him. "Free view. Go ahead, look at my chest." Alex looked down -- -- flinched up. "Moron," the albino said, resuming her original position. "You don't like this kind of body. I can see it in your eyes. And that's one." "One what?" he asked, realizing it was going to happen whether he spoke or not. She cracked the butt of the gun against his nose. Pamela watched him jerk back, as if he was trying to burrow into the tree. His eyes closed with pain, just in time to miss seeing Mouse wince. Pamela shot him a dirty look before returning to the idiot's eyes, which were just beginning to open. "That was one. After one comes two. Then you get three -- and three is the end of the sequence. Do you know what three is?" He nodded. His nose was bleeding heavily. "Good." What had Sadira said about confronting Carmody...? "Now for some truth." And fast, because if someone interrupted them, she had no idea how she was going to explain it. If she had a camcorder, they could claim to be filming a movie... "You're following us. Right?" Another nod as he tried to lick away some of the blood from his face, wincing at the rusty taste. "Good. A point for you. Now, the man who hired you is named Nigilo, correct?" "Right." His voice was now distinctly nasal. "Very good." Pamela smiled. "Definitely a higher grade of thug than the last one. Now, what was your assignment? Full details, please." He explained. It didn't take long. Pamela looked at him and thought hard. He was talking to save his life. He was telling the truth because he was scared of the alternative. But he'd seen them in Manhattan, and could probably guess that Sadira was somewhere in the vicinity. She could tell him any number of lies for relay back to Nigilo -- but what were the odds that he'd believe any of them? And that left them with three alternatives. Let him go and live with the consequences. Try to hit him hard enough to cause amnesia -- a one in a million shot if you were trying for it deliberately -- so that he'd have nothing to report. Kill him. Pamela didn't think Nigilo was going to use a spirit medium to get his information. If she shot him, someone would hear the gun. The park was fairly empty, but it was fairly empty for a city of eight million: she couldn't believe they'd gotten this much time alone. The body would have to be left in place, and Mouse was wearing fingerless gloves: no prints on him anywhere, not for the innocent country boy, but... They could conceivably get away with it. But she didn't want to kill him. She had to -- it was the only thing that would purchase the hours. Nigilo, she could probably shoot and grind her heel in his face afterwards, but this poor idiot, who might just be trying to make a buck -- idiocy was a crime to Pamela, but it wasn't one where she could enforce the death penalty. And if she didn't, then it was one more clue for their pursuers, the deadline got closer, they closed in on them and -- "I have to kill you," she told him, almost gently. "You know that, don't you?" The Mouse's jaw dropped, and his grip almost slackened, but he held on. "Ivory --" It was the first time he'd used the nickname. Her gaze flickered. "_Shut up_, Mouse." She looked at the man's eyes. "I think you understand that." Slowly, expressionless under the mask of blood, he gave her one small nod. He was no longer scared. He saw his death coming and accepted the inevitability. "Damn you," Pamela whispered, without knowing who or what she had said it to. She leveled the gun, aiming between his eyes. The Mouse started to let go, grabbing for her arm -- -- she brought back her right hand and rammed it into the man's stomach, putting all her hate in the blow, with the injustice flowing through the knee that went into his crotch as he doubled over, and all the sadness in the gun butt that landed on the back of his neck. Pamela quickly stepped back, and he fell to the ground. She threw her jacket open and put the gun back into the special pocket near her hips (she'd considered a shoulder holster, but her breasts slowed down the drawing time). "Let's go." The Mouse reached down to recover the food. They left, leaving the man gasping into the grass, staining the new spring with his blood. "Directly or long way?" Jason said as they exited the park. "Does it matter?" Pamela replied. "We have to go back eventually. Just keep those eyes open and keep looking around. You're better than I thought." She had a horrible urge to stare at her feet, gave in to it, and wound up looking at the black fabric that was stretched over the top of her breasts. Sometimes, even she forgot. "I couldn't kill him. It was the smartest thing to do, the thing that would have bought us the most time, and I couldn't do it." It surprised her when the arm was gently laid across her shoulders, but not enough to provoke her normal reaction to being touched without permission. She simply twitched once as her mind accepted it, then tolerated the contact -- no, suffered it gladly. "I know," Jason said, and they went back to the lab. Alex didn't know why they hadn't killed him. The logic had been perfect. He would have killed him. Instead, they'd let him live. He'd found some newspapers in a garbage can and mopped most of the blood from his face, but he was still getting odd looks as he went up to the phone and started dialing. He didn't have enough change and, all things considered, Nigilo could pay for a collect call. The sisters sat and listened quietly until Pamela and Jason finished their story. Neither broke in with questions or comments. They just paid attention until the end. "Sadira, do you remember what I taught you about shooting a gun?" Sadira nodded. "I think you used the .22 Remington at the range. I'll give you the smallest one. Princess, can you shoot?" Jasmine shook her head. "You get the taser. Try to pay attention to who you're pointing it at. Mouse, do you --?" But he had walked away. Jason reappeared a moment later, holding the Magnum that Pamela kept under the computer. He hadn't been sure whether to believe her when she'd originally mentioned it, and had gone searching for it when he got to the lab. He could understand Pamela's viewpoint: the neighborhood, the chemicals and drugs in the lab -- having a gun within reach was a logical move. Pamela had three, secured in various places around the maze. She occasionally carried one when she went out, and had kept one with her since Philadelphia. He hefted the Magnum, making sure the safety was on, checked to see if the other three were watching, then threw the gun into the air -- -- caught it as the down arc began, fingers sliding into position, clicking the safety off, leveling and aiming in one smooth motion. "You know," he said conversationally, "farm boys don't have a lot of recreational options. Mostly, we line up bottles along fencetops and try to pick them off." Pamela and Sadira were staring with undisguised delight. Jasmine was just staring. "It's either that or risk getting bored enough to look amorously at sheep." When Pamela finally stopped laughing, she said, "Fine. You get the Magnum and I'll keep the .38. We're armed and ready. If you miss, just try to hit something that isn't expensive." "Do you think they'll try to get us here?" Sadira asked. "It's possible," Pamela said. "People still respond to gunshots in this neighborhood -- takes a while longer -- so I don't have silencers on these things. If there was actually someone else in the building to hear it, they might report the sound." She sighed. "And if the police do show up, then we have a lot of explaining to do, during which time they might detain you for a few days. I don't know, Ebs: we carry them with us and hope we don't need to use them. If they're just wandering the streets looking for us, then Nigilo has no idea where the lab is, although we're going to be real careful when we go into the apartment." "Sleep in shifts?" This from Jasmine. Pamela stared, then nodded. "Makes sense, Princess. Make it a habit. But if we've got any brain cells we haven't kicked into action yet, throw them in gear." Sadira got up, wincing all the way. The weight was increasing as fast as her back could heal, resulting in a status quo of Much Pain. "Pamela, Jason, I need you to look at these diagrams. I puzzled out the metabolic acceleration effect, and Jasmine had an idea." "Two in the same year?" Pamela said as she followed. "Going to be a long wait for the millennium." Sadira sighed as they went around the corner. Jason started to follow, but Jasmine caught his arm. Her words were fast and desperate. "She's right, isn't she? We all could die if they find us." "No," Jason told her, trying to convince himself. "They won't kill us. We've all been working on the virus now, they've got to realize that. If we're dead, we can't tell them how to make it. If they find us, they're looking to capture -- probably all of us at once by now." "But I'm not working on it," Jasmine protested. "They don't have to keep me alive. They won't care --" She threw herself into his body, hugging tightly. He stood shocked for a second before instinct kicked in and he returned the hug, patting her back. "I don't want to die, Jason. I don't want --" -- and her hands were on his cheeks, and she'd stepped back at some point, pulling him down, and -- -- on her side, the kiss was hot and powerful, and beneath that there was expertise, long experience in kissing that might even come out in an honest moment -- -- he found himself returning it. They separated. "I just wanted you to know that," Jasmine said, and turned away, heading back for her desk. "Mouse?" Pamela called out. "The data? This year?" He headed towards them, head spinning. Carmody put down his coffee and answered the phone. "Carmody. No, Mr. Stanis, he's gone home for the night. I'm coordinating all operations. Shaw and Pterros? They did what? Could you speak a little more clearly?" The man on the other end couldn't: Carmody decided his nose was broken. It took several repetitions to get the whole story across. "Yes, we'll pay for the medical expenses. You did your best." He made a mental note to adjust the budget again. "Central Park North. And you didn't see where they were headed? Did anyone else know?" Of course not: it was hard enough to ask New Yorkers questions on the street when the lower half of one's face wasn't covered by blood. "No, that is the first sighting. You will get that bonus. We appreciate your services, but we'll have to cut you from the operation. I think Ms. Shaw and Mr. Pterros would be able to recognize you now, possibly even with a disguise. You also have to consider your health." He listened. "I'm glad you agree. Yes, I will warn the others. I'd like to apologize for your suffering -- I suppose it is part of the job. Thank you for your services." Carmody had been writing notes as he listened to the call: he looked at the small pad and analyzed the contents. If Shaw and Pterros had been on foot, then their destination was most likely close by. He glanced at the map of New York City that he'd attached to his desk. The gate in question was nearest to Alphabet City and Harlem, both odd places for a genetics laboratory -- -- unless, of course, you had a very limited budget, and weren't all that concerned about the neighborhood -- or had the raw strength of personality to believe you could hold it off. Harlem would welcome the economic development: the area was rebuilding, bringing a positive reputation back -- but people were usually a little reluctant to allow a virus factory in their neighborhood. There was also, realistically, the small problem of the owner being white. Very white. And then there was Alphabet City, where the police looked twice before entering, neighborhood revitalization meant all the crack houses had hit a simultaneous high, and no one asked questions. And no one answered them. It made a very strange and oddly wondrous kind of sense. He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and continued studying the notes. Pamela watched Sadira pick up the gun, look it over, and put it down again. She wasn't comfortable with it. Pamela wasn't all that comfortable with her having it. They'd gone to the shooting range once and only once. They had been asked not to come back together. Sadira's aim lacked something: a consistent sense of direction. By the time she fired the seventh bullet, everyone on the range was ducking at the sound of the shot. It might have been better to give her the taser instead: at least if she dropped it, it wouldn't go off -- -- but Sadira _hadn't_ been dropping things lately. Her range of motion was becoming restricted through size and injury, but her hands moved with a new confidence. No flying elbows, no interlocked feet -- her agility and manual dexterity had been steadily improving since her arrival in New York. There was no way the virus could be having that effect. So what was going on? Pamela thought it over, and smiled. Sadira was still looking at the gun. "Catch!" Sadira turned, eyes scanning and focusing, right hand shooting out to grab the moving object -- Pamela's apartment keys were resting in her palm. She looked at her ex-roommate, uncomprehending. "When exactly did you start getting clumsy?" Pamela asked. Sadira stared at her friend as if she had suddenly turned into a very large cave fish. "Eleven or twelve. I always figured the treatments damaged something vital." "Sure. Right around the same time Jasmine started developing." Pamela shook her head, still smiling. "Lots of people look at a pre- teen girl with D-cups. I bet they don't pay a lot of attention to ordinary sisters at first glance. Intelligence isn't obvious. On the other hand, someone tripping and fumbling gets a lot of attention." Sadira's eyes narrowed. "You're saying that I made myself clumsy in order to get people to look at me?" "Not consciously - but it worked, didn't it? But now you're bigger than Jasmine, and people are going to look at that without prompting. You don't _need_ to drop things anymore -- so you're not dropping them." Sadira started laughing. She could see the logic of it, but it was so silly, and so simple... "Where did you get that piece of crap?" "The usual place: Psych 101." "It sounds a little pat." "Do you have a better idea?" It was hard to speak through the laughter. "No, damnit, I don't! One little childhood insecurity problem and I spend a decade tripping over my own feet..." Pamela saw the mirth drop away, partially changed the subject. "So pick up the gun. You might be able to hit what you're aiming at." Sadira reached out and recovered the weapon. Work. Try to solidify a theory. Attempt to work past the paranoia long enough to test it. Fail and start again. Surprisingly, Sadira was holding up better than anyone. Whenever the stress started to close in, she took a small, empty tin and tossed it in the air, catching it without looking at it until she felt ready to try again. Jason nearly walked into things, his focus narrowed on the future, and Pamela was caught softly swearing under her breath. Jasmine simply stared at the words in her books as if she'd forgotten how to translate the symbols into concepts, and couldn't capture the memory of meaning. They worked until midnight, and then went back to the apartment, checking the windows from the street for three minutes before attempting entry. It seemed unoccupied when they entered, and took only seconds to search: there was hardly room to hide. Jasmine drew the long straw, so took the first two-hour shift, sitting by the door with the taser in her hand and fear in her face. Eventually, the others somehow managed to find sleep, and even Sadira tossed and turned, the cocoon no longer solid enough to keep the night away. 20. 62: Probability reversal Sadira woke to find Pamela sitting up in bed, wireless headphones on, with her gun at her side. She was alternating glances at the door and the television set. Sadira focused on the second -- -- managed to look away for a moment, to where they'd piled Jasmine's bags. The duffel that held the merchandise was open. The tape case was on top of a pillow. Pamela turned at Sadira's movements, and her face held nothing but passive neutrality. "Four positions and three lines," she said evenly. "And she flubbed the lines." She shrugged. "I was very bored and when I turned on a light to read by, the Mouse started waking up. Waste of time. Sorry: I didn't think you were going to wake up this early." Sadira found herself looking at the screen again. Pamela reached for the remote, ready to turn it off. "I've seen it," Sadira told her. "I walked in on her once. This isn't much different." She got up and headed for the bathroom. Pamela turned off the set. she thought, glancing at the sleeping Princess, Jason stirred. Pamela reached for the case and crawled across the bed, reaching for the VCR. She was going to replace the movie before the Princess saw what she'd been up to. "I don't think we're anywhere _near_ the Museum of Modern Art. We should have paid more attention to the subway map." "Well, that homeless person was sleeping in front of it. I just didn't want to get that close." Claire shaded her eyes and looked around. If the neighborhood could be described as any sort of artwork, it was a Dada painting: randomly picked chaotic elements with no intention of achieving a coherent whole. The only consistent factor was decay. "Nearly a week late starting our vacation and now we can't even find anything. You should have taken that map from the token booth." "I didn't because you told me there was a map in every car. We could have --" Vic stopped and took a deep breath. "We're on vacation. We are finally, almost miraculously on vacation, and I'm not going to spend it fighting with my wife." He looked around the street, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of the people standing around -- and leaning -- and sleeping on the sidewalk... Vic reached out and hugged his wife. "This was supposed to keep us from falling apart, remember? To get outside the hospital? I think I can see Central Park from here, and the Museum is supposed to be on the eastern side: what say we just take a nice romantic walk until we spot the place?" Claire pulled back slightly, but only so she could look directly at his face, her skin seeming to glow in the morning sun. "Was that a proposal, Mr. Shalm?" "No," he said, "that was a proposition. If the day goes well, we may get to the proposal around noon." She smiled. "We may not wait that long..." and kissed him. "But not here. Let's get out of this neighborhood." Victor laughed. "Right! No point stirring up the locals." They started down the street, sighting on the trees, walking hand in hand. Claire allowed herself a smile: maybe the rest would do them some good. She might be able to forget the roving eye Vic had been developing -- and, although she wasn't going to admit it to him, her own tendency to look around for more than a brief glance. She'd realized the need for time with her husband when she'd spent four minutes treating a twenty-second leg scrape on a college student so she could enjoy the view of his butt... But they'd made it to Manhattan at last, with no train derailment and medical mystery to slow them down this time. Vic had spent two days fuming about his conversation with GenTree and the girl's escape, but he'd finally settled down and rescheduled everything. Together, and he was holding her hand tightly, as if the bit of danger added a little spice to the day. She didn't realize Vic had stopped dead until his hand didn't move forward with her: she was nearly pulled off her feet, jerked back and sideways, nearly knocking her husband over. "Victor Shalm --!" "Shh!" A fierce whisper. He was staring across and up the street, looking at four people slowing their pace as they came up to a very shabby building. Rather, he was looking at one of them. A very, very large-breasted one... "Victor," she hissed. "I'm over here." "That's the same woman," he whispered. "The exact same one, with the black hair!" Claire's anger faded long enough for her to focus -- and then she kept looking. Her eyesight was perfect: even from across the street, she could make out the features of the young woman who had collapsed on the cold ground, and later run as if she'd been set afire. The face was the same, the hair, height -- but the bustline had undergone a drastic increase. She felt her jaw start to drop, and gathered it in. "That is her," Claire whispered back. "You couldn't get two faces like that." "Want to bet?" Vic replied. "Look at the blonde." Claire did. The breasts seemed smaller, but the face was a near-exact match. Of the other two, the man was turning towards the door, and she couldn't quite see his face. The fourth was completely swathed in black cloth, but was obviously female. Very obviously. It was a macromastia convention. "That's got to be padding," she argued, wanting to believe it. "No one can grow that much in less than a week..." "I don't think so," Vic answered. The blonde woman looked as if she was starting to feel eyes on her. "Let's go." They hurriedly walked down the street. Jasmine spotted them as they were about to turn the corner, but thought nothing of it. She didn't think that scouts would go out in teams or run after being spotted (they'd walk casually away to avoid suspicion) -- so she didn't think of scouts at all. She saw a middle- aged white couple in good clothes rushing to get out of Alphabet City, which was something she could understand completely. Jasmine didn't see it as being worth mentioning. And she didn't. Carmody had gone to the bathroom. It was the only reason Nigilo could think of for his being out of the office. He was, for all intents and purposes, living in his chair, but it didn't have a built-in toilet. Nigilo didn't think he'd get very far proposing a new type of office seat at the next board meeting. He walked around the desk, waiting for his assistant to return. They had been getting together at the end of each day to discuss the latest results -- or, realistically, the continuing lack of results -- and formulate a plan for the next day's attack. The talks hadn't produced the result Nigilo wanted, but he was determined to continue them. If nothing else, it helped him focus his thoughts. The phone rang. If it was someone calling in a report, there was no sense in waiting for Carmody to return to get the information -- and Carmody didn't get personal calls. Nigilo picked up the receiver. "GenTree Research." "Is Carmody there?" He didn't know the voice, but it was angry, tense: none of his employes would talk to him that way. "He's out at the moment. This is his superior." The tone was fluctuating, as if tension and relief were warring in every syllable. "Good. Then maybe I can get some straight answers out of you. This is Victor Shalm; I spoke to Carmody earlier in the week. Who I am speaking with?" Nigilo stiffened. He remembered Shalm very well: he remembered the whole incident at the hospital, and the second phone call, which Carmody had given him word for word. But why call now? He'd said he couldn't prove anything. Had he taken some sort of cell sample and actually deduced what was happening? Carefully, carefully... "Victor, my name is Kyle Nigilo. I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Kyle: that might help repair whatever damage my assistant has done. What can I help you with?" The relief was winning out: Shalm was obviously happy to get someone who was at least willing to put forth the semblance of honesty. "Do you know what I was originally speaking to your assistant about?" "Yes. No need to waste time on a rehash." Barking laughter. "Good. Well, I went on my own vacation, and spotted your little vacationer again --" Years of lying, years of deception, his knowledge of the prior conversation, an entire career reached synergy. "Victor, if you've seen Sadira Archer, then you may be responsible for saving a life. I need you to tell me exactly where she was and what she was doing." A long pause. "_Whose_ life? Does she have something spreadable?" "No, thank God." He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength to force out the truth. "Sadira is one of our top geneticists, and she really is on vacation at the moment -- but the day she left, she was accidentally infected by a proto-virus. From what our researchers have been able to tell, the virus was one of the trial runs from her own metabolic research: it's accelerating her body functions. There's also a radical degree of breast hypertrophy -- and dementia." He paused and took another breath: so hard and yet so good to tell the truth at last... "It took us a while to figure out what had happened to her, and we've been working with the government to bring her back and find a cure. Yours is the first real clue we've had. The metabolic effect in increasing: if we hadn't found her in a few more days, she would have --" he put a small pause in, just enough time to choke back false pain. "-- she would have died. But if we can find her, treat her, then we might be able to save her. The control agencies have been making us work quietly -- they don't think the public would believe it can't be passed along. They wouldn't give Carmody the clearance to tell you the first time, and we were too late. If you can tell me where you saw her..." "Dementia? She ran out of the hospital like she was possessed." He was buying it, full price from the impulse counter. He needed someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that his world made sense, and now Nigilo was doing just that. "Yes, and getting worse. We think she may have some awareness of the mental effects, and be working with old college friends to fight it -- she may have convinced them that she's in danger: the dementia also manifests as paranoia." "Oh, God." A very real choking sound. "I waited the whole day to call because I thought I'd just get lied to again. If she dies because I didn't call earlier, then --" "Victor, it's not your fault. There's no way you could have known, not with all the secrecy the government's been forcing on us." When in doubt, blame the authorities. "They don't seem to feel one young woman's life is worth anything. Help us prove them wrong." And at the other end of the line, sitting in a hotel room, with his wife listening to every word, Victor Shalm told Kyle Nigilo everything he could. Nigilo helped him bring out the detail, speaking reassuringly, calming him when the effort became too much and he again began to blame himself for the delay. Under his guidance, Vic searched his memory with the determination of a man possessed, somehow dredging out the name of the street, a description of the building, and two digits of the building number. Nigilo could think of only two places all four would have to go into -- a laboratory or an apartment: no other reason to haul their test subject around. And with either location, they were guaranteed to return eventually. "Victor, you've just saved a life." He projected the smile. "On vacation, no less. Thank you." "She'll be okay?" The doctor worrying about his patient. "We have the counter-virus ready. All we have to do is get it to her -- or her to it, so we can monitor the effects." "Thank God." A long pause. "Kyle, thanks for the truth." "No. Victor, thank you for saving her life." Carmody walked back into his office and found Nigilo sitting behind his desk, looking at a series of notes in exceptionally bad handwriting. Nigilo looked up and smiled, wide, sincere and contented, like a shark who had scented blood from heavily-wounded prey. "Game," he began slowly, relishing the moment, "set, and match." And, taking great delight in every word, he told Carmody exactly what had just transpired. Carmody stood and listened, his face reflecting none of the joy his boss felt -- but then, he was always neutral in Nigilo's presence, no matter what he was feeling. "So how do we proceed?" he finally asked. "Recover her, of course. I want a team assembled from the agents we already have in New York. They'll check the building, they'll check the contents of the building, and then they'll check her off my things-to-do list. I've been thinking about ways to smuggle her out of New York." Nigilo held up the note pad. "They'll probably have to drive out to a private airport: if we have them drive her back, it'll take nearly three days -- they'll certainly notice any growth over that period. Unless she's stopped -- no, let's not take the chance. Do we have anyone trustworthy on staff who can fly a plane?" "I'm not sure, sir. I'll have to check." "All right, but if we don't, just bribe a pilot. And we'll have to get the facilities at Cascade ready for her. I should contact the potential sponsors at some point..." He got up, stretched, and suddenly laughed, head tilted towards the sky. "Come on, Carmody! Hurry up and make those calls so I can buy you dinner!" Nigilo walked around the desk andsat in one of the visitor's chairs, perfectly comfortable, then gestured for Carmody to sit down. Carmody sat down, turned on the computer, and began to search the personnel records. "It's got to be the lab," Nigilo said. "No other reason for them to be dragging the lab rat with them in the morning. By the time we finish setting things up, they'll probably be done for the night. We'll have to wait for tomorrow morning." He still had the note pad with him: a few more words were scribbled. "I think we can afford to wait. She's gone to ground: no further running. She doesn't know how close we are. It's something else, Carmody. All negatives, not a single encouraging word from the East Coast, no sightings at all, and now we pin them down _exactly_ on a phone call from someone we're not even paying!" Carmody looked up from the screen. "Harold Adams in Grafting. He has a pilot's license, and might know someone to contact for a plane. A rental, perhaps, under a false name." "Sensible," Nigilo said. He was still in high spirits. "I'm telling you, Carmody, it's almost enough to make me believe in a benevolent higher power -- higher than me, anyway. I'm feeling so good, I'm going to let Victor Shalm live." "Sir?" Nigilo grinned hugely. "It's a joke, Carmody. He's no danger to anyone. He knows the virus isn't contagious, he believes it's dangerous, and he thinks he's saved Archer's life. He also believes the government was involved, and that the matter has to kept quiet. Mr. Shalm is not going to talk. The only real question is who else might open their mouths, and I'm not sure anybody will." Carmody carefully listened as Nigilo said "Archer's the key: Pterros and Shaw are secondary. We don't need the sister at all. But the more people we have to transport, the greater the risk. Maybe we should just concentrate on Archer..." He looked up from the pad. "I'm bringing in another phone. Two people can plot faster than one -- and the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat." He eased out of the seat and headed for the door. "Lobster, Carmody!" A smile. "Now what should I have?" 21. 66: Hang together... Sadira looked at the bra label, then at the mirror, then at the measuring tape. The label said 32 LII A. She could no longer see the full bulk of her breasts unless she stepped back from the mirror -- and, given the size of the bathroom, into the tub. The basic shape had remained the same throughout the growth, with her size increasing in even proportion in all directions, but there now seemed to be a slight shift, with the newest cells accumulating towards the front of the glands: somewhat more projection and less descent. It might be an optical illusion: things changed fast enough to make keeping exact track difficult. At the moment, the lower slopes were well past her navel, heading for her waist -- but there was a proportionate amount of forward growth. Her breasts projected over a foot from her torso even out of the bra, just from sheer mass. The overall effect was to completely shroud her upper torso: from the front, the view was mammaries from collarbone to waist, and she could, turned and looking over her shoulder with arms partially raised, catch a reflection of them from the back. (Or, for that matter, with her arms lowered) The nipples were semi-erect and _still_ over an inch in length. On Pamela's recommendation, she'd started wearing Band-Aids over them. The measuring tape read sixty-six inches. She was now quite literally bigger around than she was tall -- and, in a flash of raw intuition, she realized that was what Level II meant. She'd caught Ivory staring at the Level IIs on occasion with a mixture of confusion and frustration. Sadira struggled into the bra -- she never got to stick with any size long enough to master it, and the new hip and lower back supports were giving her some trouble. They'd moved out of Pamela's personal experience, so she got to tackle it alone -- and help hadn't been offered. While Pamela had continued offering advice and thrown herself into the new role of exercise therapist, she hesitated at anything that involved physical contact -- sometimes with an odd side glance towards Jason. Sadira had stopped asking. She finally got the straps aligned and reached for the blouse. It was the largest one left from their first shopping trip, and it was getting tight. They'd have to make another run on the Brick S. House. Or the camping store. A pup tent might fit. "Come on already!" Jasmine. "If we're going to do this, let's get going before daylight!" If she didn't get to enjoy a full night's sleep, no one else got to enjoy the morning. Sadira could hear Pamela grumbling outside, and Jason rattling pots. Sadira toweled her hair and left the bathroom. "Look, I'll just wait outside. You three go in without me." Pamela stared at the stonework. "I'll yell if anything happens." "You're the one who said we should stay together, remember?" Jason insisted. "And we could all use this." "Not me. I avoid this. They don't want me here." "I'd prefer a Methodist church myself," Sadira said, "but this is what's close by. I made everyone get up early so I could do this, so let's not stall. And Pamela -- he wants everybody." "Don't I get a choice in the matter?" Sadira pointed down. "Right, very funny. I'll be in the foyer." "You'll be inside. Come on. You told me you believe in God." "Sure. I need someone to blame." Jason shook his head. "Pamela, He doesn't bite." Pamela didn't seem to believe it. Sadira pointed at the door. "Ivory. _In_." Pamela still looked skittish, but quietly went inside with them. The church held multiple pews and four people: there were no priests around at the moment. Each Bible in the pews was attached to the wood by a short, thin chain. Most of the lit candles had burnt close to the base, and the stained glass was illuminated only by the harsh streetlights outside. The statue of Jesus looked as if he was loving and suffering as usual, but his head was tilted towards his shoulder, as if he was trying to see someone sneaking up behind the cross. A streetwise saint. By unspoken agreement, the group separated. Jason went to the front, getting close to the statue. Pamela, obviously uncomfortable, stayed near the door. Jasmine just sat in the nearest pew. Sadira, who had a fondness for candlelight, went to the area with the most burning wicks and carefully knelt down, trying to keep her back straight. The required medication dosage had been steadily increasing. "Hi," she whispered. On the rare occasions when Sadira prayed, it was always out loud and on a personal basis. It was easier to talk to a person than some sort of distant, omnipotent, and seemingly aloof being. "I know it's been a while, but -- well, you know what's been happening lately. I just wanted to --" She stopped and looked across at Jason, about fifty feet away. He was sitting on the floor, hands pressed together and eyes closed. His lips were still, and he seemed at peace. "Once before, I asked to live, and you gave me that -- but the price was that I had to live in fear, because anything else I got would kill me unless I could deal with it myself. Is there always a price? I thought it was just the other one who made bargains." Sadira focused on one of the lights. There was something comforting about a lit candle: it was delicate fire, something that seemed to need protection. It couldn't consume and destroy, only illuminate and guide. "I know about all the problems of the world, and the pain suffered by others. I was trying to solve one of them -- and maybe I got sidetracked by jealousy, and the memory of pain. Maybe the project was about me all along. But if jealousy is a sin, then the punishment is too extreme for the crime. I never thought you were petty. We may be created in your image, but you're not supposed to be flawed." A glance back. Pamela was looking at the door, keeping watch for all of them, and standing as if she hoped to be moving through it soon. "I want to live. I want to be cured. I want to be loved..." She looked at the flame again and reached out with her mind, trying to feel something tangible. "I think you're here: I don't believe any one religion is right. We've never been able to do any real testing." Sadira smiled faintly. "I just hope that you're listening, and seeing us. We've all paid the price, in fear and paranoia and..." She stopped and looked back to Jasmine. Her sister had leaned back in the pew, as much as the uncomfortable configuration would allow. She seemed to be examining the ceiling. "If pain is always the price, then we've paid it in full." The flame danced, flickered, steadied. "Please," Sadira said simply, and waited. She felt nothing in the church, no presence waiting just beyond her normal senses, no flow of love and comfort. There was only the quiet glow of the candlelight. The flame went out. Gordon was the first to see the lights on the seventh floor. "Shit!" he said. "We're dealing with fucking _owls_!" Given the description of the building, he'd been able to run down the address, the name of the landlord, and the name of the person renting the space: all a matter of paperwork, once you knew where to start looking. You could even do it late on a Saturday night with the right connections, but it took a while. By the time they'd confirmed the information and checked in with Nigilo, he'd decided on a morning trip. They were to get there early in the morning and wait for the four to arrive, then, if it looked like it was going to be easy, pull them off the street. Gordon, as the senior member of the team, had decided to show up forty-five minutes before sunrise, just in case the targets were early risers -- and he got owls. "So much for grabbing them off the sidewalk," he muttered. "Now what?" Carter asked. "Do we wait around until they're finished for the day and then take them? Or do we hang out here until they go out for lunch?" "If they go out for lunch," Stan pointed out. "If they're here this early, they may be sleeping in the lab and working in shifts. The doc might have caught them on a supply run." Roger shook his head. "Nigilo sounded happy. Nigilo spends money when he's happy. If we sit around out here for a week waiting for them to need a change of underwear, then he's not going to be happy any more. It's early, it's Alphabet City, and if they are sleeping in, there's a good chance some of them are asleep." "You want to go in?" Carter said incredulously. "You want to risk waking up the whole damn neighborhood? I hope you explain it in exactly those terms when the police show up." Gordon stroked the scar on his throat. It was from shaving: he told people it was an old knife wound. "Not necessarily," he said. "I've lived around here long enough to know how the locals think. They'll probably wait until long after the shooting stops to call the cops -- not that they'll hear anything to begin with." He hefted the special gun. "And Nigilo wanted a security expert --" a glance at Stan "-- in this group for a good reason. We've broken into labs for him before." "Yeah, but no one was home at the time," Carter argued. "You heard the man, same as I did," Roger reminded him. "He was willing to wait for morning, but not much longer than that. And you also heard his reasoning on the others. You may not agree with the man -- I'm not sure I follow all of his logic -- but he's the one signing the checks. He gets what he wants. And he wanted us in the lab before we finished: if they're staying there, then we have to go in." Gordon nodded. "I don't like rushing in," he said. "But I don't like waiting, either. We might have to flush these quail. Think hard, boys. We need a solid plan. I've never been shot, and I don't intend to be taken down by game birds." Pamela was practicing science as meditative exercise: constructing the metabolic acceleration virus was helping her calm down after being in the church. She had nothing against most religions. She had nothing towards them, either. Pamela occasionally wished they felt the same way about her. She was using the same philosophy the Mouse had employed in rebuilding the BE-1 virus: see what this does and then think about ways to undo it: maybe it all goes to the same place. Even if it had come from the Princess, the slowdown was a good idea. She had been somewhat ashamed of herself for not thinking of it. The real problem was the _speed_ of the growth, not the growth itself: slowing things down to normal human speed would buy them months, years to work on a full cure. But not a reversal; some of the tissue was fat, but most of it was glandular: exercise and weight loss wouldn't help that. There was no viral way to get rid of matter. All they could do for that was take her to a psychiatrist, try to get her past the phobia... Pamela glanced at Sadira, who had adopted her new favorite writing position: notebook braced with her left hand against a column and just above her head, pressing the pencil down hard. The notebook was shifting slightly, but she was compensating. She looked ridiculously sexy. Pamela thought, and then mentally slapped herself before kicking her libido into a dark corner. Sadira was in pain, more every day. Her breasts had become large enough to make sitting down near a table and writing uncomfortable, and writing sidesaddle wasn't as easy as typing; that was why she used the column. She had almost outgrown her clothes, she was moving so very much more slowly... But she was still Sadira. Flat or insanely buxom, she was still sexy. her libido reminded her. She kicked it around again. She'd been avoiding potentially sexual contact, honoring her agreement with the Mouse, but still... Sadira wasn't the only one who needed to bring changes of undergarments to the lab. Only hers were going to be for the lower body. Some cold water in the face might help: it might wake her up a bit more, anyway. Pamela stepped away from the Mutator, and was heading for the bathroom when she heard the beep. It was fairly high-pitched, formulated to act as an instant sonic annoyance that could penetrate nearly any amount of concentration. A good case of sexual confusion didn't stand a chance. Pamela immediately swerved and headed for the door, focusing on the little status panel as she approached. One of the lights was glowing red. "Oh, fuck," she whispered, then, more loudly, "People! We've got company!" They were with her in seconds, even the Princess. Pamela jabbed a finger at the panel. "Someone just cracked the second lock, just past the door, but whatever they used to open it wasn't electrically conductive: they broke the circuit. We're going to have visitors, and they already beat the first keypad." She hit a switch on the side of the panel. "If they've got the second combination, that'll slow them down: I just scrambled it." "How long?" the Princess said urgently. "Don't know. Everyone remember what we discussed earlier?" Nods. The Mouse walked over to the wall phone, picked it up, and shook his head: no dial tone. The police had been a dubious option before, and now they were a closed one. "All right. It's just us. Grab your weapons and break. Let's make these rats run the maze." Shaw's security was good, but anything less than _great_ in Manhattan wasn't enough: Stan got them past the series of locks and pads on the first floor in eight minutes. They emerged from the stairwell (because you _never_ trusted the elevator) and got past the second series in six minutes, working carefully and quietly. Gordon motioned the others forward as the final barrier fell, and they got into position, ready to storm the lab. There was a slight chance the occupants knew they had arrived. They might also have weapons, which was why the team had bulletproof vests under their ambulance whites. Gordon signalled _ready_ with a quick hand motion, and put his rubber-gloved hand on the doorknob. No electrical charge. A quick turn and push -- -- they rushed inside, spreading to the sides, weapons ready -- -- darkness. The first hints of dawn were starting to make themselves felt through the closed curtains, lending odd shadows to the pieces of equipment in front of them. Gordon could see a tangle of little paths leading around and through the metal, little indicator lights here and there, and nothing else. Carter tapped his shoulder and, when Gordon turned, began signaling with his barely-visible hands -- a useful skill in covert operations -- raising them so they'd be visible to the group. "Lights on a timer?" "I don't think so," Gordon signed back. One of the indicator lights was on the wall next to him, and it was an angry red. "I think they want an ambush. We've got a bunch of scared scientists here: let's see who's better." He turned fully and signalled to Roger and Stan. "Be careful." They could always be scared scientists with _weapons_. Nods, visible as a shifting of shadows, and more hurried signing. Roger proposed separating, arguing that the occupants wouldn't huddle together in the center: they would have to be found and caught one by one. Gordon agreed and searched the wall for the light switch, considering that it could be hooked up to a trap. He rejected the idea and tried it. It didn't work. They went into the maze. Jason knelt next to the huge filing cabinet on the west wall: as the largest, he had to hide by the biggest thing available. The Magnum felt surprisingly comfortable in his hands, though he would have preferred an old-fashioned long rifle. And a silencer: he understood they made _some_ sound, but it might help a bit. Unfortunately, Pamela had been unable to acquire them. He had never shot a person before. They were after Sadira. He could damn well shoot one now. Carter moved slowly through the maze. There were double-blinds everywhere, strange shadows, odd twists and veers. He suspected it was a bitch to navigate in full lighting. Waiting for dawn wouldn't have helped much: what he could see of the curtains looked thick, and the street was on the wrong angle. He hadn't wanted to invade directly. The place might be populated by wimp brains, but who knew what those brains had come up with? He was carefully avoiding contact with the machinery. These people worked with viruses: there could be some nasty booby traps set up... Given a second chance, he would sit on the curb until Doomsday. But he was here now, and he intended to get out in one piece. Pamela waited by the photocopier, watching and listening. Her thoughts mostly concerned not making the same mistake twice. Roger spotted the two computer systems and almost headed for them, but checked himself and turned right. They had to find the occupants first. Unless Carter was right, and the lights were on a timer. A great thought: they could sit and wait. But what kind of timer shut off at this hour? Computer failure? He could look at the computer later. He could search the lab now. Jasmine crouched between the electron microscope and the disposal oven, clutching the taser in trembling fingers. She remembered how to use it: just squeeze the sides and thrust forward. That was all. If it was working. If the person was within reach. If she was still moving after she was seen. She'd kissed Jason because she'd wanted to kiss him, begin the next stage, but there had been an honest emotion behind it. She wasn't an egghead, she hadn't been working on the virus. If they were all captured, then there was no reason to bring her back. Jasmine couldn't help, they probably knew that already, and how long could she fake it if they didn't? Easier to just keep her quiet, and the most permanent way of keeping her quiet was... She unconsciously, compulsively squeezed the taser. The blue sparks flew from the contact points, almost blinding after the long darkness, and there was a crackle, and a faint smell of ozone. Jasmine's first thought was relief: the battery was charged and ready -- and the first realization was that the taser made a sound, and made a light, she'd just heard and seen it, and someone else might -- -- the hand seized her wrist and squeezed hard. Jasmine screamed in pain and dropped the taser as she was dragged out into the maze, a gun pressed against her head. The scream rang across the lab. Pamela and Jason couldn't tell who it was: the twins' voices were too similar -- but Sadira knew. She was at the east wall, too far away to reach Jasmine quickly: they'd spread out to make it harder to catch them. She started to move -- and remembered Pamela's plan: there was only one way out of the lab. They'd have to take her out the door, and Jason was closest. And if they came out of hiding and rushed towards Jasmine, they lost all advantage. Free for all, and who knew what could happen? But Jasmine was in danger. Her sister... If she got to the microscope from the right angle, moved without being seen or heard, she might be able to trump the hostage card, take the invader prisoner. But how to move? She risked a glance out -- -- and saw the shadow of a man, gun drawn, to the right. She darted back. She'd have to emerge more fully to get a good shot, and if she missed -- even if she didn't, if they heard the sound and panicked... Gordon looked at his catch in the dim light: the face was about right, and the boobs were fine for all those "very's," but the hair was blonde. The sister was a blonde, unless the scientist had dyed hers in the past few days... No, hair wasn't good enough for identification: almost completely reliable normally, but not under these circumstances. He was ninety percent sure he had the dancer, but he wanted one hundred. "Jasmine or Sadira?" Gordon asked. "So they can hear you." "Sadira, oh God, please, Sadira, don't kill me..." Gordon considered. "I'm not sure you're telling the truth." Jason flinched. Jasmine and her captor were standing in an acoustical center: they were audible to the entire floor. He was supposed to get to the door, wait for them to try and exit -- but this was now a hostage situation. Gun vs. gun -- they'd sacrifice him and he couldn't risk Jasmine... "I'm not sure you're Sadira," Gordon said, cultivating a special tone in his voice: reassuring menace. What he told her was true, no matter how terrifying it sounded. If she believed him, then it was close to being over -- and this one seemed too scared to think straight. They'd told him the scientist thought fast under pressure, and she would know they wanted her alive for the information: therefore, this was the dancer. So it was time for information, because this looked like a planned setup that was starting to break down, and he had the weak link in his grasp. His voice became softer, pitched only for her ears. "I think you're Jasmine. I don't need Jasmine." She was shaking in his grip, too scared to try to escape, too scared to think straight. "But maybe you can live through this. Where's Sadira?" She was trembling harder, almost vibrating, and the faint light let him see beads of sweat on her forehead, flowing around the barrel of the gun. "I don't have to kill you, not if you help me, just give up your sister and you can live, she got you into this, just tell me where she is and I'll let you go, you'll live..." -- and Jasmine couldn't tell which words came from him and which were from her own thoughts, because the two were merging, finding the same pulse, because she didn't want to die, she couldn't die but he was going to kill her and she was expendable and she was going to die -- "THE CENTRIFUGE!" she screamed, flinging her right arm to the east. "SHE'S NEXT TO THE CENTRIFUGE, ON THE EAST WALL!" Something took over, something beyond both impulse and reason, something that was tied into her blood, and Sadira broke cover and dived forward, trying to reach Jasmine, adrenaline surging, the wild energy building and pushing -- -- the darts hit her with a hiss of compressed air, a neat grouping of five, punching through her jeans and into her right leg. She stumbled, the pain of the impact and the weight of her breasts combining to throw her off-balance. She threw out her hands, trying to catch herself, but her balance was wrong, her breasts hit first with an explosion of pain that was muted too quickly, because her heart was still pumping fast and any chemical that entered her body, with her metabolism, would take effect much faster than normal, especially if it was already designed to act almost instantaneously. She realized they were tranquilizer darts as her eyes began to close, and her last thought was that for the first time in days, there was no pain in her back at all. The cry was something fundamental, betrayal beyond belief, and Pamela didn't realize it was coming from her lips until she'd launched herself into the aisle, taking the most direct path to the center. Carter saw the long body suddenly unfold itself from the shadows, and he saw the outline of the gun, knew it for what it was, and fear took over. He dropped the weapon he was carrying, drawing from his second holster, the one with the real gun, catching the silencer on the edge, shooting almost the instant it was clear. The shot was very loud, solid, and on target. The silencer clattered on the floor. The shadow fell. Stan had his orders: he picked up Archer's limp body, hooking one arm around her waist -- he could feel the underside of the huge bra and its contents over his arm -- and started dragging her towards the exit, his other arm pointing the gun towards any new targets that might present themselves. If things became disastrous and they had the scientist, the first priority was to get her out. The others could fend for themselves: he was the only one in position to transport the target. He was still thinking that when he heard the gunshot, and the echoes were still fading as he dragged her along without a pause. Gordon heard the shot and threw the sobbing dancer to the floor, clearing his aim because the rule was that in a real firefight, with the kind of person who had made that cry, someone might just shoot through the hostage, getting his own gun into position as a living shadow flung itself around the corner in front of him, all black but for a narrow strip of white at head height, and fierce blue eyes that almost glowed -- They fired simultaneously. Three of the darts in his burst hit, taking his opponent in the chest as the bullet ripped through the unshielded shoulder of his gun arm. He screamed, a surprisingly high- pitched sound, and saw the shadow stagger, bringing the gun up again -- -- he dived left, into one of the small passages. He heard the shadow stagger, a clatter as the gun touched the floor, but it was still moving, coming towards the corner with mad determination, it wasn't going to allow the drugs to work -- -- and a thud as it hit the floor -- -- and he realized just now much blood he was losing, the bullet had nicked something major, he needed medical attention, fast -- "Boss!" Neil's voice. "Arrow clear!" Far away, possibly out in the corridor, and that was the code which meant the scientist was in their control. He didn't know how the others were faring, but Nigilo had said that Archer was the most important target. The computer files in the lab that Roger was supposed to get, the other two geneticists, fuck them all because they had the person Nigilo really wanted -- the one who could recreate the data he wanted. And he was bleeding, and he needed light so he could be bandaged and worked on, and he couldn't drag the shadow with his bad arm and still hold the gun, and someone could have heard the shots -- -- and he didn't want to get shot again. He was afraid, and he was in charge. "Move out!" he yelled, and headed for the exit, trying not to clutch his shoulder, praying there was no one else in the dark. 22. 67: ...or hang separately Jasmine knew the siren's wail. Not police, but an ambulance, moving away from the building. It was the only thing that reached her as she lay curled up on the floor, trembling, trying to force everything back, find a measure of control. She was alive, that was what mattered, she was still alive... There was slow, steady breathing in front of her: the ghost, with darts casting odd shadows across her body. Jasmine recognized the shape from a _National Geographic_ article: tranquilizers. She convulsively straightened her legs, kicking against the microscope -- the sound was like another gunshot -- and when that trembling fit subsided, tried to stand up. Her elbows and breasts ached: she'd hit the floor hard. The gunshot had come from the west wall, somewhere near Jason... She stood, orienting herself against the sharpening shadows, and moved west, picking her way across the lab as more light forced its way in. Jasmine didn't know how long she'd been on the floor, how much time had passed since the ambulance had left. She was up and moving and alive and -- -- a ray of sunlight snuck through the curtains and illuminated a trickle of red running across the cracks in the old floor. She froze, unwilling to look further -- then did. Jason was sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, blood pouring from his hands -- no, behind his hands: they were pressed against his left thigh, as if trying to push the liquid back in. He was breathing, slow, shallow gulps of air, and his eyelids flickered. He was trying to staunch the bleeding, hold back the tide, but he was barely conscious, and his hands were starting to slip. Jasmine knelt down next to him and pressed her small hands over his large ones, pushing down, trying to get pressure over the wound. It didn't seem to have any effect. He didn't even notice her presence, and his breathing was getting softer... Tourniquet. That was the word, something wrapped around -- no, just above the injury, tight enough to cut the circulation. She needed to tie something around his leg. Her blouse was too sheer: it would probably rip if she pulled it tight... Jasmine whipped off her blouse with one practiced motion and got her bra on the way back. The straps were thick and heavy: there was no way they were going to tear. His eyelids flickered as she lifted, getting the limb up, and he gasped as the leg came back down. She risked moving his hands: she had to see exactly where the wound was so she could tie above it -- but the shadows were still thick, and his pants were mostly intact. She forced herself to work by feel, widening the tear and moving her hands up until she felt whole skin, then sliding the bra up to just above that point. Jasmine pulled tight and made the best knot she could manage. The blood made it slippery work: she had to wipe her hands to get a better grip on the straps, streaking red across her pants and, accidentally, her sides. There were footsteps behind her: she turned around, the fear speeding back as she focused... Pamela staggered up and knelt down, pushing her mask back as she moved. It was almost too much to coordinate: she was so dizzy, so tired... Her night vision was excellent: a quick glance at the Princess saw her topless and covered in blood, but none of it was hers. Mouse was in worse shape. "Tourniquet?" she pushed past the fog. "Creative..." Pamela checked his pulse: weak but steady. There was no way to tell how much blood he'd lost. He was going to need medical care, a transfusion -- -- from where? Any gunshot wounds that appeared in the emergency rooms had to be reported to the police. The police might be on the way, and they could help if they showed up, but she had to improvise, had to treat Jason herself. It was so hard to think... The Princess was staring at her -- at her breasts. Pamela wondered what the hell was drawing her attention in the middle of a crisis. She automatically looked down. Three darts were embedded to varying degrees in her sweater -- no, in her bra. Only one had penetrated her skin, and only just, on a strange angle. The other two had gotten through the garment, hit the bra, and become stuck in the heavy fabric, been blocked by the fine network of fibers within the cloth, or blunted on the underwire. She'd only taken a small percentage of the drug carried by the darts, which explained why she'd woken up so quickly, and why she felt so bad now. "Son of a bitch," she whispered. She looked up at the Princess. "Keep your hand here, in this position," Pamela told her. "That's his pulse. I've got to get the lights back on so I can see --" the dizziness washed across her again. "-- see what I'm doing a little better. Night sight isn't enough. Yell if the pulse rate changes." She pulled herself up, using the filing cabinet as her ladder, and staggered towards the light switch. Roger had turned off the ambulance siren long before they got to the George Washington Bridge. It wasn't unusual for a city ambulance to venture outside the borders: they occasionally got "loaned" to other hospitals, and a few of the privately affiliated ones simply went wherever they wanted to go. A few quick decals had turned this one nicely generic. He'd borrowed the vehicle from a contact on Nigilo's recommendation: no one ever questioned paramedics coming out of a building with unconscious bodies. Neither of the two homeless people on the street had blinked as they'd carried Archer out on the stretcher they'd left by the door. So that part of the operation had been successful. And all of it might have worked if Gordon hadn't turned out to be a chickenshit. Carter had basic medical training. It was the main reason he was on the team. Nigilo wanted an IV feed hooked up to Archer, no questions. Do what they were told, or someone would find out about some of the other things they'd been told to do in the past. Standard deal. At the moment, Carter was finished with the sleeping geneticist, and was busy checking the dressing on Gordon's wound. "I'm telling you, it'll heal perfectly," he insisted. "The bullet passed completely through. It's cleaned, it's covered, it'll be back in one piece in a few weeks. A little conditioning, you'll never know you were shot. Now hold still so I can apply more disinfectant." Gordon winced and cursed softly as the liquid was applied, but held still. Stan was snoozing in the passenger seat: the noise didn't disturb him. And Archer had enough chemicals in her body to tranquilize a good-sized bear. "How long until we get to Stamford?" he grunted. "At least three hours, with these local roads," Roger replied. "I'm not going to push the speed limit around the yokels. Some of them might ticket an ambulance just for the fun of it." The smaller roads weren't in the greatest shape, either: the heavy-duty shocks on the ambulance still rocked as they went over potholes. Gordon cursed again. "You know, you should be glad we left three of them behind. It would have been pretty crowded in here." Gordon's glare was visible in the rear-view mirror. "There were shots fired, remember?" Carter briefly closed his eyes. "Did you want to be around when the cops showed up?" "And what happens when they do show up? If they show up?" Seven floors up, no other occupants, early in the morning, Alphabet City... "They're going to tell the cops something. Think they might accuse us of kidnapping?" "Well, the descriptions are shit," Carter reminded him, briefly rubbing his makeup. "And Nigilo implied that they wouldn't go for help. Remember, if things went wrong, it was grab Archer and run. We did that." "Nigilo doesn't always think straight," Roger pointed out. "He seemed pretty confident on this one," Carter replied. "And it's not our asses. So we didn't copy out the files, or grab any specimens." He smiled and patted Gordon's sore shoulder. "We can just blame that on Old Faithful here." The mercenary in question glared, but said nothing. "After all, if he hadn't been taken by the Shadow Ninja..." They went over another pothole. Carter adjusted his balance and glanced at Archer: she was in place, strapped to the trauma stretcher, each limb separately stabilized. They hadn't been able to get a strap around her chest. The IV bag was still attached, the needle was holding nicely -- according to the doc who had spotted the target, he was supposed to change it every three hours, who knew why -- and Archer was still sleeping, her fingers flexing slightly... She had taken five full doses of poractudine, and _her fingers were flexing_. Carter had put the dart gun on one of the shelves, out of the way, he was going to have to reach past Archer to get it -- Sadira's eyes snapped open as she finished running through her fastest wake-up check ever. Her brain said , then , and that was enough. Archer's arms came up, at least from the elbows, straining against the straps -- and they were beginning to give. Carter could see the white bands starting to appear in the thick plastic as she strained, back arching, mouth open in a soundless scream. He reached across her, spotting the dart gun, grabbing it -- -- her right arm broke free, swung up, and nailed him in the crotch. He was wearing a protective cup: standard equipment for covert operations. The impact was hard enough to dent the plastic: he went down anyway. The gun flew from his fingers, out of sight. Gordon was just starting to get up as her left leg broke free, and now there was sound, screaming and wailing, all the pain in the world coming from a single mouth as she thrashed and strained, an explosion of energy that was almost too much for the body to contain. The plastic over her left arm was starting to stretch and break -- -- three darts thudded into her left leg, fired from the front of the ambulance. The scream went higher, reached a crescendo as her left arm began to pull free -- then cut off, a thousand decibels to zero without intermediary steps. She collapsed against the stretcher. Stan shook his head and blinked away the last remains of sleep. Carter got up, oxygen coming back to him in short bursts. It felt like his virility was going to take a lot longer. "She couldn't have woken up," he gasped. "She processed all five darts in one hour. That's impossible..." "That," Gordon said slowly, "is why Nigilo wants her. The question is, can we make more money giving her to someone else?" They thought it over for half a mile. Roger finally said, "No. I don't think we can get enough money in one shot to make up for an entire career's worth of blown reputations -- not to mention retaliation. From what I hear, Nigilo knows some people." Gordon nodded. "You're right. But if we play it right, we can get some extra money for keeping our mouths shut." Carter sat down and took a deep breath. The air reached his balls and made them hurt. "And personal injury compensation." He exhaled and tried a second breath. "Lots of it." Pamela carefully extracted the bullet with the long tweezers: it had come to rest just next to what she judged was the femoral artery, the major blood supply line for the leg. A hit there would have meant bleeding to death within a few minutes: Jason had just had many other, not-so-major highways nicked. She'd force-fed him as many painkillers as she dared, a few of which had sleep aids added. The combination of medications had taken effect: he had passed from shock into sleep, and she was carefully monitoring him to make sure he didn't slip deeper. She'd come up with a formidable number of medical supplies (or workable substitutes) in her search of the lab: Pamela disinfected the wound, then stitched it using a hastily-sterilized sewing kit from the Princess' purse (for emergency costume repairs on the road). They'd had sterile tubing and sample kits. The Princess and Jason were, by dint of welcome luck, both AB positive, and Pamela's blood was O negative, the universal transfusion factor. A quickly-growled question established that the Princess was AIDS-free, and they contributed three pints between them. Pamela had loosened the tourniquet after finishing the stitching, giving full circulation back to the leg. There was no seepage from the dressed wound: she passed the bra back to the Princess, who was still kneeling next to Jason, her fingers clamped against his wrist. She looked at it and tossed it behind her: it was soaked with blood. Her blouse still lay on the floor. One more look at Jason: even in sleep, the pain was still etched into his face. They'd made him as comfortable as they could, putting Sadira's wadded jacket under his head, cutting away the blood-soaked portion of the pants leg, and covering him with their own jackets. "He'll live," Pamela said. The bullet had damaged a lot of muscle tissue on the way in: she wasn't sure what the exact effects would be, but it didn't look good. "He might need a lot of physical therapy to avoid limping for the rest of his life, and any activity is going to be restricted for weeks." Pamela glanced at her watch. Seven in the morning. The police had never come. Either no one had heard the shots, which was certainly possible, or no one had cared, which was also possible and much worse. The last of the drug's effects had been beaten down by raw necessity. "All right, Princess," she said, turning to face the dancer. "Your turn." "What?" She'd been fading in and out of shock, regaining enough insight to tie the tourniquet and remember the sewing kit, then forgetting the pulse point every time she had to move her hands. "Medical attention. You've got some bad bruises starting there. Stand up: I need to look you over." The Princess stood up: Pamela straightened slowly and looked her over. "You hit pretty hard, and you've got some bruising on your wrist -- did you hit your jaw on anything?" "No -- I don't think so --" "There's something -- tilt your head back: I need a closer look." She obeyed without thinking. "Perfect." It was perfect. It was the single most perfect left hook she'd ever thrown. There was barely any pain in her hand as the impact rocked the Princess, sending her reeling backwards, stumbling, heels locking into the bra straps -- -- she fell backwards, hands shooting back in time to take most of the impact. She sat there, propped up, breasts falling to the sides, eyes fearful. Pamela liked the look. "You bitch," she hissed. "You goddamned _Judas_. You'd sell out anyone to save your own hide, wouldn't you?" Her fist tightened again, and she was closer, curled fingers in front of Jasmine's eyes. "You killed her, you pulled the fucking trigger --" "He was going to kill me!" Jasmine screamed. "They didn't need me, I was a witness! He was going to kill --" "And that's why you said you were Sadira? So they'd kill her instead, and you'd have another day before they found out they had the wrong person? Piece of rancid _shit_ --" She brought back her fist, aiming for Jasmine's nose -- -- there was a soft groan behind them. They both froze. Pamela slowly, slowly uncurled her fingers before standing up and going back to Jason. "How are you feeling, Mouse?" His eyes were open, and etched with pain. "They got Sadira." Pamela paused. "They did." "I was stupid, Ivory. I broke cover without looking --" "That makes two of us." She wiped sweat from his forehead. "I just got a little farther." "My leg?" "The bullet's out, and everything's clean. If we take you to a hospital, they're going to ask questions..." "I watch television." His face contorted as another wave of pain washed through it. "I can't think of any good lies to tell them right now, either. Jasmine?" "Alive." She knew he could hear the acid. "In one piece." "We've got to go after her. We've got to --" "I know." If she just had some morphine, any stronger painkiller -- but she didn't, and the chemicals in the lab couldn't make a decent synthetic. She didn't trust the stuff on the street. "But I'll go. You're not going anywhere for a while." "Bullshit," Jason gasped. Jasmine came up behind them. He didn't see her: all his attention was focused on Pamela's eyes. "We can leave almost immediately, once we find where they've taken her." "Mouse, you can't walk. There's got to be doctors around here who treat gang wounds: I'll find one and trade services for chemicals." "No need." Another spasm of pain. "We've got all the medicine we need right here." Slowly, he raised an shaking arm, waving it to the general east. Pamela turned to look, and saw only assorted machinery -- then guessed. "No way." Fast, almost violent head shaking. "We don't know what the long-term effects are. There's been no testing, no idea if it'll work when it's separated from the breast growth sequences. We've already -- misplaced Sadira: we can't risk losing you --" In the single worst Tonto imitation she'd ever heard, he said, "What do you mean _we_, white woman?" A small smile. "Fuck it. Sadira came up with it, and I trust her. I trust you to make it the right way, and we'll find a way to slow me down later. Besides --" he pulled a breath between clenched teeth "-- I like Powerbars." Pamela smiled. "You know the risk." "Ivory, if you were on the floor with a hole in your leg, you'd be begging me to inject it." He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, cracked them open again. "Okay, ordering." Pamela considered the reversal. He was absolutely right. "Point." She drew the line on his arm. "I always wanted to play mad scientist. All right, Mouse. I'm going to test it on some cell samples first, but if it looks good, you get the accelerator." She stood up and pushed past Jasmine as Jason's eyes closed in triumph. She'd left the Mutator on standby power: it wouldn't take long to finish the virus. 23. 68: Sic transit Sadira They had been waiting at the private airfield for three hours. Carter stood by Archer's stretcher, finger tense on the trigger of the dart gun. They'd tried to regulate the dosage, keep her under without putting her out for good, but they'd played it a little too safe: there had already been two other near wake-ups. The weather had taken another swing during their wait: it was now comfortably warm, the air finally verging into spring. It made Carter nervous. He preferred a bit of cold: just enough so that it kept him sharp, not so much that all he could think about was how cold it was. At one p.m, the plane finally showed up: a twin-engine Cessna. It braked to a smooth stop on the runway as they wheeled Archer's stretcher towards it. A burly, heavily-tanned man hopped out from the pilot's seat. "Somebody call for a package pickup?" He marched up to Carter and put out his hand. "Harold Adams. Pleased to meet you." Carter, somewhat bemused, shook the pilot's hand. "Carter. This is the package. I hope you brought tranquilizers with you: it has a tendency to unwrap itself." Two other people got off the plane and headed for the stretcher. One was carrying a fairly bulky phone: a cheaply-made satellite connection. "No problem. We've got a full pharmacy in the back. Where are the others?" Gordon stepped forward. "This is the only one we got. We met heavy resistance." He displayed his wounded shoulder. "The minimum objective was accomplished, but that's it: no data, no specimens, and the others were -- left behind." The woman holding the phone stepped up to Gordon. "Then this is for you," she said with malicious amusement, and gave him the receiver. Gordon visibly swallowed, then put the phone to his head and began to carefully explain things to Nigilo. Pamela was whipping cell samples in and out of the microscope at top speed, watching the effects of the acceleration virus on each type, changing samples, observing, and trying to mentally combine the data into ramifications for a full organism. It wasn't working. The computer simulations said it should work for a generic subject. The breast growth triggers weren't present: Sadira had simply deduced a way to recreate her body's metabolism in another human. The factor sequence wasn't complicated. It was the genetic equivalent of finding a dial and turning it from 3 to 10. And it had never been tested. And there was no known way to reverse it. But the Mouse was right: if she'd been shot, and he'd turned down the request, she would have dragged herself to the Mutator and completed construction from the floor. She wasn't sure she would have bothered with the testing, either. Pamela felt the gaze and turned to see the Princess standing off to her right, just out of swing range. "He's sleeping again," she said. "Fine," Pamela said tightly. "Put something on. I don't feel like looking at you." "You'd rather look at my sister, right?" She took a small step back, moving out of kick range. "Fucking dyke." The words lacked any real strength. "Not as often as I'd like and not entirely," Pamela replied. "And she's got a beauty that you'll never have or understand." She checked the screen, then looked at the Princess' eyes, her own narrowing. "Bouncing back quickly, aren't you? I guess you've forgotten exactly what happened." Her fingers were starting to curl. A long hiss of words, emerging under high pressure. "I know exactly what happened. I gave her up because I was going to die. You can't understand that." "If it had been me," Pamela said slowly, measuring each syllable, "I would have fed him an elbow. I would have dropped and let my weight pull him down and bring the gun off-line. I would have lied until someone else could get to us. I wouldn't have caved in." "Yeah, and you're just so damn tough," Jasmine spat. "Nothing scares you, nothing could make you break down and --" Pamela took one step forward, stopping with her breasts just short of touching Jasmine. "Look at me," she hissed. "I've lived like this for twenty-two years. Guess how tough _that_ makes you? It wouldn't have been the first time someone held a weapon on me. No, I wouldn't break. I'd fight and stall and struggle because only fools are too impatient not to wait for miracles." "And you charged out," Jasmine shot back. "You didn't think. You just ran through!" "I _was_ the miracle!" Pamela yelled, leaning in -- then leaned back. Jasmine blinked. "At least," Pamela said slowly, "I was supposed to be. I just fucked up. So did the Mouse. You snapped and the entire chain went to pieces." Her left hand came up, seemingly without her knowledge, and covered that side of her face. "I lost control and ran to help without thinking about meeting someone on the way. You broke first, but we _all_ broke." Jasmine was standing quietly, looking as if she wanted to put her hands on her hips, but resisting. "I hate you," Pamela said, her voice cold. "And it's not anything Sadira said, either: we were roommates for four months before I knew you were alive. All she told me was basics. I guessed the rest from watching her. "I hate you for what you did to her. I hate you because you won't change. With what the Mouse has told me lately, I can read between the lines. She didn't ask to be smart and you didn't ask for your body." She looked at Jasmine, and for a moment, Sadira flickered into view. Her voice became softer, more thoughtful, without losing any of the ice. "The difference is that she never flaunted in an attempt to make someone feel worthless, and you did. Any offense you took, you picked up on your own. You were kids: _get over it already_. Both of you. _She's_ sexy and _you're_ --" a long, long pause, then a reluctant "-- smart. I saw some of those books, and you were _reading_ them. You both deny your attributes, you're both impulsive, you're _twins_, damn it. Maybe it's time you were sisters." She turned back to the screen and replayed the last interaction. From behind her, a small voice said, "They're going to kill her, aren't they? Because of me." "No, not yet," Pamela said to the screen. "Not until they get all the work out of her, until they have the second virus." But Pamela had seen the files, and seen the time it took to construct them. There was no way they could have finished without Sadira to head the project. "She'll stall. She's got the gaming experience. We've got some time. But we're loose ends." She thought it over as she switched samples. "They may have wanted all of us. They may come after us again. They may not. I'm still trying to figure out why that guy didn't take me or put a real bullet through me after I was down." Jasmine hesitated, then told Pamela everything she'd heard. Pamela laughed. "Typical. He sounded scared and all of us were down. I _thought_ I hit him: nice to know it was in a good place. All right: I temporarily give up on trying to figure out Nigilo's logic. Anyone walks in the door, I shoot them: that's all." "So what do we do?" "We?" Pamela started shaking her head -- stopped. "You go read files. We're down to two, and I could use some insight." Jasmine started to walk away. "Fucking dyke," Pamela softly mused. "You were enjoying yourself on the tape." "I was getting paid," Jasmine replied, and left. Pamela shook her head. The thought was slightly ironic in tone. She went back to work. The Cessna had been chosen for size, silence, and proliferation: there were thousands of them in the sky at any given moment. Nigilo didn't think anyone would track the air path, but he'd chosen a common model in case someone talked. He had not been happy with the overall results of the operation, and after he finished talking to Gordon (who had forgotten to try for extra money), he had expressed that feeling to Harold. However, it was a mixed sort of not happy: it was as if losing the rest wasn't really important. He was mad because he thought he was supposed to be mad. Angela bent over Archer, changing the IV needle. The disadvantage of the Cessna was its speed: even with top speed, fast refueling, and hurried maintenance, it would take nine hours to reach Montana. Keeping people out of the plane at their stops was easy. Nigilo seemed to feel keeping Archer _in_ the plane would be hard. The plane was carrying, in addition to the miniature pharmacy, a full array of medical equipment: Angela had been monitoring the geneticist since she'd come on board, keeping her asleep and beginning a battery of tests. Aaron, who was there for security, stood around and looked bored. Angela finally took a break and joined Harold in the cockpit. "A walking fission plant," she summarized. "Everything at full power, even with the tranks." "Did you see her -- chest?" Angela was sensitive to word usage. "Yes," she said frostily, then, warming slightly, "Couldn't miss it. I saw her around the fifth floor before this. Always the quiet ones, right?" "Yeah," Harold said. "As long as she stays quiet all the way to Montana." Carter had taken a perverse delight in pointing out the broken straps. Sadira's asleep. She dreams frequently -- everyone does, the mind can't survive without that release -- but she never remembers them. Her mind works on levels: there's the one that deals with the world and makes the everyday decisions, that higher plane where all the real thinking takes place, and deeper ones, including one where she never goes. Where the fears are. The dreaming level is many layers down, and she can't access it, not consciously. But now, between hormones and drugs, she's aware of the dream, though unable to control it. She's watching it, as if locked into a seat in front of the stage. She's moving through the halls at GenTree, and she's got her old body back, the one without any breasts at all, and there's a curious freedom to that: she can remember the infection, and for a moment, the dream selves think she's cured. They're both a little wistful. Sadira really did want to have something, just not quite all that. She thinks. She's not completely sure. Some small part of her has its own competition with Jasmine. Someone's been redecorating the halls: the old white walls have double helixes covering them. She recognizes some of the sequences. She identified them. She never told anyone that she'd been working late in the science hall one night when she'd come across the frat party in one of the labs, spent a few minutes outside the door, listening to drunken ideas, then, with that highest level in full gear, gone in to help. She found the sequences, she found how to use them. All about her in the end. Nigilo comes down the hallway, grabs her hand, starts dragging her off. She resists, leaning back -- but it's no good: he's a large man, outweighs her by a hundred pounds easily, and he's just pulling her along. It's like she's surfing behind him. Her arms fling out towards the wall, trying to find some purchase, and she hits one of the helixes. Her breasts start growing again. Not like before, not where she needs time-lapse photography to pick it out as it happens, but impossibly fast, inches in seconds. The lab coat is stretching with her, covering evenly as she goes past C, past D, accelerating through the alphabet, and Nigilo isn't compensating for the weight. He's pulling with the same strength, but Sadira's getting heavier. He pulls forward and she doesn't come with him. Their hands slip apart. She turns and runs again, but it's getting hard to move again, she's in the forties and still going, and it's slowing her down, changing her balance. Sadira reaches her lab and gets inside, pressing her hand to the door and the rest of her body just follows. But it's Pamela's lab, Terragen, she's working the computer sidesaddle again, looking at a picture of Sadira, taken from the Christmas photo, that's morphing from nothing to Level II and back again, and there's this wistful look on her face that Sadira can barely stand to see. Jason is standing in front of the electron microscope and he's got that look again, the one where he's got the really impossible problem which changes every time he catches up to it, but there's a new determination there. He just keeps working, and tries not to look at the picture. Jasmine is sitting at her desk. Blood flows from the bullet hole in her forehead, cascading onto a blank page. Sadira walks closer: no one notices her. She's still growing, and she gets too close to the page and blocks her view of it: she has to turn sideways to read it. It says, in letters of blood formed by Jasmine's stream, {There are no children here.} Jason and Pamela turn, and they seem to see her for the first time, but then they turn away, and glance at each other with guilt. Nigilo catches up and seizes her again, but he can't move her: Sadira's breasts are down to her waist and out past her elbows, and she's too heavy to budge, but she can't run anymore, the weight affects her too. She's frozen, sessile. That's when Pamela and Jason, and Jasmine, still bleeding, get up and rush Nigilo, dragging him to the ground as Sadira's weight drops her to her knees, and the frontmost portions of her breasts are touching her knees, starting to overflow as Nigilo's struggles stop. The Sadira on the stage looks at the one in the audience as all three help her to her feet, and smiles. It's feral, like Pamela at her best and worst, and there's some pain in it. The curtain drops. Sadira is alone in the audience, and she doesn't applaud. She couldn't bring her hands together in front of her, anyway: her breasts are in the way. A rain of red roses falls onto the stage from the ceiling. Two of them bounce and land in her hair. It's the end of the dream, but Sadira will remember it when she wakes up. Pamela knelt next to Jason, who was awake again. She had a needle full of vitamins and virus in her left hand. "It'll work," she said, "but only as long as you're hurt. All the energy you generated would go directly to healing. Sadira could sleep at night because she was growing: the calories had a constant outlet. You'll heal -- and then you'll still have the same appetite, the same need for power, with nowhere for it to go. Either you'll wind up incredibly hyperactive, unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time, or you'll just burn out. Pick one." "So neutralize it after I'm fixed," Jason said. "Virus, counter- virus." "Simple," Pamela agreed. "How? I don't know what's going to turn it off. I've been thinking: we've got some time, Sadira will stall while they try to make her do the work. You can heal enough to walk normally and we'll go after her --" "Maybe," Jason said. "She might be able to, we might have weeks. The clock is still running on her end, remember?" Pamela closed her eyes, because in all the chaos, she had forgotten, just for a second -- -- and in that moment, Jason grabbed the needle, pulling it out of her hand, found a spot, and injected himself. Pamela stared at him. "Now," he said clearly, "it's both of us. So let's find those brakes." Pamela stared at him. "You're an idiot. You know that." Neutral, almost blank. "Country mice aren't very smart." Their eyes met, and she kissed his forehead. 24. 70-71: In conference They had gone to a hotel (after a quick trip to the store for fresh clothes). Jasmine had paid cash, and they'd registered under false names. Jason had originally thought that it really wouldn't matter, they made a distinctive enough trio -- but Pamela had driven across the border and gone deep into New Jersey. She believed they were safe enough for the night. Jason, awake and in pain -- and having gotten some sleep earlier in the day -- had taken first watch. Pamela had gotten the second, and Jasmine the third. There were two bedrooms and two large beds: they each took one in turn. It was Jasmine's shift when Jason woke up. He knew because she was the one who woke him. She gently rubbed his arm until he came back, blinking up at her. The adjustable lights in the room had been turned to their lowest level. "What's wrong?" he whispered, working his way out of the sleep-fog. "Just checking on you. How are you feeling?" But there was real concern in her face. "Shouldn't you be watching the door?" "One of the busboys who was about to get off shift is standing in front of it. I told him we didn't want to be disturbed for a while. So how are you feeling?" All in whispers, with Jasmine's holding a faint hint of bemusement. "Still hurting, but I can sleep past it. It's a little weird. I can almost feel the new cells coming in. It'll take a few days to get back to normal, but that's as opposed to weeks. Pamela may have to take the stitches out tomorrow." His brow furrowed. "Are you that tired? Can we trust the bellboy?" God, he sounded like Pamela. "For the amount of money I gave him, he'd better be trustworthy." She smiled gently. "But there's still some pain?" Jason could have sworn he'd said that already. "Yes." The smile got gentler. "Then I'll do all the work." And she began to take her blouse off. The fog dissipated, and sixteen expressions warred for control of his face. Confusion won. "What --?" "You don't know?" Bemused. "This is going to take more work than I thought." She shimmied out of the garment, braless underneath, then reached for the blankets. "Let's get you out of those shorts..." Jason was about to say something -- was about to think of something he could say -- and then Jasmine changed her direction and leaned in, kissing him, long, hard, and desperate. Again, he returned the kiss, feeling the urgency behind it -- then stopped, withdrawing slightly into the pillow. Jasmine sensed it and straightened up, confused. He looked up at her, saw the bewilderment in her face, the residue of fear, the hint of desperation he'd felt in the kiss, all honest emotions. "No," he said, surprising himself a little. "No?" she echoed, her voice very soft. He had the distinct impression no one in this situation had ever said it to her. "Jasmine --" She turned away and headed for the door, picking up speed. "Jasmine, come back." She turned around and looked at him for a long moment. Jason sat up and patted the edge of the bed. She slowly walked over, then climbed onto the bed, hands heading for his crotch again -- "Just to talk," he said quickly and moved over, giving her room to sit down. Confusion and betrayal crossed her face, almost too quickly to see, but she sat down, back braced against the headboard. "I don't want to talk," she said, her position giving the lie. "I want to fuck, and I'm not going to ask Casper." Jason easily met her eyes: while it was his first look at Jasmine topless, being around the three women had made it easier to override instincts. "I don't want to." He smiled. "A little -- I can't say I'm not curious --" "-- but I can't. I couldn't even look past a clothed photo of you in a magazine because I thought I'd be betraying Sadira. Too old-fashioned..." She looked away. "So you love her." Matter-of-fact. "Yes." "You, the ghost -- I guess she's making up for lost time." She kept staring at the doorway. "I nearly died yesterday." Slow, sad, "I just want to feel alive for a while." "I can understand that," Jason said gently, automatically falling into "just friends" mode. "But I'm not it. I like you, and if things had been different, if I never met Sadira --" "-- then nothing would have happened," Jasmine cut him off. Her words were flatly honest. "Maybe I would have picked you up off the street and taken you back to my hotel for a fast run. I don't spend _all_ my free time reading. But after that, I would have thrown you away and forgotten about you. I never would have looked at you in the first place if I haven't thought it would hurt Sadira. I would have broken up her and Shaw if I could, but I couldn't figure out how -- and then they just stopped touching." Pamela had been right. It still hurt. Even with his feelings for Sadira, the commitment, it was nice to know someone else found him interesting, good for the ego. The idea that Jasmine had been using him, hadn't been attracted to him at all -- the dagger quickly stabbed through his heart. "And now?" he said softly. She shrugged. She still wasn't looking at him. "I kind of like you. I don't love you. I kissed you back at the lab because I was scared, but I was using the fear... And I just hurt Sadira as much as I ever could. I -- I don't think I can top that. There's no point in even trying." Whispering, "I've spent so much time hating her that I don't know how to stop. And now I'm never going to get the chance..." With Jasmine, it was sometimes difficult to tell what was real and what was artifice: she was a manipulator, and she used emotions to her own benefit. Jason could see that manipulation now. She was trying to change herself, forcing her feelings out, make herself face them for the first time in years. "She's not dead," he whispered back. "Neither are you. You'll both have that chance." She turned to face him. He reached out and hugged her. She hugged him back, and nothing more came of it. Jasmine's own healing had begun. Sadira thought as the roses faded from her hair. And then, before she opened her eyes, she realized where she was. There was something almost indescribably wonderful about waking up in her own bed after a long time away, an instinctive recognition that turned into another layer of comfort. Sadira was in that bed, but she hadn't gotten into it herself, because the sheets were laid out flat across her body. Sadira opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up. The white room contained most of her bedroom furniture, including the wardrobe and nightstand, arranged in roughly the same pattern. There was no debris on top of the little table, and all the drawers were closed evenly, instead of being stuck in varying degrees of jut from bad packing. The past week-plus hadn't been a dream: someone had just decided to transfer her residence and made the ambiance-destroying mistake of cleaning up. It _felt_ wrong. That, and the cameras in the corners, swiveling to cover the room, with two of them currently scanning the bed. Sadira got up. Her bra was _much_ too tight: she'd been wearing it for nearly a day, and the fabric didn't have much give. On the other hand, her back felt pretty good: she'd spent that day doing nothing but sleeping and healing, and she didn't feel hungry. More IV tubes... Had she seen one in the ambulance? She remembered having briefly been awake. She didn't remember much beyond that. There were three doors leading out of the room. Sadira explored, finding a little kitchen, a bathroom (with an amazingly wide bathtub), and a solid lock. She had to use the second. There were cameras in the bathroom. One of them covered the bathtub, the other scanned the toilet. Sadira looked up at the cameras and gave the operator the finger, then looked at the toilet. She briefly closed her eyes and tried hard not to think about it. It didn't help. She did think about Jasmine, Pamela, and Jason almost constantly as she bathed, carefully following Ivory's washing instructions. It took much longer to wash her breasts now... Sadira had no idea what had happened after she'd been knocked out. There was a good chance that the others had been taken out in different vehicles, and were walking up in their own little faux apartments. There was an equally good chance they were dead. Except Jasmine, whom they could kill. Her eyes squeezed shut, and the tears began to leak out as she sank into the water. She understood, and even sympathized with what might have been her sister's final cry. Jasmine had just been scared, just wanted to live... she thought softly. But her sister, her friends, they might all be alive. Looking for her. No matter what she was eventually told, she had to believe that until she had proof to the contrary. It was the best way to stay sane, so she could plan that vengeance. Try to contact the outside, arrange a rescue -- or, if necessary, escape alone. And if she ran alone, she was going to have to run soon, because even her walking was slow and deliberate, and in a few weeks, it was going to be impossible. The pain would have to wait -- and that hurt most of all. Still, she allowed herself to cry, splashing water in her face to hide the tears, because she couldn't make herself stop. Her captors wouldn't give her any privacy, but they let her have some time to wash, get dressed, and have a quick snack. Most of the clothing in the drawers was hers: she got her lower body covered without difficulty, but the shirts were a complete loss. There were, however, several large smocks of fabric, muu-muus with worse-than- average design, sized for color-blind women a few hundred pounds heavier, and equally huge belts. She did the best she could. There were no bras other than the one she'd brought in. She tried to get it back on, but the discomfort quickly turned into pain: the cups were fairly rigid, and wouldn't stretch to accommodate her. Flesh bulged from the top of the cups, and the sides, and when she tried to force it into a better fit, her breasts started to hurt -- she quit, got the bra and muu-muu off, then improvised with a second muu-muu and a few belts. The result was almost completely ineffective, but it would have to do. She noted the presence of knives in the kitchen with some interest. Weren't they worried about her committing suicide -- or attacking someone? Probably not. Sadira wasn't the suicidal type, except for certain very specific circumstances: she had a living will in case of severe brain damage. They had her psych profile from the scholarship tests, they'd know that -- and she didn't know enough about the setup yet to risk a break -- and at any rate, she was probably outnumbered and outweaponed. Basic gaming principle: scout the opposition. The kitchen cabinets were well stocked. Mostly with Powerbars. She groaned, took one, and closed the doors. Her radio was in the bedroom, and her television: she turned both on long enough to verify that she was back in Montana -- but, while she'd never been in every part of GenTree, she found it hard to believe that they'd set things up in the building. The radio could still pull in the Helena FM stations, but they were dim. She was somewhere near the limits of their range. There was nothing to do but wait for someone to talk to her. At 9:30 a.m, someone did. The door opened. Sadira looked up from the television. "Sadira?" It took a moment to place the face: it even blended smoothly into memory. "Carmody," she replied. "And it's Ms. Archer, or Miss, or kidnap victim. Whatever turns you on." He didn't flinch. "I have to take you to a conference. Would you please come with me?" "Please?" Perhaps Pamela was dead, because it felt like she was channeling her. "'Please' implies a choice. I don't have one." She turned off the television. "Any more lies?" He just stood by the door, waiting. Sadira thought about staying in place, making him haul her along, or get a lot of help -- but it really wouldn't accomplish anything. She went through the door. White corridor, florescent lighting, two guards with odd-looking guns -- probably more tranquilizers -- and hand-held screens that were tied into the interior cameras. She had no doubt there were more guards close by. There were several cameras, and plenty of doors. "Follow me," Carmody said as he locked the door, and they went for a walk. It wasn't GenTree: all the floors had the same basic layout. This was closer kin to Terragen, but on a larger scale: a maze of corridors, winding about without seeming pattern. The guards paced them, five feet ahead, five feet back. They passed several other people on the way, none of whom Sadira recognized. All of them stared at her. In one case, she smiled and waved, remembering something Pamela had told her. "Just smile. Wave a little." "Why?" "Because it shorts out their brains and they can't do anything but smile back." The man's lips twitched, and he hurried on. Eventually, they went in an office, large, elaborately paneled and decorated, and the frost was waiting to greet her. "Ms. Archer. Please sit down." Sadira sat in the plush chair facing the desk. Her breasts brushed against her lap. She leaned back a bit, lifting them. Behind her, Carmody went into a corner and held position. "Mr. Nigilo," she replied. "Kyle," he said, smiling. "Not likely." It had just slipped out. The smile wavered slightly, then came back full force. "I have to say, you look -- different this way. Are you content yet? Have you beaten Jasmine to your satisfaction, or are you playing double or nothing?" The words were couched in friendly, conversational tones. Sadira kept the confusion from her face. "Where is Jasmine?" Soft, demanding. "Concern for the lab rat?" Sadira blinked. "She's alive," Nigilo replied, "and you may see her in time." Sadira wondered if she could believe him. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick file. "I have a little story to tell you. I think you'll be interested, and I only want to tell it once." Sadira sat and quietly listened as Nigilo told her exactly what had led to her being caught, taking great pleasure in detailing the chase. Some of the silence stemmed from confusion: he wasn't covering everything. He laughed at the coincidence that had led Victor and Claire Shalm past the lab entrance -- but the man whom Pamela and Jason had confronted in Central Park was never mentioned. Nigilo did explain his motives in placing an agent at Al's Barn -- -- which made very little sense to Sadira. She could follow his logic and see the false premise he'd built his chain on, but it was rough going. She wondered what his family had been like to make him see _everything_ in terms of competition. Nigilo, however, was enjoying his chance to show off, speaking to her as if deconstructing a particularly enjoyable game of chess. He congratulated the driver on the brilliant car chase. He commended Pamela's ability to hide her tracks. He really, really liked the trick with the credit card. "So," Nigilo finished, "your luck has taken a turn for the worse -- but if you work hard, you might be able to reverse it. Not all the way, unfortunately, that's impossible now -- but it might eventually become somewhat positive." Sadira waited for him to continue. He obliged her. "Sadira --" first time for first name usage: she wasn't sure how to stop him "-- you used the virus too soon. Two days, to be exact." "It was an accident." He waved a dismissive hand. "Say whatever you like: some of us know the truth. You kept up appearances well, though." "Thanks," she said neutrally. If he thought she was less than sane, it might lead to underestimation later. "So what was going to happen in two days?" "If all had gone well, I would have come to you with a new proposal. I had been making some early inquiries -- but you interrupted the work. The project would have proceeded." She stared. "How? You were right: no one was going to allow me to test the virus --" "Legally." He smiled. "No one ever said the control agencies had to be involved, did they? That performance in the conference room was for the record only, so we could all truthfully say the project had been rejected if something went wrong. But we're going to test the viruses, and we'll market them. It's easy enough." "On who? You're hardly going to get volunteers for an untested _cosmetic_ enhancement!" It felt good to throw the words back at him. Nigilo reached into another desk drawer and passed across a small clear vial, filled with small white stones. "Do you know what this is?" Sadira picked it up and looked at it. She knew. The local police had taken a case full of samples to the high schools, warning the kids. "Cocaine, in the "crack" composition." "Correct. We're allowed to keep a few samples around for the project on six." Sadira knew about it: the addiction breaker, removal of the physical need for the drug at the cellular level. "It's also a very powerful motivational force, along with poverty." Sadira started to see where he was going, and was paralyzed by the horror of the vision. Nigilo kept talking. "Montana has its share of addicts, but most of the deranged people in our state don't need chemical help. Our -- private Mexican branch works in a different environment. They are surrounded by poverty and drug addiction." The chill smile formed a layer of ice across her mind. "This is deliberate. "Are you aware of the current organ market?" She didn't respond. He took it as a negative. "Very poor people, or addicts desperate for their next fix, find a network of contacts -- or sometimes they're sought out. Desperate people, corrupt doctors..." Sadira shuddered. He didn't notice. "The human body has several duplicate organs which can be transplanted out. A kidney, usually, but sometimes a lung, and some of them are desperate enough to give up a cornea and lose half their sight. The money is very good, especially at that economic level. Admittedly, it's more common among the poor than the addicts -- would you want a drug-soaked kidney? But it's done more often than the media likes to believe or bothers to investigate. "Now, if you were to offer people a fraction of that money, but told them they wouldn't lose any of their body parts -- in fact, two parts might be enhanced and allow them another means of earning a living..." "They'd talk," Sadira feebly protested. "They don't. You just spent some time in a fairly poor area, and you're originally from New York. You know better than that." "We'd keep them locked down for a while, good food and clothing while the virus does its job. A pleasant change for them, actually. After testing was complete, we'd begin _selling_ it." The smile was almost warm. "You were right all along. There are plenty of women who would love to have larger breasts, and are terrified of silicone poisoning, or the perils of the operation, even with saline." This time, Sadira managed to suppress her reaction. "They would pay thousands for a safe alternative." "But how do you keep it secret once you start selling it? Eventually, someone's going to talk..." "Oh, you work through intermediaries -- investors, so to speak, and we wouldn't sell it in the United States unless the money was simply too tempting. It's like the cancer drugs that get imported illegally: no one's going to reveal how they get into the country, because then everyone's source dries up. For this, gratitude suffices to keep things quiet. I'm not saying it would be easy -- there's more work involved than I want to detail -- but it can be done. It's been done before, though normally with drugs. Turning a profit is easy." He opened the file and passed her a chart. "Based on initial inquires and simulations, that's the profit picture for the first five years with an ultra-conservative distribution scenario." Sadira looked over the chart. Accounting wasn't her strong point, but she could add, and she could see the grand total in the bottom right corner. Four hundred and twenty-three million dollars. "That's based on an average cost of fifteen thousand dollars a treatment, with extra costs for more drastic enlargements. If we increase the distribution and number of patients treated, we can lower the costs somewhat -- but why bother? It's almost all pure profit. A breast enhancement performed by a professional can cost five thousand: tripling the cost to account for absolute safety, and the added bonus of being able to get as large as you like -- well, what do you think of a base cost of fifteen thousand, with an additional two hundred for every inch after the fourth? That would allow a completely flat woman such as you -- used to be -- to go from zero to D for the base cost." Sadira blinked. "It seems somewhat expensive." He shook his head. "That's what the market is prepared to bear. Again, the more patients we treat, the lower the cost. I wouldn't bring it under ten thousand base at any rate. I also have to consider the percentage our investors would take. And even if someone talks -- we'll be difficult to track, and once thousands of people are walking around with no side effects at all, the biohazard agencies aren't going to make any real effort to go after the source. Breast enlargement is too trivial to investigate." Nigilo reached out for the chart: Sadira passed it back. "So this is obviously where you come in. I wouldn't have presented it all to you in these terms to begin with -- your profile is a little too clean. I would have told you we had a tentative approval outside the States, fed you a few lies about the Mexican site, and given you a healthy piece of the profits. I do pay for good work, Sadira. I run this company hard, but well. I'm not the owner, but they know better than to cross me. I have some connections, and information on most of the people in GenTree, including everyone at this site. "You'll reconstruct both viruses for us. It doesn't seem sensible to give you any of the profits now -- after all, we now have to recoup the price of the hunt -- but you'll get some of it."