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From: sullivangm@aol.com (SULLIVANGM)
Subject: Hybrid Vigor, 1/5

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking.  If you find any of
this objectionable, I suggest you try another fetish.

Copyright 1997 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others only. 

Author's note:  This story takes place during the spring before the events
described in "Dying for a Cigarette" and "Phoenix Ascending."  While it is
not necessary to read those stories to enjoy this one, I recommend them to
you with full prejudice.

Dedication:  For Sstoryman, with deepest respect.


"Hybrid Vigor"  Part One of Five


Part One:  All the Tobacconist's Men 

1.  Opportunity Knocks

Stuart Brickman was going to be famous.  The Pulitzer would be the least
of it.  There was no doubt in his mind.

His ticket out of this hick town and the dead-end job at the Hilltop
Journal, and into the offices of the Times (New York or Los Angeles) or
the Post (Washington), was spread across his cluttered desktop.  His
Columbia journalism degree would no longer be wasted on the barely
literate and ungrateful residents of central North Carolina.  The world
was about to become his oyster.

>From the center of the clutter he lifted a photograph of an attractive,
red-haired girl.  This had to be fate; mere luck could never explain it. 
He glanced at his watch:  8:55 AM.  Where the hell was Aronsen?

Biting back on his impatience, he turned to inspect his daily stack of
out-of-town papers.  Nary a one of these ever passed under the eyes of any
reader of the Journal, but that didn't mean he should be ignorant of
happenings in the real world.  On top was a paper he usually detested, the
New York Post, but he paused to examine the lead story by Persephone
Jones, a reporter whose hard-hitting and concise style he admired. 
Another day, another murder spree; that was New York.  Well, if not the
Big Apple, there was always LA, DC, or 'Frisco.  He preferred the warmer
climates anyway.

He had managed to get one copyrighted story onto the wires during his year
as editor of this rag, about abuses of workers on local tobacco farms. 
Some grudging reforms had followed his exposure of the shocking facts. 
You'd think his readers would be grateful that their crusading editor had
put this burg on the map for a minute and had the guts to challenge big
business, but no.  They resented him for it!  Even the workers he was
trying to protect reviled him!  Still they bought the paper, if only to be
outraged at whatever hornet's nest he would stir up next, and that's all
the owners in Greensboro cared about.

His next hornet's nest, though, would be the end for Hilltop and his
tenure as editor-in-chief at the Journal.  When he was done stirring this
one, few in town would be able to afford a paper anymore.


2.  The Assignment

Shelly Aronsen approached the door to Brickman's office, wondering at this
summons from the chief.  She was a 20-year-old journalism student at Duke,
taking a summer internship at the paper, and had only met Brickman one
time before.  Once had been enough.  He was an insufferable, arrogant, ass
who held his readers and community in contempt, and had enough chips on
his shoulder to build a log cabin.  He would be much more at home in a
place like New York.  Still, it was little enough to put up with for three
months while she gained some valuable experience.

"Come in, Aronsen!" barked his voice in answer to her knock.  At least she
could admire his brusque professionalism.  He treated everyone alike
regardless of gender.

She entered the small office and saw her ultimate boss for the second
time.  Under 30, he was (in his own mind at least) a true Wunderkind, and
not bad-looking.  She could go for someone like him, if he had not been
such a pain to be around.

Similar thoughts were crossing Brickman's mind as he watched Shelly enter.
 She was a looker, with long, curly, carrot-colored hair, upturned nose,
respectable boobs, and a natural sashay to her walk.  She was also from
Massachusetts, a real state, and had a touch of class absent from the
native yokels.  However, this was the sort of place where they hung you
from a tree if you were caught shtupping the interns, so he refrained from
acting on his impulses.  There was too much to lose, especially now.

"Sit!" he ordered. She sat.  Brickman glanced at the glossy in his hands,
then at Shelly.  It was incredible.  He handed her the photograph.  "Do
you recognize this girl?" he asked.

Shelly's eyes went wide as she examined the picture.  "It's me..." she
began, then saw that it was not.  But it was damned close.  Closer than
sisters, more like twins.  With matching hair arrangements, their mothers
would hard-pressed to spot the differences at ten feet.  "Who is she?"

"Her name is Mary Lou Demming, and she's the daughter of a friend of mine
at the club, a local tobacco farmer...an enlightened one, if there is such
a thing."  The "club" was actually a run-down gym and seedy bar, but since
he had joined the gym he liked to refer to it that way.  "She has a summer
job, too, at Osborn-Smithson Tobacco, or was going to until she broke her
leg playing field hockey last weekend.  I want you to go in her place."

Osborn-Smithson, a cigarette manufacturer, was the largest employer in 5
local counties and indirectly supported many more with its purchase of
tobacco crops.  "You mean impersonate her?" asked Shelly.

Brickman smiled.  The kid caught on fast.  "You got it, Aronsen.  Her
father has agreed to cooperate completely."  After a small honorarium, he
neglected to add.  He handed her a manila envelope.  "In here you will
find Mary Lou's driver's license, Social Security card, and a copy of her
employment application."

"So will Mary Lou collect my pay from Osborn-Smithson, too?" Shelly asked,
smiling.

"Yes, she will, but don't worry.  During this assignment you will get
double the usual intern pay and a nice bonus if the story goes national! 
Are you game?"

Shelly sat silent for a moment.  She needed to know a lot more about this
assignment before she took it, but she was certainly intrigued.  In her
journalism classes they had discussed cases of  reporters going undercover
to get a sensational story.  It had all sounded so exciting....here she
mostly xeroxed, filed, ran errands, and watched the two full-time
reporters type up boring crop reports and wedding notices.  "I might be,"
she said, trying to sound cool.  "What would I be looking for?"

Brickman knew she was hooked.  "Okay, here's the background. 
Osborn-Smithson has been around about 100 years. In the 40's and 50s they
had four of the top-ten-selling brands, but since have slipped far behind
the real biggies like Philip Morris, RJ Reynolds, and the other merchants
of death."   Brickman made no secret of his hatred of corporations in
general and tobacco companies in particular.  It was just one more source
of ire between him and the townspeople.  "Their overall market share fell
below three percent in 1994.  Then came the GenSci buyout."

"I read about that," said Shelly.  "Wasn't that a little strange?"

"Strange doesn't begin to describe it.  It was a nine-day wonder back in
'96.  GenSci is one of the five most cash-rich, privately-held
corporations in America, with 7 basic patents for genetically engineered
products, most of them foods.  They have never before or since acquired
another company.  They paid $2 billion in cash for OST, a premium price of
$10 per share above market, then took it private.  Since then no one knows
how much money OST has made or lost, or any of the other financial
scuttlebutt you can pick up on publicly traded corporations."

"So you want me to scope out their financials?"

Brickman laughed.  "That would be a bonus, but no, Aronsen.  We have much
bigger fish to fry here.  Have you been by their headquarters since you
arrived?"  Shelly shook her head.  "Well, make a point of it before you
start work there.  They have recently finished a major expansion to their
R&D center.  I'd say it set them back $100 million at least, an unheard-of
sum for a tobacco company.  They've also obtained certification for a P4
lab."

"What's that?"

"Come on, Aronsen, didn't you see the movie 'Outbreak?'  That's the kind
of lab where they handle deadly viruses...or do dangerous DNA
experiments!"

"Oh, my god..."

"Oh my god is right!  And here's the clincher...have you ever heard of Dr.
James M. Ryan?"

"I've heard the name..."

"At 26, he's an MD, a Ph.D., a PE, and probably several other things too. 
He's already been with GenSci two years and is thought to be responsible
for at least three of their patents.  His main area is botanical
microbiology, but he's pretty diverse.  He's only the hottest intellectual
property in America, that's all.  Now he's been appointed director of
research and development at OST.  Why do you think they'd ship someone
like him to a backwater like Hilltop?"

"That's where I come in?"

"Exactly!  Mary Lou was selected to be Ryan's personal assistant.  He
asked for her by name.  However, according to her father he's never spoken
to her personally."

"What am I...is she expected to do?"

"She's pre-med at UNC Chapel Hill, with a good background in biology. 
That's what they wanted in their interns."

"Mr. Brickman, I quit science when we started dissecting frogs.  I don't
know anything..."

"How much journalism have you needed to know for this job?  It won't be
any different there.  Running the xerox will be your most important
skill."

"But how will I know what to look for?"

"This will be a good test of your journalistic instincts.  Nose around. 
Ask questions.  When Ryan gives you something to copy make a set for
yourself, even if you don't understand a word of it.  If they're counting
copies, ask to take the stuff home with you and copy it at Kinko's." 
Brickman's face developed a leer.  "And...there had to be some reason why
Ryan asked for Mary Lou, and I can tell you it wasn't because of her
mediocre academic record.  Perhaps you can get him to open up a little. 
He's young and good-looking...."

Shelly tried not to grimace.  Relying on feminine wiles had never been
part of her fantasy of undercover investigating.  "Well...." She started,
and could not keep the hesitation from her voice.

"Remember, Woodward and Bernstein did not get the dirt on Nixon by
pussyfooting around!  Whatever it took, they did!  No one gets a chance
like this at your age, no one!  You could have a name for yourself before
you even get your god damned degree!"

"I know...and I want to..."

"We have responsibilities to our readers, Aronsen.  Important
responsibilities.  You follow the news.  You know how the tobacco
companies put all kinds of chemicals, extra nicotine, and other crap in
cigarettes.  Now it looks like they're adding gene-splicing to the list!" 
Brickman was growing impassioned; the crusading editor was on a roll.  He
pounded a fist on his desk.  "This is more than a story, Aronsen.  This is
an errand of mercy, to save the American people from being victimized once
again by the worst class of corporate criminals!"

Shelly was impressed by Brickman's conviction. She had imagined scenes
like this in the office of Ben Bradlee, legendary editor of the Washington
Post.  "All right, I'll do it!" she said.

"I never doubted you, Aronsen.  Here's some more background reading on
OST, GenSci, Mary Lou, and Ryan.  I also dug up an introductory text on
microbiology.  Forget about your gofer duties and just concentrate on
this.  You start at OST next Monday, which gives you four days."

Shelly took the large stack of material, thinking this would be the worst
cram session of her life.  She would do it, though...it might be decades
before she got another chance like this.

"Thanks for giving me this opportunity, Mr. Brickman.  I won't let you
down."

"I know you won't, Aronsen."  As Shelly got up to leave, Brickman added,
"Aronsen? One other thing."

"What's that?"

"Do you smoke?"

"No..." 

"Start.  Mary Lou does, and they're likely to be sensitive to that at
OST."  Brickman frowned.  "I'd do it for a story like this, but it'd give
me a hell of an incentive to get the goods and get out fast.  You follow
me?"

"Yes, sir."


3.  Kingdom of the Blind

James Marcus Ryan lived in a different world from ordinary mortals, and it
often annoyed him greatly.  Everyone around him seemed to speak and move
in slow motion.  Before they finished a thought he usually finished it for
them, formulated his response, anticipated their questions, and answered
them.  He could never understand why most people were so obtuse.

When he had left academe and joined GenSci, things had not improved. 
Although most of his colleagues were Ph.D.s with extensive experience in
his field, they were only a little quicker to understand him than most
others.  They were also slow, deliberate, and fearful of failure in their
research.  Worse, they often doubted his insights because of his age,
forcing him to plow ahead on his own to prove himself right.  Egos were
bruised.  He was not seen as a good team player.

He had sought the OST assignment in part because he had some ideas about
tobacco, but also because he needed to be in charge and on his own.  He
was also the only professional at GenSci who smoked.  Nicotine and
caffeine both increased mental acuity, and anything that did that he would
use regardless of the risks.

He lit an OST Premium Deluxe 100 and sipped his coffee while scanning his
electronic calendar.  His office was cramped and dim, but only because he
had designed it that way, as he had designed every inch of the new R&D
annex.  He hated being in his office, hated dealing with administrative
details.  However that came with being in charge, and it was greatly
preferable to dealing with the professional jealousies of his alleged
peers.

His new assistant was due in at any moment.  Mary Lou Demming.  He had
asked for her after reviewing the new intern applications, based on her
smoking history and a small photograph he had seen.  His interest was
certainly not intellectual.  He never expected to see an intern who had a
spark anything like his own.  That was not egotism, only realism, born of
long and often painful experience.  He was a freak and knew it, but he
would not change a thing even if he could.

His immersion in study and research had left little time for a social
life, and what little socializing he attempted usually ended in
frustration for all parties.  He had lost his virginity at 16 in his usual
well-planned manner and had sporadic sexual contacts since then, enough to
know that such pursuits could never command his attention for long. 
However, he was always stimulated by the sight of a pretty girl smoking a
cigarette.  This was convenient, because such sights could often be
obtained even while he was working on various projects.  He had already
considered every possible etiology for the sexual attractiveness of
smoking, tracked its probable psychological development, and even
formulated some approaches to therapy.  Some day, when he had a spare
minute, he would dash off a monograph on the subject.  In any event, that
was another thing he had no intention of changing in himself.

There was a knock at his door.  "Enter," he said.

Shelly opened the door, heart pounding and palms sweating.  She had spent
four days mentally rehearsing this moment, visualizing herself as cool and
confidant.  Now that she was here, she felt like a burglar about to be
nailed in a spotlight.  Who was she to attempt something like this?

Entering the small office, she had her first look at the famous Dr. Ryan,
sitting behind his desk and wearing the predictable white lab coat.  He
looked so young, and for a moment she felt reassured.  Then she met his
eyes.

Those ice-blue eyes nailed her more surely than any spotlight.  She felt
layers of herself peeling away, revealing her every secret, even those she
hid from herself.  Her knees suddenly felt weak; she wanted to run, but
could not.

"Please sit down, Miss Demming, and relax...I've already had breakfast." 
His voice was deep, well-modulated, even friendly.  The spell was broken
for the moment, and Shelly sat down in front of his desk.  Dr. Ryan's
face, apart from his eyes, looked open and accepting.  His sandy hair
already showed signs of gray at the temples, which softened his youth and
made him seem more...paternal.  Amazingly, he was typing at his computer
with his right hand faster than she could with two, while his left hand
was doodling on a yellow pad, and at the same time he held her gaze with
what seemed like more than human concentration.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir..." she began.

"'Dr. Ryan' will do fine, Miss Demming.  Tell me a little about yourself."

Shelly had done her homework well, learning every detail she could about
Mary Lou's life. Happily, she found she could now roll it back smoothly,
embellished here and there with small, imaginary details, and in a fair
imitation of the local accent.  She had also plowed through most of the
microbiology text, even trying to work through some of the equations.  Who
would have thought you'd need equations to study biology?

Dr. Ryan considered his new assistant.  She was very attractive, and no
more intimidated than most on meeting him, but something was odd.  He
called up an exact mental image of the photograph he had seen and
superimposed it on her face.  There were a few small but significant 
discrepancies.  He examined her face for signs of recent surgery and found
none.  He would need more data for a solid determination.

Into some otherwise unchallenging conversation, He worked in four very
basic questions regarding DNA, RNA, other polypeptides, and bacterial
plasmids.  She answered three of four correctly, and was not too far off
on the one she flubbed.  That was already more than she needed to know for
the limited duties he had planned for her.  He opened the cigarette box on
his desk and offered one of the all-whites to Mary Lou.

Trying to show no hesitancy, Shelly took a cigarette.  She knew from her
reading that it was a Premium Deluxe 100, OST's best-selling brand, in the
full-flavored, unmentholated version.  Not a good beginner's cigarette. 
Smoking was the only part of her homework assignment she had neglected.

Her mother had quit when Shelly was ten, and that was the last anyone had
smoked in her home.  She found cigarettes neither attractive nor
repelling, just uninteresting.  She had tried one or two in high school,
and decided quickly that they were not for her.  She had assumed she could
fake her way through the occasional cigarette here, just waving it around
and puffing rarely.  Now, under Dr. Ryan's intense gaze, she found she had
been naive.  This seemed like another test.

Her hand shook slightly as she leaned forward to accept a light from Dr.
Ryan.  She drew shallowly on the cigarette as she straightened, while he
took one and lit it for himself, never letting his gaze wander from her
eyes.  Imbibing the smoke, she experienced the barely remembered intense,
bitter, taste, and her mouth and eyes began to water.  She quickly blew
out a tiny cloud of uninhaled smoke, wishing she had something to drink.

As if reading her mind, which would not have surprised her in the least,
Dr. Ryan turned and poured her a cup of coffee.  She accepted it
gratefully and took a large swallow despite the heat of the black liquid. 
She wasn't fooling him, she knew.  Smokers did not smoke this way, or
react like this when they smoked.  She would have to be more convincing,
and quickly.  She would have to inhale the next puff.

This she had also tried long ago, and the result had been a coughing and
gagging fit.  She was no kid anymore, though, and damn well ought to
manage this without a problem...she had seen little children do this quite
easily!  She brought the cigarette to her full lips once more and took a
longer drag.  As she did so, Dr. Ryan exhaled a large cloud across the
desk right at her.  His smoke irritated her eyes and she breathed in more
deeply then she intended.  Her concentration broken, she ended up coughing
up the smoke.

Dr. Ryan managed a concerned look through his amusement.  "Are you all
right?" he asked, as Shelly gulped down some coffee.  He had no doubt now.
 This was not the women who had interviewed for the position.  His lab's
HR chief Marilyn Patterson would have watched her smoke at least one
cigarette before marking her application for his personal attention.  She
knew his preferences well.

Whatever ever game was afoot here he could now turn to his advantage. 
Soon she would be signing a false name to the company's various "informed
consent" documents, and that would vitiate many of her rights to later
legal action.  She would thus be an ideal candidate for certain
experiments he had in mind.  He was reasonably sure he could control the
risks enough to spare her any lasting harm...he was very confidant in his
work.  It was just so tiresome and time-wasting to follow procedures
designed for less competent scientists.

"I'll...be fine," said Shelly.  This was very humiliating and unpleasant. 
The smoke curling from the lit end of her cigarette seemed to find its way
unerringly to her face.  Her throat was burning.  Dropping all pretenses,
she stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette.

"I suppose you exaggerated your smoking a little on the application," said
Dr. Ryan, smiling.  "I understand.  You probably thought we might
discriminate in favor of smokers.  Of course, that would be illegal. 
Please do not be concerned.  You do not need to pretend with me."  

"Not really, Dr. Ryan, it's just that I have a sore throat, and I thought
it would be okay..."

"A sore throat?  It could be strep.  Perhaps I should take a culture...?"

Damn!  For a moment she had forgotten he was also a physician.  "No, I'm
sure it's just a virus..."

"As you wish, Miss Demming.  Well, if you feel up to it, I'd like you to
visit Dr. Marshall and draw your BL4-P gear, read up on the federal
procedures for biohazard containment, and get a general feel for the
facilities here.  Then you may leave early.  Tomorrow, I'll take you into
the lab proper and we can begin."

"Thank you, Dr. Ryan, and I am sorry..."

"Nothing to apologize for, Miss Demming.  I am sure you will do just fine.
 Dr. Marshall is just down the hall to your right.  Welcome to
Osborn-Smithson R&D."

After Shelly had left, he called Dane Peters, head of lab security.

"Mr. Peters, we have an intruder.  The woman who reported for work today
as Mary Lou Demming is an impostor."

"Got it, Dr. Ryan, I'll have her picked up immediately."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Peters.  She poses no danger now that we
know she is a spy.  I would like to know who she really is and who she
represents.  I would appreciate it if you kept a quiet eye on her
movements for me, both here and on her own time.  Until I direct
otherwise, you are to report only to me on this matter and inform no one
who does not need to know."

"Understood, Dr. Ryan.  We should have her ID'd before eight AM tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Peters.  I trust your discretion in this matter."

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