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