Prologue

That is the one we will kill, the voice in Horace Danville's mind said.

"Really?" Horace returned, sharply sarcastic. It irritated him when the voices stated the obvious.

The object of their exchange floated, soft and green, above the middle-aged woman sitting on the bench by the lake, reading a paperback. She wasn’t aware of what floated above her, but then she wasn’t insane. Horace, though, watched it. Eidolons, the voices called them. Horace didn’t agree. They weren’t really ghostly. No, they shimmered with translucent energy, but that wasn’t the same thing. And they weren’t white. They came in all colors of the rainbow, but never white.

Horace thought it was rather creative of his insanity to make the floating energy balls so interesting. Watching them was the best aspect of his insanity. The voices were a different matter; Horace didn’t like them at all.

Horace wished his grandmother were alive so he could ask her if she heard the voices. She had seen eidolons. He knew that because she told him about them before she died. She said they were fairy fires that flickered over people who were going to die. Horace didn't know about that last part; he'd only been seeing eidolons for a few months. The voices were a more recent addition. Insanity by increasing stages. A reasonable concept.

Focus on it, the voice commanded.

I know the routine.

Horace was getting tired of obeying the voices, and putting up with the headaches he got after he killed one of the floating beasts for them. The sweet,tingling pleasure that flowed through his body when they died was another matter. He liked that. It was one of the reasons he continued to obey the voices. That, and the way the eidolons died, exploding in a colorful display of scintillating sparks. Having one’s own private fireworks display was quite nice. Well, insanity should have a few benefits.

For two months now Horace Danville had been listening to the voices and killing eidolons. His new hobby didn't distract him from teaching ancient history at the University. The voices never talked to him inside the classroom. When he was outside, though, the voices--and they seemed to be different voices--talked to him once or twice a week. They taught him how to kill eidolons using his mind. They told him which ones to attack, and which ones to leave alone.

So far Horace had always obeyed the voices, but he was getting tired of it. And more, he was frightened of the eidolons--afraid of their power. This eidolon was larger than any other eidolon he had ever killed.

It can't hurt you, the voice whispered in his mind, but the voice lied. Eidolons could kill him--would kill him--if he didn't kill them first. That’s why, two days ago, Horace had bought a gun. Now as the eidolon began changing color, becoming more orange, he paused; his mind held carefully blank.

What are you doing? the voice shouted. You must kill it quickly!

Horace wasn't listening to the lying voices any more. He turned and ran to his car.

What are you doing?

Horace didn't bother to answer. Jerking open the car door, he reached inside the glove compartment. Taking out his newly bought pistol, he inserted a full clip of ammunition--just like the store clerk had shown him.

NO, NO!! the voice shouted. That won't work! You have to use your mind!

Horace Danville walked purposefully back to the quiet beach and leveled the weapon. He smiled as people screamed and ran. He fired shot after shot at the floating beast.

Dammit, the voice said softly and was gone.

The eidolon seemed to laugh.

CHAPTER 1

The professor’s office was cluttered with papers, journals and books. The room wasn’t small. The professor was a Nobel prize-winning researcher, after all. Still, it seemed crowded in by floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and journals. Or maybe the closed-in feeling was because of David’s mood: he felt trapped, and not just in this room. They had trapped him; trapped him into a life he didn’t want--and couldn’t escape.

"Susan Danville will arrive at her apartment this afternoon," Dr. Malliard said, not looking up from the technical journal he was reading.

David stood awkwardly, his feet shifting, in front of the large oak desk. An unwilling disciple called before his master. "I know," he said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice. Anger was never a good idea with one of them.

Dr. Malliard raised his head, his hard, slate-grey eyes meeting David's brown ones. The young man fought against shivering.

"You should help her move in."

It wasn't a suggestion. "Yes, sir," David said softly, letting a little of his hatred show in his voice.

Dr. Malliard's attention returned to his journal. "Report back to me tonight. I'll be home."

David said nothing more. Why should he? He had been told what to do and he would do it. He never openly defied one of them. In the beginning--was it only a year ago?--he had shouted, raged and even once cried, but it didn’t change anything. Nothing could.

Turning to leave, David felt a bond of sympathy for Susan Danville. Poor innocent bastard, she had no idea what was coming. He knew--only too well.

The August sunlight was bright, striking against the stone steps of the University’s Biomedical Research Building. As David walked down the wide steps he made a promise to himself to help Susan as much as he could. He had barely met her during her post-doctoral interview. His vague impression was of a quiet, studious, girl-next-door type. But basic human kindness (did any of them understand that concept?) required he do what he could to help her. Not that his help would be worth much.

With a deep sigh, David turned south to the parking garage, wondering if maybe it would be better--kinder--to just shoot her. Actually, that’s what they might do. No, they’d be more subtle. Her death, if that was what they decided, would look like an accident. David wondered how many other “accidents” were their responsiblity?

# # # #

Susan Danville parked her car in front of the four story brownstone building that was her new home. Dropping her hands from the steering wheel, she relaxed for a few moments, looking out at the bright summer day. She was tired. It had been a long three-day drive from California, but her fatigue wasn't entirely due to that. She still hadn't recovered from the stress, and the demands, of finishing her Ph.D. in molecular biology. But as she looked out at the trees and flowers of her old neighborhood, her fatigue slipped away, lost in her pleasure to be back home in Chicago. She had grown up a few blocks from where she was parked.

Tomorrow she would begin her new post-doctoral research appointment. She’d have little time to think, or reflect, as she settled into a new research project and a new apartment. But there were benefits in that, reflection wasn’t a pleasant pastime for her.

Susan still wasn't sure why Dr. Malliard had offered her the post-doctoral position. Granted, she was a good molecular biologist, and her doctoral dissertation on the action of Feline Leukemia Virus was similar to Dr. Malliard's research into the action of HIV, but there were many good molecular biologists looking for prestigious post-doctoral appointments, some with dissertations specifically on HIV. But whatever the reason Dr. Malliard had chosen her, Susan was grateful for the opportunity to work with such a brilliant man--and to return to Chicago.

A loud and imperious meow came from the back seat.

"Ermine Kitty! I forgot all about you. Poor thing--this hasn't been a fun trip for you, either. Let's get you upstairs and out of that cage."

She picked up a small bag of groceries from the seat beside her and tucked it under her right arm. She picked up the cat cage with her left hand as she left the car. Juggling the groceries on her hip, she inserted her key into the lock on the outer door and pushed the door open.

The building was older, as they all were in this neighborhood. The wood of the staircase and wainscotting were aged to a rich dark brown. The wallpaper was a pretty floral print on white. The building had a nice, homey feel. Susan walked up the steps to the second-floor landing, apartment 2B. Inserting her key into the shiny new lock, she opened the door and walked into her new home. Just inside the door, she put down the cat carrier and swung open its door. Ermine bolted out, then stopped to stretch his long white body.

"You'll be more comfortable now," Susan promised him, scratching his back. Ermine purred briefly, then padded off to explore his new home.

Susan walked around the apartment. The living room was large with a big south-facing window that would be great for plants. The kitchen was small, but she didn't do much cooking these days; she rarely had the time. The bathroom and bedroom were fairly standard affairs, small but adequate.

Susan paused for a moment, leaning against the wide oak door jam, looking into the bedroom. Maybe for once she wouldn't spend every night alone--as she had every other night of her life. During the long drive from California she made a vow that this time she wasn't going to get so tied up in her research that she had no social life. She wanted to learn about life beyond the laboratory.

A loud knock on the door startled her.

"Hello," a friendly voice called.

Susan turned. A tall, young, man with thick, light brown hair and dark brown eyes stood framed in the doorway.

"You didn't close the door all the way," he pointed out.

Susan remembered him as one of the post-docs from Dr. Malliard's lab. "Richard?" she asked tenatively.

"No," the young man replied with a smile. "David. I came by to see if you needed any help moving in."

Susan was about to decline, but the thought of the boxes of books stuffed in the trailer--not to mention the mattress ... "I'd love it," she said truthfully. "I'll spring for pizza afterward," she added.

"With a couple of beers?" David suggested hopefully, a brown eyebrow quirking upward.

"We'll need them," Susan agreed.

"You have just hired yourself a medium strong back and a very dubious mind," David grinned. He turned abruptly as Ermine walked up to him. He knelt down to stroke the large, white cat, who immediately began purring. "You have a cat. That’s very good.”

“Do you have one?”

“Yes. A very good black cat."

"What defines very good in a cat?" Susan wondered.

"He's a good hunter," David replied.

"It's in their genes," Susan said with a smile.

"Yes, it is," David agreed. He didn't smile back.

They spent the afternoon hauling boxes and furniture up the stairs. Susan not only appreciated David's help, but also his dry sense of humor. By the time the last load had been carried up the stairs and dropped unceremoniously in the already overcrowded living room, Susan was more than ready for beer and pizza. Beers, actually; she was really thirsty.

The restaurant they chose was two blocks away. It had had many lives over the course of the years. Most recently, it was a pizza place. With its dark wood and brick interior, it was a comfortable neighborhood place. Susan and David ordered two beers and a pepperoni pizza, and sat in the companionable silence of people who have done physical labor together.

"It's difficult starting a new situation," Susan finally spoke, her tone tentative.

"It's not something most people like," David agreed, leaning back in his chair, his brown eyes watching her.

There seemed an odd intensity in his stare, but Susan decided it was her imagination; she was tired. "Can I ask you about the people in the lab?” she inquired. “I'm not looking for gossip, but it would be helpful if I had some idea of what these people are like before I begin."

"You met everyone during your interview, didn't you?" David asked.

Susan nodded. "But it's hard to get any real feel for a person when you only meet them for a few minutes."

"True," David agreed, then said nothing more for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged. "I'll give you my opinion," he offered. "Keeping in mind that it is just one person’s opinion."

"I understand."

"Want to begin with May-Ling? I believe she took you to lunch."

Susan nodded.

"She probably told you she's from China and hopes to finish her Ph.D. this year. And if the classes and research were in her native language, she'd probably be doing better. Despite the language problems, she probably will finish this year," David gave a very brief evaluation. "Need anything more than that?"

"No," Susan answered. "Just a ball-park idea."

David nodded. "To continue down the list--there's Dan, the lab manager, who is also Dr. Malliard's research associate. He’s a bit of a fuss budget, particularly about safety. You'll get used to it. Cliff, you probably won't have much to do with, he's only half-way through his doctoral. And, of course, you met Joe--our gorgeous Adonis." A hard edge crept into David's voice. "The women on the floor can tell you more about him than I can. God knows they love to talk about him."

After a moment, David shifted uncomfortably in his chair as though he knew he was being unfair. "The one person you probably didn't meet was Mary, our dish washer and media maker. She's in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She's a senior--fairly bright--follows directions well."

Susan noticed the change in David's voice when he mentioned Joe. During her interview, she had met Joe. And he was gorgeous--tall, well-muscled, with thick dark brown hair and beautiful green eyes. And a smile that would make an eighty-year-old spinster tingle. David was, no doubt, jealous. "What about Dr. Malliard?" Susan asked about the one person she really needed to know more about--the Nobel-prize-winning head of the lab.

David’s head tilted a little to one side, considering. "He's pretty complex," he began. "And he's very committed to ... research. He's intolerant of stupidity. People who make mistakes learn from them--one way or another."

Susan wondered about David's hesitation before the word “research.” What else would Dr. Malliard be committed to?

"Dr. Malliard can be good about making time to discuss problems, keeping in mind that he is very busy. He's well known around the world, which is very useful, particularly now that we have a co-operative agreement in AIDS research." David signaled the waiter for another beer. "You got your doctorate from Berkeley, didn't you?" he asked her.

"The land of sunshine, nuts, and flakes, yes," Susan replied with a smile, accepting the change in topics.

David grinned at her answer. "So I've heard. Where did you do your undergraduate work?"

"University of Wisconsin at Madison," Susan replied as the waiter brought the pizza to the table. She asked for another beer.

David took a long drink of his. "I was at Madison once for a conference," he said conversationally. "Nice town."

Susan thought of her time at the University of Wisconsin. It had been good, for the most part. What had happened during her last year there had nothing to do with Madison, or the University. And she didn't want to think about it. "I like the midwest," Susan said, pushing the unpleasant memory from her mind. "I'm hoping to be able to stay in the area when my post-doc is finished."

"Were you born in Wisconsin?"

"No, I was born in Africa. My mother was an ethnologist studying female folk customs. I spent most of my childhood, though, in Chicago. My father got his Ph.D. here in ancient history."

"Where's he now?"

"He's no longer teaching," Susan stated flatly. Her tone making it clear she didn't want to continue on that topic.

David took the hint. "And your mom?" he asked instead.

"She died not long after I was born, so I don't really remember her. I'm told she had a very difficult time when she was pregnant with me and never fully recovered." Susan spoke matter-of-factly. Unlike what had happened with her father, her mother's death was long ago; she'd had time to adjust to it.

"I'm sorry," David said softly.

He's really nice, Susan thought. And with that thought came a feeling of shyness. "You know, you can't get pizza anywhere else that's as good as Chicago pizza. Even when they call it Chicago pizza--it isn't." It was an awkward, obvious comment, but Susan couldn't help it.

"Got to agree with you there," David replied easily. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. She was, as he remembered her, very much the girl-next-door type with straight brown hair, brushing against her shoulders, and clear hazel-grey eyes. Her eyes were her best feature. Wide-set under firm brown eyebrows, they looked straight out at the world. There was strength in her eyes--strength that had been earned. She would need a great deal of strength to survive the next two years, David thought bitterly. That is if they decided she would survive.

"So, how about you?" Susan asked. "Where were you born, raised, schooled?"

"Born and raised in Seattle,” David replied, pushing his dark thoughts aside. “My undergraduate was Washington State University. I got my doctorate from Harvard working on the Hepatitis C virus."

"Any hobbies?" Susan asked.

"It's hard to have much in the way of hobbies at this point," David replied with a shrug. "The research takes up too much time."

"What would you do if you had some free time?" Susan continued.

"Go sailing," David replied without even thinking about it. "I used to do a lot of sailing in Seattle." With a gesture, he offered Susan the last piece of pizza. She shook her head and he picked it up. When he was finished, he reached for his glass, and drained it. "I should head back to my place. I've got a full schedule tomorrow."

"Thank you again for your help," Susan said formally, feeling awkward. "I really appreciate it."

David shrugged off her thanks. "An afternoon's work, nothing more."

They walked back the couple of blocks to Susan's apartment. David said a casual good-bye and walked off down the narrow grey sidewalk to his car.

# # # #

Several lights were on at Dr. Malliard's large brick house as David pulled into the driveway. He crossed the immaculately manicured lawn to the front door and rang the bell. Dr. Malliard's housekeeper, Phyllis, answered the door. She was an older woman with steel-grey hair and an unbending disposition.

"He's in the library," she told David. "You know the way."

David walked through the large, rambling house to the room that jutted out from the back of the first floor. Tall windows, their heavy curtains drawn close, covered most of the south wall of the room, while the east wall held a large brick fireplace. Bookcases covered the rest of the walls, their shelves overflowing with thick volumes. A large grey cat lay curled up and sleeping on the back of the dark brown leather sofa in front of the fireplace.

Dr. Malliard was sitting behind the large oak desk reading something on a computer screen.

Tapping on the curved archway, David walked in the wide room. He stood awkwardly for a moment then he sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Dr. Malliard continued to read his computer screen. David’s eyes focused on the excellent reproduction of Durer's Self-Portrait that hung above the fireplace. It was the only art in the room, but it was reassuring in its humanity.

"You didn't see much of Susan during her interview, did you?" Dr. Malliard finally turned away from his computer.

"No," David answered flatly, trying not to feel anger, wishing he had some choice in all of this. Well, he had one other option. A few years earlier one of the new recruits had committed suicide. David wasn't sure that he was capable of that. At least not yet.

"I was doing that binding-site experiment--remember? Taking readings every five minutes doesn't leave much time for talk." There was an edge to David's voice; he couldn't keep his frustrated anger from showing.

Jim Malliard's slate grey eyes held David's for a long moment. David caught his breath. For all of his occasional bravado, he was very much afraid of them.

"So, what's your evaluation?" Dr. Malliard asked bluntly.

David wanted to point out that it was a little late to ask his opinion, but he didn't. He paused instead to gather his thoughts. "She's competent," he began. "A little shy. And there's something about her father she doesn't want to talk about. You probably already know that her mother died when Susan was young."

It would have been nice if you had told me!

“I gather that she has no siblings, which wasn’t likely anyway.”

"Her father is in a mental institution," Dr. Malliard stated. "And you are correct--no siblings. Continue."

David stared for a moment at Dr. Malliard. "A mental institution?"

"He shot at some people at a beach in Madison."

David briefly warred with himself over asking any more questions. He wasn't sure how much more he wanted to know. Curiosity, with an edge of self-preservation, won out. "How long ago?" he asked. "Was it someone--was it related to--?"

"Four--five years ago," Dr. Malliard answered with a shrug, his eyes watching David's. "And yes, it was Insider-related. We were discussing Susan."

David nodded. He didn't need to know anything more. "I'm s-sure she'll do fine in the lab," he stammered a little, wondering what exactly had happened in Madison, and worried that it might some day happen to him. He tried to put it from his mind. "Her work at Berkeley is excellent," he added. "I--I don't know if she can be used or not," he said, his voice rising a little, edged in fear. "She's just a nice kid who happens to be a molecular biologist."

"Don't get involved," Dr. Malliard warned coldly.

"I won't," David returned flatly. How can you not care--at least a little?

Dr. Malliard stood and walked around the desk. He was a stocky man in his early sixties with brown hair heavily streaked with grey. His eyes held a warning in their slate-grey depths. "Susan will be evaluated over the next year," he said quietly. "And we will decide what happens to her."

Yeah. Life in purgatory--or death. Great choices.

"Susan will be of use ... or she'll have to die. There is no other alternative."

Exactly what David was thinking.

"She has two of the genes," Jim Malliard continued. "She's an excellent scientist; we can't take the chance."

David closed his eyes in a futile gesture of denial. He felt a desperate need to go to his own apartment and be alone.

"This is hard on you, David, I know," Dr. Malliard’s voice was atypically gentle. His hand rested briefly on David's shoulder. "You must remember that however nice a person Susan is, it's only one life, after all."

David nodded and pushed up from the chair. The large grey cat got up and brushed against his legs. That felt good. David reached down and scratched Thorbjorne’s head. He was a good cat; they had hunted together a couple of times. That reminded David of something he had forgotten to report. "Oh, she's got a cat."

"Good," Dr. Malliard replied, turning his back on David and returning to sit again at his desk. "That is good."

CHAPTER 2

"‘Another one bites the dust!’," Maurice Parker quoted, very off-key, as a large, blue eidolon exploded against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline.

Nisin Chatterjee wasn't entirely sure of Maurice's off-key musical reference, but he understood the point.

"God, I love killing these bastards," Maurice added with feeling. "Lab work, clinical work--they're all fine, mind you, but nothing beats being out here in the street."

"It is good," Nisin agreed softly. He had a hell of a headache, but that wasn't unusual for a night like tonight. "We are doing well."

"True, true," Maurice agreed with pleasure. "Let's head uptown and see what we can scare up there."

"I think they know when we are hunting," Nisin suggested, rubbing his forehead a little. "Not at first, but after we kill a few, I think that they know."

"I wouldn't put anything past them," Maurice agreed coldly. "But we should still be able to kill a few more tonight."

"I hope so," Nisin stated as they headed for the car.

"Killing these things doesn't bother you? I didn't know how a Hindu would handle this."

"It is not a problem." Nisin's voice was soft and gentle, as always. Even when he was excited over a big kill, his voice rarely changed from its lilting, low tones.

As they approached the car, they saw another one, off in the distance. Young and weak. Obviously newly budded.

"Come to me, baby," Maurice said softly. Do you want the kill? he telepathically asked Nisin.

Yes, Nisin replied in the same way. It took little more than a strong flick of his mind to send a brilliant spray of red iridescent sparks exploding outwards. Nisin smiled.

It was a good night.

CHAPTER 3

Susan woke bright and early in a strange bed. No, the bed wasn’t unfamiliar, it was the room. She hated all this moving around. Hopefully, after she finished this research, she'd get a nice tenure-track teaching position in the midwest and settle down for good. Meet a nice man, get married, and start a family. Two or three kids would be nice. Susan felt very strongly about that--she wanted a family. She’d been alone too long.

While she made coffee, Susan considered what to wear for her first day in the lab. A dress would be nice. After all, she wouldn't be doing much bench work, and she looked good in dresses; they showed off her legs. It shouldn't be anything overly frilly or feminine. Her dark blue cotton shirtwaist, she decided as she headed for the shower.

Drinking her second cup of coffee as she got dressed, Susan hummed a old blues song; she agreed with the song's premise: “Sweet Home Chicago.”

It was only nine blocks to the lab so Susan decided to walk. Such a beautiful day, it’d be a shame not to. The apartment buildings in her neighborhood were mostly brick, very sturdy and respectable. The university buildings were done primarily in a neogothic architectural style. The Biomedical Researchbuilding she would be working in fit in oddly. It was modern in design, with little ornamentation, but it had tall, narrow windows and was fronted in stone like most of the university buildings. Also the numerous exhaust chimneys trimming its roof line gave it a slightly fantastic look. Maybe that was why it fit in--gothic fantasy and modern fantasy.

As she continued her walk, Susan’s good mood faded a little. More than idle curiosity had prompted her questioning David about the people in the lab. During her last year at Berkeley, she had the feeling she offended a couple of the professors there, particularly her advisor. He had seemed quite anxious for her to finish her Ph.D. and leave. Susan also worried that she was imagining it. Was she becoming paranoid? Was that the first stage of mental illness? Susan had never asked her father how his insanity began, but would an insane man know how he became that way? She pushed her worries from her mind; there were no real answers to her questions.

A few minutes before eight, Susan walked into the second floor set of labs that Dr. Malliard headed. Microbiological research labs all look similar and smell the same. The gleaming steel benches might be arranged a little differently; desks might be larger, or smaller, but they all used the same chemicals and media that gave them the same sweet and pungent smell.

Susan kept a watch out for David as she walked to the back of the research complex where Dr. Malliard had his office. No one was around but May-Ling, who was sitting at her desk drinking coffee. It wasn’t surprising; doctoral and post-doc researchers usually aren't early risers.

Susan knocked lightly on Dr. Malliard's partially open door.

"Come in."

Susan smiled as she walked into the paper-cluttered office. She extended her hand. "Hello."

"Please be seated, Susan." Dr. Malliard's voice was pleasant as he briefly shook her hand.

Susan perched on one of the sturdy wood chairs in front of his desk.

"How was your trip out from California?" Dr. Malliard asked, obviously trying to put her at ease.

"Not bad. I'm not used to driving cars with trailers, but I took my time."

Dr. Malliard nodded abstractly. Clearly he was done with social amenities. During the next hour they discussed the relevance of her doctoral work in Feline Leukemia Virus to HIV research. Then Dr. Malliard began outlining the specific project Susan would be working on: enhancing the expression of one of the outer coat proteins of HIV.

"We have isolated and cloned the genes responsible for Gp120, the protein knobs on the HIV virus," Dr. Malliard explained. "Now we need to achieve expression of the Gp120 protein at a level that can be useful for additional research," Dr. Malliard concluded, shifting back in his chair. "You will not be working with intact HIV--just the genes for Gp120, but you still must obey all of the regulations for working with HIV, including the monthly blood tests. Past that, I want you to remember to be careful. Most accidents are due more to carelessness than anything else."

Susan nodded; she intended to be very careful.

Dr. Malliard reached for a sheaf of papers on one corner of his desk. "Well, I've kept you long enough, and I have a committee meeting in ten minutes. If you need anything, ask Dan; or if he isn't around, you can ask one of the other post-docs."

He didn't volunteer himself, but that wasn't unreasonable; Dr. Malliard was a very busy man.

Susan spent the next couple of hours in her work area, arranging reference books and research manuals, and checking out the location of various equipment. She filled out and signed the appropriate papers for taxes and radiation licensing. Through it all, she found herself watching the doorway, glancing up whenever anyone walked into the lab area. Watching for David. When he finally did arrive, she gave him a big, friendly smile which he barely returned as he walked past her and into an adjoining lab.

Susan wondered what she'd done and then tried to reassure herself. Maybe he had slept wrong--or was worried about an experiment he was running. She leaned to one side as she put away some glassware so she could look into the adjoining lab. She had a good view of David's back as he started setting up his experiment. Nice back, she thought with a smile; he really was attractive in a tall and lanky way.

It didn't take Susan long to convince herself that it would only be polite to thank David for his help in moving her. Besides, how many more days was she likely to be wearing a dress?

"Hi," she said cheerfully as she went into his lab area.

David turned around, his mouth sketching a smile he hoped didn't look too sickly. "How's the first day going?" he asked.

# # # #

Jim Malliard walked into the small meeting room that was reserved every week for the Medical Ethics Committee. He was the last one to arrive. The other five men and one woman were waiting for him. It wasn't the whole Medical Ethics committee; that rarely met. These seven, though, were the core of the committee.

"Well?" Ski Barta, the Committee chair, asked without preamble.

Malliard shrugged in reply. "Nice girl," he answered.

"I don't care if she is the Archangel Gabriel," Ski stated coldly. "Is she a virgin?" he asked bluntly.

"Shall we make gynecological examinations an entrance requirement?" Jim Malliard returned scathingly. "That would be a little difficult to explain to the Admissions Board." He sat down. "David helped her move in yesterday; I saw her this morning, she's not overtly pregnant. That's all I can say for sure."

"And I say we don't take the chance," Dennis Sheper, the youngest member of the Committee, gave his opinion. He was tall, slender and intense. "We know she's dangerous. The only question is how dangerous?"

Ski Barta made no reply; he knew he wouldn't have to.

"You're so polite, Dennis," Marie Nagel, the only woman present, murmured. "You speak of murder so nicely." Marie had been a member of the Committee for a dozen years. Pleasantly attractive in a middle-aged way, she had dark brown hair, cut short, and tortoise-shell rimmed glasses.

"You would, of course, take that point of view," Dennis retaliated, his tone disparaging.

"Why, yes, of course I would," Marie returned, her dark eyebrows raised in mock surprise that it even needed mentioning.

"And if we let her live?" Dennis sniped back. "The deaths of the other people do not concern you?"

"You are assuming she will not be an asset," Marie replied, her tone sweetly vicious. "With two Mer genes, she has the power to be an excellent hunter. Better, perhaps, than you," she added coldly. "Is that what is worrying you?"

"Enough," Ski told them flatly, and then waited to see if they would listen. He was pleasantly surprised when neither said anything more. "All right. Let's continue with a more reasonable discussion. As Marie has pointed out, we know Susan has the two known Mer genes. Also her record at Berkeley is excellent. It is possible that she has the third, sex-linked, Mer gene."

"If there is a third Mer gene," Dennis answered coldly. "But if there is, then certainly Susan is too dangerous to let live."

"Marie also has the two Mer genes," Ski pointed out, his tone as cold as Dennis'. "I don't think even you wish to imply that Marie is a threat."

Dennis drummed the top of the old oak table, obviously displeased with the position he had been put in. "No, of course not. But not every woman has the same resolve, the same dedication, as she has."

"A compliment from you," Marie murmured with soft sarcasm. "How rare!"

Dennis glared at her and began to make a reply, but Ski spoke first, overrunning whatever the younger man was going to say. "We need all the help we can get, Dennis. Susan could be one hell of an asset."

"Possibly," Dennis was willing to concede. "She could also be our worst nightmare."

"I think we all understand that," Ski said quietly. "But the potential benefits outweigh the potential risk. At least enough to give her a chance."

Ski looked around the table, his eyes stopping pointedly at the two men who hadn't spoken. "Nisin--Hsu--what are your thoughts on this?"

Nisin sighed gently. Give him his job and he would do it, but he hated debating murder. Occasionally, however, murder was part of the job. "As you say, it is possible that Susan has the other Mer gene," he answered in his low, melodious voice. "If there is another gene. I agree with Dennis in doubting that."

"Statistics imply there are three genes," Jim Malliard stated, fatigue showing strongly in his voice. He needed more sleep. Most of the time, they all did.

"Statistics can be wrong," Nisin returned flatly. "And whether there are two or three Mer genes is not the point of our discussion."

"Exactly," Ski agreed, relief in his voice. They didn't need to start on that debate. "Our primary concern is not even whether or not Susan's a virgin, but rather just that she isn't pregnant."

"The only absolute form of birth control is abstinence," Dennis stated. "Or sex with the same gender."

"Sterilization," Nisin returned, "is also quite effective."

"That is, of course, a possibility," Ski agreed. "But it has its risks."

"It's only really feasible if she understands the situation and agrees," Dennis said coldly. "In that case, we have already agreed that she's going to be brought Inside."

"If she can't be used, might it not be possible to have her diagnosed with some disease that requires her to have her uterus removed?" Nisin asked. "She would pose no threat then."

"Since she has the two genes, killing her would be more of a mercy," Ski said gently. "If she isn't brought Inside, she'll only end up in a mental institution later. Also, I'm becoming concerned that someday someone is going to start paying attention to these people who see fairies, dragons, and ghosts."

"No one pays any attention to them," Dennis scoffed at the notion. "But I agree that killing her is more merciful."

"I'm sure you do," Marie murmured softly.

"We should get some cell cultures of her going," Ski cut over the potential flare-up, his finger tips tapping with irritation on the old oak table. "Just in case."

"Davis' group is the best for cell cultures," Nisin suggested. "She has to have a blood work-up done anyway since she's working in the HIV area."

"I don't like an Outsider having the only cell bank on her," Marie stated firmly. "This cell line could be too important."

"Well, I'm sure your bacterial adherence study could use some cells," Jim Malliard suggested.

"Exactly what I was thinking," Marie agreed.

There was general agreement on that at least.

"The best, most reliable, way for us to find out if she's a virgin is for one of us to go with her beyond the warding towers," Dennis suggested, with a glance at Marie. "Go trawl her a little bit and see how the bastards respond."

"What about David?" Hsu suggested, not noticing Dennis' look at Marie.

"He's too new to do a good job of interpreting the eidolons' response," Malliard replied. "Also he's having a little trouble making the transition to life Inside. I'm a little worried about him, and we don't want to lose another one."

There was some uncomfortable shifting around the table. No one would ever forget the messy suicide two years earlier. The newspapers had had a field day with it. The public verdict had been academic stress. Accurate in its own way; it all depended on how “academic stress” was defined.

"I'll take her out to dinner--or something--in the next month or two," Marie finally said, irritation showing clearly in her voice. "But I don't see why we have to be in such a goddamned hurry about all of this."

"I agree," Jim replied. "At this point, even if she gets pregnant, we can kill her before any real harm is done."

There was an awkward silence accompanied by the rough creaking sounds of chairs as bodies shifted uncomfortably. No one liked openly discussing the possibility--the potential necessity--of murder.

"Why do these jobs keep coming to us?" Nisin asked sharply, his soft voice carrying an atypical hard edge. "They could have handled this at Berkeley."

"They weren't sure enough about Susan until she was near the end of her doctorate," Ski replied, his tone placating, although he agreed that the Berkeley satrap should have taken care of this. "Since she was so far along, it was easier to send her on and let someone else handle the problem."

"Someone else?" Nisin shot back. "You mean us--as usual."

"They must have had a good idea earlier; they just chose not to run the confirming DNA test until she was near the end of her studies. That way they didn’t have to deal with her themselves." Dennis was just as hard in his condemnation.

"Why is it always us?" Nisin continued. "Do people think we like committing murder?"

"No, no. It isn't like that," Ski countered, his tone conciliatory. "It's because we are the best, Nisin." He appealed to their pride. "We get more than our share of these jobs because we are the best in all aspects of disease research."

No one was going to dispute that.

"With the bad comes the good," Ski added, his voice soothing. "We also get more Nobel prizes." He looked around, his gaze challenging them to argue with him on this point. They weren't going to. They were intelligent people who rarely argued with facts they all agreed on. The silence was all the agreement Ski needed.

"Let's move on," he suggested. "I have a meeting with Dean Halverson in fifteen minutes."

The six people settled back more comfortably in their large chairs; the bad part was over.

"Dennis, let's have your report."

There was a moment of mental adjustment. Coffee was sipped and the sheets of paper set out in front of each person were picked up and glanced at.

"The high incidence of AIDS cases in nothern California continues. We still have no explanation for this. Initial HIV infection rates appear unaltered, but we're seeing a higher than usual rate of immuno-conversion from HIV-infected to active AIDS," Dennis stated.

"Normally with something like this, we find a localized high concentration of the appropriate eidolons, but the California satraps say they don’t have any sharp increase in AIDS eidolons. The other most likely explanation is a small group of older, more powerful eidolons causing faster than usual immuno-conversions. The San Francisco satrap is working on that. Hopefully, they can, at least, take care of this problem." Dennis didn't try to keep a sarcastic tone out of his voice.

"Enough," Ski said wearily.

For a moment, the younger man's dark eyes challenged the older man, but then Dennis shrugged. "The Singapore flu epidemic in New York is getting worse--two more deaths were reported this week. The New York satrap believes it can handle this on their own. They ought to be able to--they've got the highest ratio of Insiders to medical staff in the whole damn country." It was obvious that Dennis wasn't in a good mood.

"Considering their population density, it's necessary," Ski returned with a sigh. Dennis was a good researcher and a damn good hunter, but he really could be irritating.

"Also there is one reported case of plague in Utah, probably nothing important."

"What about the number of new AIDS cases in Miami?" Ski asked.

"Increasing," Dennis replied. "That will need watching."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing worth reporting," Dennis answered. Everyone settled back more easily. Not a bad week.

"All right," Ski said, standing up. "Please read the short synopsis of the discussion that officially took place here before you leave the building today. I don't want another media error."

"We weren't expecting a camera and microphone in our faces," Marie defended her and Dennis' error of the previous week.

"The ethical aspects of human genetic engineering, which we are theoretically discussing, is a hot topic," Ski pointed out. "Gratefully, the media put the mistake down to the absent-minded professor syndrome."

"Dennis looks more like a biker than a professor," Hsu remarked with amusement.

Dennis grinned at him. His taste in clothing did cause some comment in faculty meetings. "I'll be more careful about reading the official meeting minutes in the future," Dennis promised.

"Personally, I'd like it if we did have a discussion on the ethics of focused human gene alteration," Marie stated.

"So would I," Nisin agreed.

"All right, maybe next week we can schedule a longer committee meeting and have a real discussion." Ski was willing to offer what he could. "Marie, you're monitoring the Medical Ethics bulletin board this week, aren't you?"

“Yes."

"Keep an eye on this AIDS problem in California. And let me know immediately if there are any more plague cases; we can't let that get out of hand. Also watch out for when this Singapore flu hits here."

Marie nodded.

"Remember this weekend we're having an expanded hunting session, so don't make many plans," Ski advised in conclusion. He picked up the sheet of paper from in front of him on which he had written a summary of the discussion on human gene alteration that, theoretically, had occurred. He put it into his briefcase for his secretary to file. He liked having a clean paper trail.