Alternatives

Chapter 1 - "Crotchety"

[It's better than the only alternative,] I thought to myself as I struggled along the bike path near the lake. The "it" in that sentiment was the fact of growing old. And it was only better than the alternative of being on the wrong side of the grass. [Hah,] I muttered without any real amusement. [I *am* on the wrong side of the grass. Only instead of being dead under it, I'm walking on this stupid asphalt instead of in the soft grass. Of course, if everyone walked in the grass, there wouldn't be any.]



Which didn't make my tired old feet feel any better. Some days - and this was definitely one of them - it wasn't clear that still being vertical *was* the right side of the grass. I might, truly, be better off dead. And that wasn't just more bitterness. Ever since my Cora had died it was only because of a conscious, daily decision to endure one more day that I didn't join her.

The weather didn't make it any easier. It was drizzly and slick. And too chilly for an old fart to be out, especially since my cane had become all too necessary in the last few years. I was scared to death it would slip and I'd no longer be vertical whether I wanted it or not. But Cora and I had walked this path every day - rain or shine - until the cancer and the chemo made it impossible and I'd be damned if I'd give up that bit of my memory of her.

"Watch it, old man," a voice called behind me. I turned to see a flash of bike and rider streaking past me way too fast for the conditions on the path. The rider had a flashy backpack with the logo of a messenger service, like that made his rudeness any less . . . well, rude.

"Watch it yourself, punk," I yelled after him. If he wouldn't have been going so fast I'd have poked at him with my cane and if that stereotype made me crotchety as well as old, then fine.

Of course, he wasn't intimidated by an old man shaking a cane at him. I don't suppose he even noticed, which was one of the worst parts of being old. Few people even noticed you if you were old, and most of those that did made it clear you were a burden rather than a joy in their lives. [Well, screw 'em. When they have arthritis in their knees and in their backs, and when tying shoes is so hard they just give up and wear loafers, then they won't be all that cheerful either.]

I suppose it's possible that the rider was hurrying to make the light at the next corner. The path converged with a nearly parallel street at an intersection with a road crossing over the lake. Since the lake road had priority, the wait going this way could be frustrating.

"Like it matters to me. Like I have anywhere else to be," I muttered.

I was trudging along with my usual slow pace, my hat pulled down enough to keep the misty rain off my glasses, when I heard a skidding sound that didn't quite reach squeal tones on the wet street. But I knew what it meant. A thump sounded before I got the brim of my hat out of the way, and I saw an old pickup - '88 GMC, I had a brand new one once - finish its slide into another series of angry bangs. But the important thing was the thump. That was the sound of the bike rider being launched by the pickup fender . . . right at me.

There was no way I could dodge him. I don't think my reflexes were that good back when I was as young as the rider, and trying some fancy jump would have just added store-bought knees to the list of things I was going to need. Just about the time I was coming to that realization, the guy hit me.

That truck must have caught him pretty well. If I had to guess, they were both going too fast, trying to make the light. But the momentum was all on the side of the pickup. In that funny snapshot way that too-fast-to-absorb situations have, I focused on the company logo on the backpack that presumably held his packages. That knapsack was pretty important right then, because it was headed right at me.

Since I didn't want two broken arms to go with whatever else was going to happen, I spread them like I was going to catch him or something. The knapsack slammed into my chest and I knew at least a couple of ribs on my right side broke. [Something hard in that pack.] The good news - if there was any - was that there was a curve in the path just before the intersection, and as I was moving backward into what was inevitably going to be a nasty fall I decided that I'd land in the mud near the lake rather than on the path itself. Maybe that meant I wouldn't end up with a concussion from banging my head on the paved path.

[So, is that good news or bad?] I wondered.

[Probably bad,] I decided. Ribs weren't the only thing I felt breaking on my right side, and getting knocked on the head would have the virtue of letting me sleep through the next few minutes - or hours, or days - of certain hell.

To top it all off the knapsack split apart and a container like a thermos bottle popped open.

[Funny,] I thought as things started to get fuzzy. [I thought they were supposed to put the biohazard symbols on the *outside* of packages.]

Then, just to make things as perfect as possible, something thick and dark like syrupy ink glugged out of the container onto my jacket, my shirt, and even my pants. As things started to fade in and out, I thought, [Just great. They'll be ruined and on my income, I'll be eating cat food for a month to pay for replacements.]

The last thing I thought I saw as the darkness won out was the gunk sinking through my clothes like it was being absorbed or something. That didn't make any sense, but it wasn't all that important right then.

************

I had actually been spared the experience of waking up in a hospital room since the time I had my tonsils out in third grade. Back then staying overnight in a hospital wasn't that unusual, but later surgeries to rebuild my middle ear (cholesteotoma) and foot (bunion) had been one-day procedures and I never had a real overnight room. Still, it was pretty obvious where I was. Which was another good news/bad news thing. As I blinked my eyes open and took stock of the situation, a part of me was grateful that I wasn't looking at fires and red guys with tridents, and a part of me was sad that I wasn't looking at clouds and bodacious angels with wings (where Cora was, of course). The actual situation of still being alive was just somewhere in between.

I guess not hitting my head on the pavement was the reason I didn't have a lot of 'what happened?' problems. I remembered the whole thing like it had just happened - which it had, for me, though I didn't know how long ago it had been in real life - and my first active thought was to tense for the pain that I knew had to be coming.

Except it didn't. I felt pretty good actually. Even the normal aches and pains that had been faithful morning companions for the last, oh, decade or so had missed their appointment. And I distinctly remembered feelings ribs break, and something in my shoulder as well. Other than a sense of some sort of bump on the right side of my chest which I figured was bandages or something, nothing felt particularly unusual.

[Whatever stuff they have me on is pretty good,] I thought. [Getting rid of that much pain should make me loopy as a sailor on a three-day binge.] Not that I knew from personal experience, but it seemed like a good stereotype to apply. Anyway, I didn't feel confused or disoriented. [Musta been out a long time.]

As I finished my internal inventory, I took better stock of the room . . . which was another surprise. Medicare wouldn't pay for regular private rooms and this didn't have the feel of Intensive Care (with which I had become all too familiar in Cora's last days). I was about to fumble around looking for a call button when the door opened. A nurse entered. Well, I assumed it was a nurse. She was wearing full operating room stuff with mask, gloves, gown, and even a head sock.

"Ah, we're awake," she said in an obviously polished, cheerful voice. She was pleasantly upholstered and looked comfortable in her world, even beyond the always-comfortable scrubs that showed under the gown. Cora had gotten addicted to them after a time spent as a hospice volunteer and I suppose I would have developed the habit as well, except . . . well, they reminded me too much of hospitals. And hospices.

However, for a patient in an ordinary hospital just the scrubs and some gloves would have been more reasonable than full surgical getup.

"I don't know about you, but I am."

"Yes, well, let's see how we're doing," she said.

"Look, Miss, um, Ms., ah, screw it, Nurse Wretched, I'm not all that interested in how you're doing, and if *we* are really only talking about *my* condition, then how about *we* do so accurately?"

"Very well, Mr. Chase," she said formally, though for some reason I thought I saw a strange smile in her eyes. "But my name is not Wretched, or even Ratched like the movie. It's Lindbergh, like the pilot, and if I ever hear you say 'limburger' I'll give you an ice water enema whether the doctor orders one or not."

Her firm scowl evaporated into a real smile I could see behind the mask and she added, "Or you could just call me Mandy like everyone else and take away that temptation for both of us."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, smiling myself. Then the reason I thought that little bit of smile in her eyes was strange came to me. I had *seen* it! With no glasses. Normally I couldn't see a foot past my nose without my glasses - nor a foot from it either without the bifocals that were part of them.

"Hey, I can see!" I said exultantly, looking around the room again. "Without my glasses!"

"Hmm," Nurse Mandy said, her frown resurrected. "Are there any other changes?"

While I was repeating my observations on waking up, she raised the head of my bed and began busily triggering the arm cuff to take another blood pressure reading while simultaneously using one of those new skin temperature things to get my body temperature. She interrupted me for long enough to listen to my chest . . . then interrupted herself when she got to my right side.

The professional mask that froze her face was worse than the scowl.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," she lied.

"Hey, how long have I been in here, anyway? What day is it?"

It turned out that I had been out of it for just over a day and a half, which was neither good news nor bad news as far as I could tell. That's when the rest of the crowd showed up.

"That will be all, Nurse Lindbergh," an officious doctor-type said abruptly. I decided I didn't like him. Not the least of which was because he was wearing a shirt and tie, and dress slacks, all of which showed around the edges of his own gown, gloves, and mask. If he had a valid excuse to wear scrubs and *chose* not to then I figured he was more busybody than true caregiver. Some of those accompanying him were still struggling into their own sterile gear, but he didn't seem too worried about the potential they might expose me to something.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"I'm your primary doctor, Mr. Chase," he said, which was really not an answer.

"Listen, you officious jerk, I'm not senile. I can tell you're a doctor all by myself but you're not anyone I've seen before. And I noticed that you did not give me your name. I know my insurance - such as it is - is not paying for this so there's a lot going on to which I have not given informed consent. That stops now!"

"Just calm down, Mr. Chase," he said. "I'm Doctor Hendricks, and I've been asked to help you by a benefactor who will be here as soon as possible now that you're awake. Look, I'm sorry for the abrupt start, but Mr. Chase . . . do you mind if I call you . . .?"

I swear to God that he interrupted himself to look at the chart, as though I had only then become a person to him and not a specimen.

" . . . Galahad?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," I replied. "I got my first bloody nose over that name when I was six, and started giving a lot more than I was receiving by the time I was eight. If the time ever comes when I decide I can trust you, then 'Duke' will do. But only when I say."

"Yes, well, then, ah, Mr. Chase, I have to ask you to calm down a little. We have a few tests to run and then . . ."

"Nope," I said, putting as much simple confidence in my tone as I could muster. "No more treatments until I understand what's going on."

With that I pulled the IV out of my arm. I figured it would bleed a bit, especially since I'd been on blood thinners for the last couple of years, but I also figured I could get it to stop with a couple of Kleenex if I had to. The box was right there and I calmly took a few while they were still too surprised to respond, but by the time I got back to my other arm, the bleeding had stopped. There was some blood on my arm and on the sheets, but nothing more coming out.

Leaving that problem for some time when I had a few moments to think about it, I turned back to Dr. Hendricks. "About the time your parents were born I was held in a tiger cage in the jungle by bastards who thought it was fun to watch leeches swell on my balls. You can't intimidate me. If you get enough help you can force my body to do whatever you want. But it's an old, wornout thing anyway so it won't be much loss. Now either send for the goons or watch me walk out of here in this chic backless gown until I can find a cop. Or third option: start giving me some straight answers."

My bravado was firm on the outside, but inside I was shaking. The VC had been so far beyond nasty that I still woke up sweating from nightmares as often as not. If I had access to the big red button then Hanoi would be a glowing cloud even today. But I had learned not to show that fear. The hard way. Like a lot of bullies, when I quit reacting like they wanted, they went after more-rewarding prey.

I don't know what Dr. Mengele [Maybe Hendricks, but with everything else, why wouldn't he lie about his name?] intended originally, nor what he would have done now that I had refused his oh-so-tender care. The reason is that the situation changed rather abruptly.

A suit walked in. There was a man inside it, but the suit was a uniform that showed his status as much as a general's stars so the suit was the important thing. The man inside it matched the suit. He was fairly tall - a bit over six feet at least - yet quite trim; a man of self-discipline. His hair was steely gray so perfectly 'executive' that I figured he colored it. The face was shared by any number of TV doctors - nice looking without being any competition for the handsome leading men. He looked at the people in the room, half a dozen or so not including me, and nodded easily at Dr. Hendricks. "Thank you, Doctor. Since Mr. Chase does not feel the need for immediate medical attention, I think he and I will talk for a while."

The too-good-for-scrubs doctor nodded with a lot less geniality, but he gathered up his minions and left. Mr. Suit looked around and walked over to an easy chair. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"Since I'll bet you're paying the bills, I guess you don't need my permission."

He smiled, but remained standing, "As a matter of fact, I am paying the bills but I would still prefer your willing cooperation - starting with your consent to be a bit less formal than standing would indicate."

"I'm all for less formal," I said. "Suit yourself, . . . . Mr. Suit."

He smiled, but unbuttoned his jacket and sat. "Jim Phelps."

"Pleased to meet you, should you choose to accept it," I replied.

He smiled again, this time with more genuine humor even as he winced. "You would not believe how many times I've heard that, or something like it." He grinned a bit more broadly and added, "Nothing like 'Galahad' of course. You have my sympathies."

I found myself smiling with his amusement at our shared burden. When he gave me his name I figured it was a fake, but that combination of smile and wince seemed so natural that I began to believe he was telling the truth. Of course, that was what he *wanted* me to think. I knew I was being paranoid, but waking up in a strange hospital with doctors who wanted to do unspecified things to my body had put me in a fairly paranoid state of mind.

"Now that we've resumed a reasonable conversational level, I need to send for something," he said. He reached for the phone instead of the call button and hit a number from memory. In a moment, he said, "Have her bring it in."

The door to the room opened a moment later and another suit walked in. This one was much nicer to look at than the first suit. In fact, that might have been the point. She had her blonde hair done up in a tight, professional twist so I couldn't tell how long it was, but her skirt was about four inches too interesting for anything like prim, which suggested her duties were not entirely proper. [I may be old, but I'm not dead. I'm not even blind, which reminds me . . .]



Before I had a chance to bring up my changed eyesight, the girl - so okay, I'm sexist or whatever, but she was too young even to be the daughter I'd never had so she was a girl to me - had delivered a large, but very thin, computer tablet to Phelps and turned away. I took a moment to enjoy the retreating scenery before looking back at my visitor.

He smiled at my distraction. "Cinnamon Carter," he offered.

"Bullshit. One I can believe - tentatively, and even that's fading - but not two."

"Nor should you," he said easily. "But my name really is Phelps. When I achieved enough . . . influence to have a team of my own, I picked cover names for my agents. Some of them were obvious. But I don't get instructions on little reel-to-reel tape recorders that 'self-destruct in five seconds' and my bosses don't call us the Impossible Missions Force - even if, privately, I do."

He stood up and moved over closer to me. Calling up an image on the screen, he pointed at an X-ray of a pretty banged up chest. Well, considering it was an X-ray, it showed both chest and back. I saw two broken ribs, one of which was so overlapped that I figured the jagged end had punctured a lung. That was probably because the shoulder looked just about totally destroyed. The collar bone and the end of the scapula were clearly offset as well and had allowed the ribs to move way out of position.

There was another anomaly. Though the parts of the skeleton that showed were clear in the X-ray, it looked like there was a large . . . stain or something on the plate. There was an irregular white area that showed no penetration at all. It looked like a puddle of water and I thought about that glop that had spilled out of the thermos on my clothes. I had more than half decided that had been my imagination, but the dense area was more or less in the right place - except maybe it was bigger.

I moved my shoulder - easily - and frowned. "How long have I been in here? That damage fits with what I thought was happening to me, but . . ."

Phelps didn't answer. Instead, he pointed at some specks in the image. "One the problems with, ah, older bones is that they tend to be brittle," he said in a lecturing tone. "These little shards are chips of bone that splintered off the broken ends." He pointed at the rib that was so far out of position. "This rib punctured a lung, and you lost a lot of blood. The surgeons decided that they should straighten things out a bit so that your shoulder wouldn't be too far out of position, repair the lung, and close you up until you had time to get a bit stronger. Then they would go back and retrieve the remaining bone splinters arthroscopically."

He straightened up and played with the tablet a little, not showing me the image. "About the time they were closing from your surgery, we got a call that a biohazard container had been breached."

"I saw that," I said, remembering. "What was in it?"

"I'm going to have to ask your indulgence to let me go a bit further before I answer that," he said. "While we were tracking down what had happened, your ER surgeons finished with their immediate treatment and you were sent for another X-ray."

He turned the tablet so that I could see it. The most immediate impression was that the white blob had grown. On a second look I could see little white screws (no matter what color they might really have been, they looked white in the X-ray) holding the shoulder joint together. Then I noticed that there were also little islands of white scattered through the image and if my memory were anything close to right, they seemed to be concentrated where the bone splinters had been in the first image.

"What is that stuff?" I asked again.

Again, Phelps didn't answer. Instead he said, "We tracked you down about the time the second X-ray was being taken. Once we realized what was going on, we moved you to a more secure facility - here - and took over your treatment."

"What *is* that stuff?!" I asked again, my voice rising in deliberate anger. At least, I intended for it to show deliberate anger. For some reason it cracked in the middle of my question which pretty much undermined the whole thing. Well, maybe showing a bit of fear in this situation was warranted, so perhaps there was a reason.

Phelps moved back to his chair and at down again. "Have you ever heard of 'nanites,' Mr. Chase?"

"What?"

"Nanites," he repeated. "They are . . ."

"I've heard of them," I interrupted. "Little microscopic machines that can be programmed to . . . well, it's all science fiction - emphasis on 'fiction.'"

"Not anymore," Phelps claimed. He tapped on his tablet again. When he was ready, he showed me another image. "We found these in a sample of your blood."

What he showed me this time was apparently a microscopic image of some sort of germ. I wasn't expert enough to tell if it was perfectly ordinary or the most unusual thing in the history of the world.

After I had a chance to absorb the image, he said, "Mr. Chase, I'd very much like you to consider taking a mild sedative. Some of what I have to tell you will be very . . . disturbing, and . . ."

"No drugs," I interrupted again. "Particularly not from Dr. Mengele out there."

"Mengele . . . ?" he repeated, then smiled. "Ah, that is a good one. I can assure you that Doctor Hendricks is an ethical, competent physician and a brilliant researcher, but I suppose I'm not surprised that you decline his care right now." Phelps looked out the window for a moment, then turned back with a small frown. "I keep trying to remind myself to look at this from what I imagine your perspective might be. Frankly, I'm not sure I would be taking this so calmly."

"Yeah, well, when you lose all fear of death, you can take a lot of things calmly. Firmly, in some cases, because you also aren't afraid to tell someone no. But calmly."

All of the sudden I felt really tired and if I hadn't pulled the IV from my arm I'd have wondered if they had tripped some sort of remote drug feed. I laid my head back on the pillow and closed my eyes for a moment. "I suppose you could say that emotions have been burned out of me."

"Since Cora died?" he offered gently.

"You know about that?" I asked, opening my eyes to look at him again.

"Yes," he said. "Just as I know that your claim of having survived Viet Cong torture was true."

"Long time ago," I grunted.

"Yes," he agreed. He shrugged with a strange sympathy as though he were suppressing memories of his own, then returned to the topic at hand. "What can you tell me about the accident? How much do you remember?"

"Is this related to the nanite thing?" I asked, but I knew the answer.

I guess my poker face had slipped over the years because he didn't bother to answer my question. Like he knew my question wasn't serious.

So I told him what I remembered. When I got to the part about the thermos-type bottle breaking open and the dark glop spilling out, his eyes narrowed in very sharp attention. And when I told him that just as I was passing out it looked like the stuff had been absorbed into my clothes, his breath caught. Not a good poker player, either, apparently.

"It wasn't in your clothes," he said softly - more like he was talking to himself.

Like I said, I wasn't senile. I had figured out what that syrupy blob had been as soon as he said the word nanites. "What are they gonna do to me?"

"We don't know," Phelps said. "That's part of the problem."

"*'Part'* of the problem?" I repeated.

Phelps sighed, but took another moment to look out the window. In a moment, his face firmed in a way that made it clear he had made a decision. Looking back at me, he said, "Mr. Chase, I'm not sure that anything I can say would be as . . . effective as just showing you something. If you would allow me, I'd like to help you remove that hospital gown."

"Okay," I said tentatively. The head of the bed was already raised, but not so far that I couldn't lean forward a bit further. Phelps reached behind me to undo the little ties, then used one hand to urge me gently to lie back.

"With your permission," he said politely, then moved the front of the paper gown down a bit to reveal my shoulder. "The first X-ray of your right shoulder was taken just under 48 hours ago. Since then you've had surgery done on your shoulder and the side of your chest."

That timeline and the X-rays just didn't go together. I remembered the impact and feeling the bones break, but my shoulder felt good. No way was it only a couple of days since the damage. And the skin he revealed was fine. Better than fine, in fact. There weren't any liver spots or other blemishes. In fact, the skin looked a lot more supple than the wrinkled old bag that normally kept my bones out of sight.

Phelps gave me a moment to absorb that, then he pulled the covering down a bit further.

"Oh my God," I said - well, whispered. My lungs didn't seem to have enough air for more than that. In fact, my vision started to tunnel on me, with darkness moving in from the edges. But I didn't lose it entirely. In fact, the tunnel vision seemed to focus my attention on what was below my shoulder.

The lump I had felt on my chest wasn't bandages. Where I should have an old man's weathered chest I saw a girl's tit. Not an old woman's sagging bag of flesh - not much extra flesh at all, in fact - but the large, dark areola was not something a man should find on his chest. It belonged on a girl just coming into her womanly shape. On their own accord, my fingers reached out to touch the thing, and there was an immediate response. A bit more prodding revealed that the lump was really more of a knot behind the skin than on the surface, but it was there.

And it was . . . alone. The other side hadn't changed. The new, firmer skin sort of faded out as it moved across my chest.

"What the hell is happening to me?" I gasped, then the tunnel closed in on me.

Chapter 2 - "Anastasia"

The crowd was back when I woke up again. It must have been only a short time because some of them were still putting on their sterile gear. I frowned and pulled my shirt back up. Raising my voice, I called out, "Thank you, all of you, but I'm fine. Please leave us alone."

Phelps reinforced that by moving to stand at the foot of the bed. Hendricks frowned, but shrugged and nodded. He started shooing his group out the door, and it worked for everyone but Nurse Mandy.

"I'm gonna check him out," she said firmly. "It'll only take a second."

Well, it wasn't a second, but it wasn't that long either. Besides, she cleared an alarm on the monitoring gear that stopped an annoying beep. With a pat on my hand, she smiled and pointed at the call button. "Next time, don't wait for an explosion before calling the bomb squad."

"Yes, ma'am," I said dutifully. She smiled again, but as she moved away she shook her finger at me in one last admonition to be good.

Phelps waited for the door to close, then turned back to me. "That went well," he sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to shock you, but you needed to know."

"Yeah, and you said I should take a sedative," I said. "Consider it my fault. Now, what's going on?"

He moved back to where he had laid the tablet and did the normal tap/slide thing again for a few seconds. "Have you ever seen this woman?" he asked as he handed it to me.

"Not that I can recall," I replied, but I frowned a bit. "Though I have to admit I might not remember."

The woman in the photo was plain in a way that was not a euphemism for unattractive. She was just excessively ordinary. Her hair was a brown that Cora had described a 'mousy', with little shape or style. It was long enough that it was clearly a woman's hairstyle, hanging to her collar . . . or maybe I had just grown up when that was a woman's hairstyle. In any event, the face was a woman's face, mid-40's, but it was simply plain - just enough fleshiness to imply the unseen body wouldn't meet Hollywood standards either. The eyes were neither large nor small, and seemed to match her hair in an ordinary brown. If she wore any makeup, the application was too subtle for me, and someone with that much skill would have done a better job of enhancing her features so I figured she didn't have any. What I saw of the clothes was a man-style collar with a lab coat.

"Understandable," Phelps replied to the potential that I just didn't remember the very unmemorable woman. "That was - or is - the problem."

"The problem," I repeated. Seemed like I was doing that a lot, with little progress.

"This is Anna Raymond," he said. "She just may be for biology what Isaac Newton was to physics."

"Wow," I said, impressed. Most people use Albert Einstein as the stereotype for genius but Newton was far and away more important to our understanding of the physical world.

"Are you familiar with how Isaac Newton ended up his career?" Phelps asked.

"I know that at the end he was looking into what we would call the occult; everything from astrology to witchcraft."

"Indeed," Phelps said, he started to manipulate his tablet again as he continued. "Some people have said that the line between genius and insanity is very narrow. Perhaps that's true. By our standards, what Newton spent his last years on was crazy. If we're really lucky, that's true for Anna Raymond as well . . . except that might not be lucky for you."

"For me," I found myself repeating inanely again.

Phelps looked at me and explained. "When we heard that there had been a biohazard event, we moved to contain it and to understand what had happened. As best we can tell, the containment was already taken care of - by you, whether you wanted it or not. But for why it happened, we had to track down both ends of the bike messenger transaction. We started with the sender but that was a dead end. Or at least, a very long and convoluted path to find an end."

He looked at me to see if I thought that was adequate for an explanation, and when I didn't complain, he continued. "Anna Raymond was supposed to be on the other end - the recipient. She had a lab waiting for the container, but by the time we got there she was already gone."

"This helps me . . . how?"

"We did find a couple of files that she didn't purge well enough - probably because they were stored in a lot of places on her computers - and that told us what she had in mind."

He turned the tablet around to show another image. This time, the woman was incredible. There were actually two images. One was a rotating computer-generated image of a full-body nude. As it turned I could see that it was very detailed . . . very detailed. It was quite clinical, but that body was not made for science. It was lush in a way that remained just real enough to avoid Barbie doll exaggeration . . . lush in every way, from full (very full) breasts to long, thick hair, to slim hips accented by an almost-too-small waist. The other image was a portrait of a young-20's girl and it was beyond amazing. The eyes were large and liquid blue, the lips were lush enough to fit on that body, the hair a rich sable that caught mirror-bright highlights, the features delicate without appearing child-like. The rendering was so precise I wasn't sure if it was a photograph or another computer-generated image, but it didn't really matter except as a tribute to the artist. That woman belonged in the dictionary next to 'beautiful.'




"Meet 'Anastasia Romanov,'" Phelps said.

"Who? Are you kidding?"

"No, though I suppose it's possible that Anna Raymond was," he admitted. "This is the name on the file that we found."

"So? She had a computer-generated image of a really pretty woman. What difference does it make?"

"We have interpreted the data we found to indicate that Anna Raymond developed a set of biological nanites to transform herself into someone she called Anastasia Romanov. The nanites are a completely new . . . creation. They're about the size of viruses and they reproduce like . . . like several different varieties of viruses. They seek out host cells and modify the cell DNA. Some cells produce more nanites - whole arrays of nanites, as best we can tell. For other nanites, changing the cell DNA itself seems to be the immediate objective. And the end objective is . . . turning the body into this," he said, pointing again at the amazingly pretty girl.

That's when I passed out again.

This time I regained consciousness to the acrid scent of smelling salts. Nurse Mandy was leaning over me, but stepped back as soon as my eyes fluttered open.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," I muttered.

"I told you about that," she said, but the smile was missing from her eyes, replaced by concern. "We need to get you checked out. You shouldn't be fainting like that."

"Maybe later. In the meantime . . ," I said, looking toward the door.

She frowned, but didn't argue. At least, not verbally. She did turn to look at Phelps, who nodded at the door as well. Once she was out, he looked back at me.

"I really shouldn't be fainting like that," I said. "But those are some wild-ass curve balls you've been throwing at me."

"I think that's a fair assessment," he agreed, smiling grimly.

"So, what are those things doing to me now?" I asked. "I mean, other than giving me one girlish tit."

"We don't know," he said. "Anything that has enough energy to penetrate your skin - X-ray, MRI, CAT scan - has enough energy that it might cause those nanites to mutate. And we can't take that chance. If we'd have known what had, ah, infected you, we wouldn't have let them take those first two X-rays. So for any more information, we have to talk to you."

I nodded. I decided that I must have been out a bit longer that time because the sheets on my bed were changed and I had a different hospital gown - which was now tied up all the way in back. I also realized that my bladder was no longer sending me warning signals though I didn't really want to think about that. Despite the hidden covering, I was all too aware that one side of my chest had a different feel, including - now that I was able to sort out the sensation - an especially sensitive spot.

"Let me help you get started," Phelps said. "We have the X-rays, of course, and the surgeon's report on the internal damage. Externally, there are no apparent scars from the recent surgery and there is an obvious rejuvenation of the skin in that area."

"And a tit," I said bluntly.

"Yes, that too," he agreed. To his credit, I couldn’t detect any smirk or other humor in his expression.

I took internal stock, moving slightly under the covers to test out various possibilities. "Well, the first thing I noticed is that I can see, now. Without my glasses, I mean. Both far and near are at least as good as new - maybe better."

"Maybe better?" he asked, making some notes on his tablet.

I laughed dryly. "It's been so long since my eyes have been good that I don't know what normal is. I can see better without my glasses than I could before with them, but it's been a while since my vision was correctable to 20:20."

He nodded, continuing to make notes.

"The next thing I noticed is that I don't ache as bad as I used to," I said. "My knees have been trashed for years and my back would normally pop like a cheap zipper every time I moved. Both were the result of moderate-to-bad arthritic degeneration, not any specific injury. I think they've improved as well."

"Back to normal?"

"As near as I can tell," I confirmed.

"Anything else?"

"Well, I never really wanted to wear my hearing aids so I was used to compensating. But I think my hearing is back to normal again, too."

"So, degenerative problems have been resolved, and the trauma of injury and surgery. Anything else?"

I pulled my sheets down and checked my left leg. "I have a scar here, from when my Huey went down in Nam. That's still there."

Phelps kept making notes, and I decided it was time to get in a couple of questions of my own. "So, Mr. Phelps of the not-so-Impossible Mission Force, just who *do* you work for?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," he replied. "Just consider us a, ah, a private troubleshooting group."

"Us?" I prompted.

"So far, I'll leave that at Cinnamon and myself," he said, smiling easily but with utter implacability.

I sighed, but couldn't really complain. I mean, I could complain, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I was familiar with security and if this man was as high-powered as I expected, he wouldn't break the rules for someone with no more authority over him than I had.

"So, what's next?" I asked. And then something came to me. "You already knew about the injury repair that the nanites performed. Don't for a second think that I'm going to let Dr. Mengele break my left leg to see if the nanites will take care of that, too."

Phelps shook his head, but he wouldn't meet my eyes and I knew sure as sunrise that the oh-so-ethical doctor had suggested that very thing. Or at least something like it. I ostentatiously checked my fingers to see if there were any signs of either damage repair or the rejuvenation that seemed to accompany it. The knuckles weren't as swollen, but that might have been part of the general arthritis repair.

"So, did he have a plan? Break a finger or toe, then a leg, and then try something really exciting like, oh, gouging out one of my eyes to see if it would regenerate?"

"No," he said, and I could believe as much of that as I wanted. That whole topic was way too far over into the line of VC 'games' and I was not going to go softly into *that* sort of not-so-good night again. That's for damn sure.

"I'm outta here," I said. I started ripping off the remaining sensors. Nothing penetrated my skin but there was an arm cuff and one of those finger things for oxygen diffusion. Taking those off triggered some more alarms but I was past worrying about those except that they were a sure sign that others would be coming.

"Phelps, you either need to help me get out of here or you'll get your chance to see just how good these nanite things are at repairing damage. I might go down fighting but it won't be because I worried about hurting someone. Myself included."

He didn't have time to answer before the first of the horde showed up - I figured Mandy had given up on changing each time and just stayed in her operating room getup - but he did soon after. "That's enough, everyone. Since Mr. Chase seems to be stable and in acceptably good health. We're going to go to another location. Please provide some suitable clothing."

That didn't make me relax, but it did take the snarl off my lips. I know because I forced it down deliberately.

And despite the associations with Cora's clothes, I was more than happy to accept a set of scrubs to wear. That plus some simple slippers were enough to make me street legal, and I'd take that over the paper gown with the built-in draft if for no other reason than that it would make it easier to get away once I hit the street.

Speaking - or at least, thinking - of which, I realized that I was standing without my cane yet felt pretty stable. I shrugged off the hand that Phelps offered me, but when Mandy stepped up I let her put her arms around me.

"You take care, now, y'hear?" she demanded.

I blinked a few times, but I managed to keep from making too much of a scene about leaving someone I had met less than an hour before. Some people are like that, though. I did hug her back, and meant it.

It wasn't long before I met another member of Phelps' team - a big, black guy that I would have found intimidating even when I was a young, way-too-cocky Army pilot. And I immediately realized that was unfair. You'd think that after suffering discrimination from those who didn't much care for crotchety old men, I'd have been a little less eager to jump to my own stereotype conclusions. The guy was polite, well-spoken, and professionally dressed. The only reason I felt apprehensive was because he was black, and that shamed me.

I didn't get an immediate introduction but as soon as we were on our way in the standard, tinted-window, black SUV, Phelps took care of the honors. "Mr. Chase, this is Willy-T. Willy, you've been briefed on Mr. Chase."

I don't know if he was going to say anything more, but I spoke up. "Look, everyone, it's pretty clear that we're going to be together for a while. I want to understand what has happened to me and obviously you feel you have the authority to come along for the ride. So why don't you all just make it 'Duke?'"

"Thank you," Phelps said.

"Pleased ta meet ya, Duke," Willy-T said, though he didn't turn around from his driving duties. His eyes did meet mine for a second in the rear-view mirror, which caused a moment of frown.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's just that the briefing said your eyes were brown," he said.

"They ar . . . aren't they?"

"Not from what I can see," he replied.

"Yes, they changed," Phelps said. "Sorry, I forgot to mention it."

"To what?"

"Blue," he said simply. And then I realized why that should not have been a surprise.

"So, when the little buggers fixed my cataracts, they changed my eye color to the, um, template while they were at it."

"It would seem so," Phelps replied.

"Don't knock it," Cinnamon said, interjecting into the conversation from the shotgun seat. "Blue eyes always worked for me."

That had so many implications I didn't want to consider that I was rude to a pretty girl, something that hadn't happened since I was four as best I could remember. But I just looked out the window without replying. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her frown, then look away guiltily . . . which didn't help my sense of rudeness at all. She hadn't done anything wrong.

"I'm sorry, um, Ms. Carter. I guess this is all a lot to absorb."

"Cinnamon, please," she said, bestowing on me a smile that made me look away again. This time it was because her smile was so much like my Cora's . . . Cora had been blonde, too, a long time ago . . . that my eyes filled up and I just couldn't face her.

Cinnamon's face looked stricken with guilt and once again it was my fault. But my throat was choked up and I couldn't get the words out to apologize again.

I already knew Phelps was a high-powered guy but he showed me right then that he was insightful, too . . . if not particularly sensitive. He fiddled with the tablet he still carried and then showed it to Cinnamon. Like that helped anything. When he pulled the tablet back, I caught a glimpse of it and saw that he had a photo of Cora. I knew it was Cora because I had taken that picture of her smiling by the rail on our honeymoon cruise, and it had been in a frame on our mantle ever since.

Like I said, it didn't help anything because now Cinnamon was looking out her own window and in the reflection I could see tears running down her own cheeks.

"Not your fault," I croaked through my tight throat. "Not your fault. It's just . . . I still . . . every day . . . I miss her."

Which showed I was probably not any more sensitive than Phelps, because if anything that made Cinnamon's tears flow even harder. The rest of the ride, which was thankfully short, was in uncomfortable silence. However, both Cinnamon and I had ourselves together a bit better when we got out of the van inside some sort of garage. It was located in a past-its-prime strip mall that showed signs for a lawyer, a real estate agent, and - if I saw it right - a palm reader/psychic.

"Why don't we all have a little lunch and then decide where to go from here?" Phelps suggested. Of course, since he was clearly in charge his suggestion was the same as an order. The others moved off as ordered, leaving me standing there with nothing to do.

"Let me show you to your room," he offered. Apparently the strip mall had been remade into a series of small offices and at least a few apartments. It was a bit surprising that there was an inside passage. I would have expected each store front to have its own boundary walls, but we didn't have to go back out into public view. At one point I wondered if I had gotten myself into some sort of prison thing because there weren't even any windows, but I saw a couple of exits and realized that we were just walking on the back side of the strip mall.

We walked at a reasonable pace - faster than I would have been able to make with my cane, before - but it wasn't like we hurried. Nonetheless, it was a longer distance than I had walked in the hospital to get to the SUV, and a problem showed up.

Literally, as well as figuratively.

It wasn't that I got tired or out of breath. The pace was quick enough that the old me would have run out of breath but that was no longer a problem at all. The problem was that the scrub top was . . . rubbing on me. At first I just ignored it. Then I realized that the rubbing had caused my new . . . accessory to come to attention. I tried to ignore that too, but it wasn't long before the rubbing passed beyond noticeable and into irritating. It was approaching painful when we reached a BOQ-style apartment. Apparently I rated field grade because it was a single.

"Do you need a few minutes?" Phelps asked.

"Um, not really," I said. "I'm not tired, but I'm actually not really hungry, either. Don't let me hold you up, though." I did move to the mirror over the dresser and confirm that I now had blue eyes. Really bright blue eyes in fact, with the absence of obscuring cataracts. Despite knowing that everything was more vivid now that my eyes had cleared, I thought those eyes were unusually clear in a medium-to-dark blue that seemed to have strange depth.

Phelps interrupted my too-narcissistic self-examination. "Mr. Chase . . . Duke, I don't want you to feel like a prisoner, but you need to realize that anything that comes out of your body has to be treated like toxic waste. So for now, you just can't be . . . unattended. I'm sorry."

"No, you're right," I said, realizing it was true. If those little monsters inside me ever got out, who knew what they might do? I had enough science background to realize that truly biological nanites, as opposed to itty-bitty machines, actually *could* mutate. If I spit on the sidewalk, the first sign might be pony-sized cockroaches kicking down kitchen doors. That thought gave me a killer headache, but it wasn't going to go away with a little rest.

"Okay," I said. "We might as well go to wherever your team is gathering. But I'm really not hungry."

He nodded, then sighed. "I'm sorry to have to be this direct, but the toilet in this room is connected to a closed treatment system. Please use it only."

I nodded in turn but didn't say anything. A look down the hallway told him I was ready to go and he started off again. A few moments of walking reminded me of the . . . pointed irritation that I had discovered. "Would it be possible to get some different clothes? I asked.

"Of course," he said. "In fact, they're being delivered tomorrow morning. I was planning on inviting you here tomorrow anyway."

"Sorry to be a bother," I said. There were way too many apologies floating around, and I resolved to figure out a way to get past that.

Phelps surprised me. "Actually, I am extremely grateful that you *are* a bother. If you hadn't, ah, 'intercepted' those nanites, we might not even know they existed."

I hadn't thought of that. It gave me something other than my irritating nubbin to think about while he led me to a dining room that might have been found in a nice, upper-middle class home. Apparently, the apartments in the strip mall were more extensive than I thought. In the dining room I met another member of Phelps' team. Every modern team needs a Barney who can do anything technical that's required (or so the writers found it convenient to claim). Phelps had a Barney too, though this guy was white and while he only looked to be about 30, he was shaved bald. There was just enough of a hint of hairline to see why.

Actually, Phelps didn't tell me that this Barney was the team technoid. I did my Sherlock impression and 'deduced' that from the name itself - Phelps already told me he picked the team code names so that was likely to be a clue - and the pair of needle-nose pliers that showed through his pants pocket. Of course, the set of jeweler's screwdrivers in his shirt pocket - just shy of the total nerd-out of a pocket protector - were a pretty good clue, too.

Cinnamon and Willy-T came bustling in with sandwich fixings and condiments, plus a couple of pre-packaged salads. It was pretty informal and everyone had taken a bite or two when Cinnamon said, "You didn't get anything to eat, Duke."

"Not hungry," I said, shrugging. I really wasn't. My stomach actually felt uncomfortably full, as though I had eaten a big meal already. Analyzing my digestive system added a few minutes of not-very-pleasant conversation, but Phelps brought it to a close before it consumed the whole meal (which was a pun, but I didn't care enough to think up another way to phrase it even in my own mind). The rest was also business with Barney (primarily) reporting on the so-far-not-fruitful attempts to track down Anna Raymond, or Anastasia Romanov, or any combinations of those.

As things were winding down I started to get a serious tummy-rumble. And then an urgent one. "I need to go back to my room," I said, then after a cramp I added a grunted, "Now!"

Cinnamon leapt up to escort me. We made it to my room, but barely, and there were a few spots in my underwear. That was past simple embarrassment in the presence of a pretty girl, but in the last few years it had happened every now and then. Getting old sucks. It wasn't made any better when Cinnamon politely, but implacably, insisted that I put the underwear in a medical waste bag she handed through the door. She also handed in a package of underwear to replace the stained ones, and some sweat pants.

As such things do, the details were handled. I was in for another embarrassing moment though, and I couldn’t figure out any way to avoid it.

"Cinnamon," I said slowly, "I, um, need to ask you something."

"Sure," she said easily. "What do you need?"

I couldn't figure out any discreet way to ask, so I just blurted out, "How do you keep your shirt from rubbing on your tit? Mine is gonna start bleeding any time now."

She laughed. She tried not to. I could see her face get red but not from embarrassment. It was like a balloon blowing up until the air just couldn't be contained. But it was a nice laugh. Not mean, just genuinely amused. "Oh, my, that would be a problem," she said. "And I could *not* imagine asking Jim that. I'm glad I was here for you."

"I am, too," I admitted.

She laughed and pointed at the offending appendage. "Well, first thing you need to know that women don't call them tits. They're breasts, or maybe boobs, but never tits. Are we clear on that?" After I nodded, her face softened into concern. "I'm sorry, Duke, but if the nanites really do what that program indicated . . . well, your future is going to contain bras."

"Bras?" I repeated, groaning.

At least that time I didn't faint from the shock.

Not quite, anyway.

Chapter 3 - "Scoliosis"

****************
Interlude

Most police departments keep their evidence lockers deep inside their facilities - well out of reach of intruders. However, the South Hampton police station was undergoing an upgrade and they had moved their locker to a room that had an outside wall. It was a solid brick wall without windows or doors, but it was still an outside wall. The risk had increased when the local cops busted a gun-running ring. The seizures from that raid nearly filled the area set aside for evidence safekeeping.

Of course, the South Hampton police evidence locker was guarded 24/7, but people have known since before written history that guards are less vigilant near dawn. To help overcome this, South Hampton had installed cameras and floodlights at the corners of the wall. However, it was in a 'sketchy' part of town - which is a good place for a police station, if you think about it - so there had been some vandalism of the floodlights. When one went out again, Desk Sergeant Bill Carney noted it on his monitor and sighed.

Turning to one of the on-duty uniformed officers who had not had the foresight to keep out of his sight, he said, "Valenski, go check out that floodlight."

"Ah, Sarge, I'm just about to go off shift and with the construction they won't let you take a car back there, even when nobody's working. It'll take 15 minutes to walk, and the same to get back.

"Which means you better get your ass moving, because I ain't gonna authorize overtime if you don't get it checked out in time."

What Valenski said next was not loud enough to hear, which was probably a good thing for all concerned. What he found when he got to the corner of the wall was not a good thing.

Calling in on his radio, he said, "Sarge; Valenski. The damn thing is broken - not the bulb, the whole damn fixture. Somebody musta hit it with a brick or something."

What Sergeant Carney said next was not recorded and that was probably just as well, too. After a pause, his voice did come through. "Alright, Valenski, come on back in. I'll put in a ticket."

When the uniformed officer came back in, Carney was filling out the paperwork to request that some overpaid contractor get assigned to fix the light. The cop waved at the sergeant and headed back into the station. It was close enough to end of watch that Carney let him go.

Out of sight of the front desk, the cop took a turn toward the evidence locker instead of toward the locker room. Walking up to the cage, he nodded at the guy behind the counter, Officer Brennan.

"Watcha got?" Brennan asked.

The patrolman didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took off his uniform cap and tossed it to the side. With James Bond accuracy, the cap landed on the camera that covered the evidence counter. Unfortunately for Brennan, he was watching the cap sail to the side instead of the cop in front of him.

It was the last mistake he ever made. A long, thin blade flickered almost too fast to be seen and pierced the base of his skull. Brennan probably never knew that he was dead. The uniformed figure caught the evidence clerk before he fell and reached past to open the door. He sat Brennan at a chair, letting his head rest in the corner of a wall and a shelf like he was napping. The next thing he did was retrieve his cap. There was a slight risk that he would be seen in that moment between when his cap uncovered the camera and when he disappeared back into the locker, but he had been assured that would not happen.

Sergeant Carney was talking with an older gentleman who was concerned about graffiti on his store. He had a mid-priced tablet computer and was insisting that Carney look at the images of rather-artistic paint that defaced his alley wall. It would be a long time before Carney sent one of his patrolmen to investigate a simple tagging in an out-of-sight (at least to the public at large) area, but he had to listen patiently while the man filled out his complaint.

Eventually, the man was satisfied and left, at which time Carney took a habitual quick scan of the cameras, noting the dark place on the back wall in his log along with the repair order number. It was close to his time to go off shift, too.

That plan vanished with a bang. A quite-loud bang, actually. It took a minute before the cycling monitor showed the image from the rear alley camera. A cloud of smoke and dust hung over the back wall, extending even into the still-lit portion. With the confusion, it then took all of Valenski's predicted 15 minutes for the first officers to arrive, and that was too late. Tire evidence showed something at least as large as a dualie pickup - probably a box truck - had been just outside the wall. The subsequent report identified the loss of a significant supply of seized drug money, a potentially even-more significant supply of weapons . . . and the discovery of two dead officers.

*******************

I had a really shitty night. In fact, shitty was exactly the word. I spent nearly all of it sitting on the throne and by the time my insides quit rushing to escape, I was almost too weak to make it to the bed by myself. Cinnamon insisted that I drink lots of fluid, including electrolytes and proteins and whatever else I was voiding so energetically. At some level, that didn't make sense. If my body didn't want that stuff, why give it more? But I knew it was the right thing to do. I'd had dysentery in Nam and dehydration was the real killing problem.

It was probably 2:00 AM when I finally crawled into bed. Cinnamon was concerned that despite a lot of fluid intake, I hadn't really had to piss since the last time I woke up in the hospital. But there wasn't much I could do about that.

So of course about 3:00 I was back in there letting out a stream that a horse would envy. They were watching me in shifts - it was Barney's turn when I started pissing instead of just blasting - but I didn't need any help. I just had to void a load of piss . . . three times before dawn. That's when the trots started again. The funny thing was that I never felt hungry, nor really very thirsty. I didn't like, weigh it or anything, but I'll bet I got rid of twenty pounds of whatever - mostly liquid - during the night and I still had to force myself to drink the sports drink that Willy-T handed me when he came on shift.

When I rubbed my head in a sort of frustrated way, I felt a stubble in parts of my hairline that had been shiny for years. A trip to the mirror showed what looked like a day's growth of beard, only it was on the top of my head. In contrast, the arm that had been rubbing that stubble was surprisingly bare. Even though my hair had been a pale gray, I normally had a fairly thick mat on my arms and I thought it had all fallen out - but when I looked more closely I saw a faint down of thin hair on my arms so they weren't really bare. The rest of my previous fur was littering my sheets. A quick self-examination showed that I had either no hair at all or that fine downy stuff everywhere except on the top of my head, my pits, and my crotch. Well, my legs were more than downy, but I knew what it meant. Apparently when the little bastards ruining my life went after my receded hairline, they decided to change my body hair to a female pattern as well.

That pretty much set the standard for that day. I was either slugging down complex concoctions or dumping out the other end. Sometimes both at the same time. Thus passed my first full day awake. Day 3 since that gunk invaded me, I figured.

Another problem showed up on Day 4.

It actually started out looking like it would be an improvement. My dashes to the head had become . . . well, predictable, I guess. Somehow saying that anything about my life right then was 'regular' seemed wrong. In any event, I was managing to stay out of the bathroom for 45 minutes to an hour at a time, and during one of those intervals Barney was walking with me down the back hall in the complex. I never had seen it all. So far I'd hardly seen anything but my little apartment. But it was clear the back hall went through a lot of the storefronts, which meant the whole strip mall was probably connected with Phelps' operation.

[I wonder who he has play the part of the psychic? Has to be Cinnamon. How would she look as a dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy? Hmmm.]

While my mind was trying to think about anything but my situation, the man himself stepped out of a side room.

"What's wrong?" Phelps asked urgently. "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"What? No, not really," I said. "Why?"

"You're walking all hunched over, like it's really hurting," he said. "Barney, didn't you notice?"

"Well, yeah, boss, but . . . I mean, with all the stuff that Duke's been going through . . ."

"Well, this is different than it has been. It may be a sign that some of what we thought was healed is having trouble again."

I started to flex my shoulder in just about any way I could, but nothing seemed to hurt. There weren't any catches or anything. But now that he mentioned it, I realized that I was standing all hunched over to that side.

"Can you straighten up?" he asked just as I was finding out for myself.

"Yes," I reported. "And it doesn't hurt or anything. It just feels like I'm leaning way over to the other side.

"I think we need to call for the doctor," Phelps decided.

"No experiments," I said firmly.

"No," Phelps agreed. I wished that I were sure I could believe him.

Dr. Mengele showed up just in time for me to be caught up in another bout of explosive expulsion. He surprised me when the first thing he did, even before he approached me, was to sniff the air.

"Doesn't smell bad," he reported.

I snorted at the idea. "It stinks! What are you talking about?'

"Oh, it has as strong smell all right," he agreed. "But it's actually a healthy smell. Haven't you ever raised a baby? You can tell the difference between healthy discharge and a problem by the smell."

"I'll have to take your word for it, doc," I said, never having had the challenge of raising a baby. We had never had the tests or anything to see if it was Cora or me that had the problem, but we'd never 'caught' despite a lot of fun times trying.

Dr. Mengele took a moment to do the gown and glove thing, and put on a mask. I couldn't really blame him. It came to me that none of Phelps' team had left the facility once they'd been exposed to me. Apparently, we were all under quarantine until the little bugs sorted themselves out. Phelps' team hadn't even seemed to notice that they were under an unknown but perhaps deadly threat, which I took to mean they didn't want me to feel guilty about it. I knew I wasn't an easy patient but I resolved to be a bit less whiny, at least.

He waited for me to finish . . . and waited . . . but eventually I staggered out of the little room and into the main room of my quarters. The boob on one side of my chest was getting pretty large and it showed through the sweat shirt I had been wearing. And flopped. And rubbed. Dr. Mengele's . . . I realized I needed to stop thinking of him that way because in truth nothing he had done had been wrong from a patient-care perspective. Doing 'tests' of an unknown condition were entirely proper, even if I didn't feel like being a guinea pig. So, make it that 'Dr. Hendricks's' eyes widened at the sight of my unrestrained lump.

I realized as I was moving back into the bedroom that I was leaning pretty strongly to one side. I tried to straighten up, but even straining to the limits of my muscles I couldn't get my back vertical. Dr. Hendricks's eyes narrowed at that, too. For a moment I thought he was staring at my one-sided bust, and maybe he was but for a different reason than I expected.

"Everyone out other than Ms. Carter," he ordered. When we were alone, he asked me to remove my clothes.

It was obviously the first time I ever had a breast exam. It was surprisingly clinical and dispassionate. And still intensely embarrassing. I was glad he had sent all the men - except for himself, a medical professional - from the room. He did both sides and I felt a lump under my left nipple, which was becoming larger. He also exercised my shoulder, watching the movement of muscles and bones. He found a problem.

"I wish I could get an X-ray," he mused more to himself than to us. He poked at two little hard bumps under my skin. I winced a bit as he pushed at them, and he winced in sympathy. "Look, um, Mr. Chase, I need to do something and I'm afraid it may hurt a bit."

"A bit," I repeated, but I grinned wryly. "Why is it that every time a doctor says something 'may' hurt 'a bit,' it for sure hurts like hell?"

He smiled at my joke, but he was getting out a pre-packaged sterile scalpel from his kit. "I think I know what this is, but I'm going to need to find out. And I'm afraid I can't offer you an anesthetic until we know more about what these things do to you."

"Have at it," I offered. Actually, I thought I might know what the little bumps were, too.

The good news was that I didn't bleed much at all. The bad news was that it did indeed hurt . . . a lot. More than I expected. I mean, having someone cut the skin just about anywhere on your body hurts. It's supposed to hurt. That's what pain is for - to let you know that you've been injured. But I'd been cut plenty of times before and I seemed to be more sensitive than the other times. The other news - which wasn't particularly news - was that the bumps were the screws that had been placed in my shoulder.

"Apparently, the nanites rejected these as not part of the template," he said. "That means you should probably expect your fillings to fall out as well. Do you have any other prosthetics?"

"No. What teeth I have left are all my own - or at least started out that way. Is that why I've had this nasty taste in my mouth?"

"It could be," he said, then did the tongue depressor thing. Then he stuck his gloved fingers in my mouth and pulled.

A tooth came out. One of the big ones from the back.

"Hey, why'd you do that?"

He frowned, examining his stolen molar. "It was out of position, and the skin around it had receded."

That didn't really explain why he pulled the thing out, but I was busy wondering why it didn't hurt so I didn't push for more. Dr. Hendricks pulled out a tablet of his own and called up the images of the Anastasia model.

"Sorry I didn't think about this before," he began. "But I should have realized that female-pattern teeth - especially for a finely-boned, elegant face like this - would be smaller than your male teeth. I’m afraid you're probably going to lose the rest of them as well."

"Oh, joy," I sighed. "When?"

"At the rate your changes are occurring, I'd be surprised if any of your original teeth are left by the end of the day," he said flatly. As though that were a signal, I could feel one of my other teeth start to wiggle. Okay, so I was pushing on them with my tongue to check, but in a moment I had another one out. [No more prodding with your tongue until he's gone, idiot!] I told myself. Hopefully, myself would listen.

Dr. Hendricks took one more look at my side before motioning me to stand up. Even as we talked, the cuts had healed leaving no sign of any injury at all. They quit hurting, too. Though it was very uncomfortable, if that sort of pain was only going to last for a minute or so then I figured I could deal with it. It might even be an improvement overall. And apparently losing all my teeth was not going to be painful, at least.

He had me stand as straight as I could, then bend as far as I could to the right, watching both from front and rear. Then his eyes narrowed again and he had me stand against the wall. Using a magic marker, he put a spot on the wall at my hipbone on each side, and at the point of my shoulders. All through this he had a frown on his face, but also there was a funny little light in his eyes that looked like it belonged with a smile instead. When he had the points on the wall, he took out a tape and measured the distances involved.

"You may put your clothes back on now," he finally informed me. "And relax. You don't have to try to stand straight."

While I was putting my sweats back on, he was making notes on a pad. He was still writing when I finished but instead of stopping he just took a second to point at an electrolyte bottle and continued. I was getting sick enough of that stuff that I almost gagged when I took a full swallow, but I continued to sip until he finished.

When he finally looked up, his frown disappeared and a smile to match the light in his eyes replaced it. "Okay, M . . . ah, Mr. Chase, I have the typical good news / bad news to tell you. Let me start with the curvature in your back. The term for that sort of curvature is 'scoliosis.' I can't take an X-ray, but you don't have any of the related symptoms that show from typical causes of scoliosis and to my touch the vertebrae themselves do not seem to be distorted except for a lateral asymmetry - no twisting, for example. It would seem to be an aspect of the overall transformation rather than a pathology. That gives me hope that it will correct itself as the transformation continues."

I nodded, thinking about the growth that was starting on my other boob.

"In addition, I noticed that your hips are quite level. In part, this is because there was no asymmetric damage and so whatever is happening seems to be happening symmetrically, but there is no indication of scoliosis in the hips. I'll return to that in a minute, but I think it's significant."

I figured that was the good news part, which meant the other part was coming.

"There is the issue of your diarrhea," he said. "That was surprising, but I think I understand it now." His smile grew wider. "You know, your case is just fascinating! There are so many aspects, it's like a great puzzle to solve. I wasn't kidding when I said that the smell of your discharge was a good sign. You need to keep hydrating, but from your report you're generating a lot of urine too and you're not showing any signs of dehydration. Why do you suppose that is?"

"I think you're the doctor," I replied, but his smile was too compelling to ignore, so I smiled as I said it.

He chuckled, then his smile took on a wry flavor. "I guess I'll pat myself on the back for a second, but give me that second to show you something."

Hendricks went to his bag and pulled out a tablet like the one Phelps favored. He did the tap/slide thing for a few seconds, then he pulled up the pictures that we had seen of Anastasia Romanov's design. He made the portrait go away and then pointed at the full-body figure, he asked, "How tall is that woman?"

"I don't know," I said, not sure why that was relevant to my urgent and frequent trips to the bathroom.

"Exactly," he crowed. "There is no scale and the amount of change your nanites caused in your shoulder means that literally any dimension could change from your previous body. However, your hips are not changing - at least in elevation."

"Elevation?" I repeated.

"Yes," he confirmed. "The change in your skin tone, which is flowing out from, ah, 'islands' of repair, provides a good indication of where the nanites have made changes. We've discussed those and other than the damage from the accident which is focused on your ribs and shoulder, the rest of the immediate changes were in areas of degeneration due to age. However, just as your eyes changed color when the cataracts were repaired, it appears that the nanites go directly to the final configuration when they affect an area."

I wasn't getting his point, and I suppose my irritation was starting to show. Hendricks noticed and visibly reined in his enthusiasm for my 'fascinating' condition. In fact, he twitched like he was shaking off an itchy blanket and resurrected a more casual smile. "Let's sit down," he suggested.

The apartment had a couple of easy chairs that I let my guests have. I sat a hip on the bed because I was leaning too far to the side to be comfortable in an armchair.

"The hips are the key, you see," Hendricks said, though in fact I did *not* see. "With the height of your hips, I can calibrate the size of this computer image. In anticipation of this, I estimated several anthropometric dimensions. I think the elevation of your hips is stable and with that I can scale the entire image."

Finally the light started to dawn. Which made me feel pretty stupid because some of it was obvious. I shouldn't have needed the idea of calibrating that image to make it clear that the Anastasia Romanov figure was not just a reshaping of my old body.

"So, I'm shedding weight," I said.

"Exactly," Hendricks confirmed. "Let me show you." He did a few more tap/slide things on the tablet and the perfect figure became distorted. One shoulder was significantly higher than the other, and I saw my own distortion in the image.

"Your original body was about 5'11", right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said with an almost snarl. That had been a major source of irritation. "I used to be just over 6 feet, but . . ."

"Yes, that's common as we age," he said. "However, women's legs are a bit longer in proportion to their overall stature than men. If - as I expect - the elevation of your hips is a way to scale the image, we can see that the Anastasia body is only 5'9" in stature. Your right shoulder is just getting to the appropriate height a bit faster than your left, just as your right breast is getting to the right, ah, cup size a bit faster than your left."

There were a lot of things that I should have been more concerned about than the size of my ti . . . um, boobs, but I just couldn't help myself. "What . . . um . . . what cup size would that be?"

He was a doctor but my typical male focus was still enough to get him to blush a bit. My face got hot too, especially after Cinnamon giggled.

Hendricks tapped a few more commands and then showed me the result. It was a full table with a lot of dimensions and I didn't see cup size in the list. In fact, there were so many parameters in his table that I was having a hard time absorbing anything meaningful.

"Wow," Cinnamon said. "I'm jealous."

I looked at her and I suppose my confusion showed. She giggled again, then began to point out specific numbers. "This shows a stature of 5'9" as Dr. Hendricks said. I'm assuming you scaled the bone characteristics to things like wrist size . . ?" she said, looking at Hendricks for confirmation. ". . . which leads to an estimate of 118 pounds, which is really good. I weigh about the same - exactly how much difference I'm not going to share, thank you very much - and I'm four inches shorter."

Then she started pointing out other dimensions - horizontal dimensions. "This shows a 36 inch bust, which - with this ribcage size - means you'll be at least a D cup, maybe a DD. Then there is a 21-inch waist and 34-inch hips. With that much . . . bounty, at that total weight the bone structure needs to be very delicate and elegant. That's part of the reason this girl is so beautiful."

She studied the image a bit more, then gave a strangely self-satisfied snicker. "Actually, Doctor, I think you're off on the weight estimate. With that much hair, I'm betting on at least 125." She looked at me and said, "Which means you need to shed about forty pounds."

"More like fifty," I grumped.

Hendricks said, "You may be right about the weight of the hair. I didn't take that into account. That is a lot of hair."

"Oh, joy," I said. "Well, I can always cut it shorter."

"Maybe," Dr. Hendricks said. "But at the rate your hair is growing, the nanites may have something to say about that."

"My hair is growing?" I said, then realized I must have been blocking that out. Now it was my turn to smile ruefully. "Well, I knew I needed a haircut." I had, in fact, needed a haircut before all this started. I usually did. It was a lot of bother just to trim up a fringe and few wisps and without Cora to nag me . . . When I was younger, I'd never had really long hair but I had kept enough to take a real part most of my life. Without even thinking about it, I had finger-combed my hair into something like a part - not realizing that meant it had grown at least a couple of inches overnight.

Dr. Hendricks started gathering up his things. Other than putting his tablet computer away, the first thing he did was take off his sterile clothing. "One other good news is that my tests on the nanites in your blood show that they die almost immediately after exposure to any number of out-of-body conditions; temperature below 90 degrees, free oxygen, humidity below 98%. That means you can come off the toxic-waste watch. I only put this on because the diarrhea might have been something else."

I nodded, then shook my head in a second-thought contradiction. "But that stuff came out of that thermos thing and flowed over me."

"Yes, I thought about that," Dr. Hendricks said. "I expect it was a fail-safe built into the nanite design. I didn't have any first-generation nanites to check of course, but I believe that after the first generation they become self-limiting to the host. Anna Raymond is a high-order genius and that includes an understanding of the dangers of her invention."

Then he frowned and added, "But she's a fool, too, for introducing a new form of life into an environment with no natural checks and balances. These things may mutate into anything." A shrug partially negated his frown. "On the other hand, unless they mutate, they're safe for anyone else. Of course, we can't predict when or if that will happen but continuing isolation protocols aren't adding any value right now."

He invited the rest of Phelps' team back into the room, but only briefly. After recapping his findings, he left. The others followed and for the first time in most of four days I had some actual privacy.

Which I spent running back to the toilet. Apparently my 45 minutes of periodic furlough was over.

The rest of the day was more of the same. My scoliosis got worse until mid-afternoon then seemed to stabilize. My hair was growing even faster, and my weight kept dropping.

Along with my teeth.

Chapter 4 - "Duke? Or Duchess?"

****************
Interlude

Chemical supply warehouses have a lot less security than police evidence lockers but even in the middle of the night they still have security; cameras and guards. Or in the case of NW Chemicals, a guard. Three figures moved quietly through the darkened warehouse district of San Julian. Two were obviously men - taller and in one case much broader than the smaller figure. The tall, thin man moved to a junction box and jumped a few connections using an enigmatic little box with no external markings. After that the three figures moved to the loading bay at the back of the warehouse.

The biggest figure took a crowbar from within his long coat, then set himself at the door. "Ready?" he asked. He didn't really look for a response. All attempt at stealth ended when he crammed the head of the crowbar into the door jam and forced it open. They were not surprised when no alarm sounded. However, the sound of the crash was enough to alert the guard - as they had also expected. The big man moved with deceptive speed into the gloomy building to intercept. His crowbar showed usefulness at more than breaking open doors and in a little more than ten seconds the guard was no longer an issue.

Prior reconnaissance had established that there was only one guard so the team took out flashlights and started to search the shelves. The dynamics of the team changed when the violent part of the task was completed. Now the smaller figure was obviously in charge.

"Send for the truck," a woman's voice commanded, revealing the gender of the smallest figure. The thin man pulled out a cell phone and passed along the order while the woman and the bigger man moved through the building. She indicated various boxes, including some that held equipment as well as raw chemicals. Her accomplice started loading her selections on a hand truck and moving them to the door even as the thinner man walked up. The woman directed the two men to the parcels she wanted in a revolving parade and in a little less than 20 minutes overall, they were gone.

*************

There was more bad news the next morning. At one level I guess I had been expecting it. I was never one to play ostrich about bad news. But to experience the reality was something else.

My dick was gone. Balls, too. Even the VC hadn't actually done that (obviously) despite all their threats with rusty old machetes.

The change was abrupt enough between what I had used for my last horse-volume piss and what I found when I woke up that I actually got out of bed and looked through the sheets to find out if they had fallen off. That wasn't a joke; not at the time, and not since. I don't know what I expected would happen if I *did* find the missing parts. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. But there wasn't anything in the bed but sweat.

Even in my panic, moving around revealed three more discoveries. One was that the clock showed it was almost three hours since I had fallen asleep, which was at least an hour and a half longer than I had been able to stay away from the toilet for way too long. That was the one bit of good news. The next discovery was that my hair had grown almost six inches overnight, making it longer than I had ever had before. It was surprisingly even, too. The places that had been bald were long enough to hang in my face and had pretty much caught up with the places that were just longer. Somehow the nanites seemed to be able to tell how long my hair was and they were doing their normal 'fix the worst problems first' thing. That didn't bode well for any subsequent attempts to cut it. The last new discovery was that my back was less twisted than when I had gone to bed. As I moved the covers around, I wasn't quite standing upright, but I could if I wanted to.

Well, there was a fourth bit of news, but it was not so much of a discovery as a confirmation. My right boob was getting enormous, and the left was well past 'girl' and into 'woman.'

None of that mattered much. After all I had just been castrated. The old thing hadn't been much use for the last few years - even when Cora was still alive - but it was important to me anyway.

When Cinnamon came in to give me another sports-drink bottle and to see how I was doing, the answer was not too well. I had flopped back down on the bed and curled up into a ball. The tears on my pillow didn't do much to resurrect my lost masculinity, but I didn't really care.

"What's wrong?" asked Cinnamon.

"Go away," I demanded, not looking at her. That was the first thing I said that morning and my voice was different, too. I was now more like a husky alto than a gravelly baritone. More joy.

She didn't go away, of course. I suppose I should have been glad it was her that found me instead of Willy-T. I don't suppose he would have laughed at my dickless state, but he might have run screaming down the hallway on the supposedly-unlikely chance that I was contagious.

Cinnamon did use the room phone to make a call and in a few minutes Phelps showed up. I had already decided he was a very smart and insightful guy so at some level it wasn't a surprise that instead of trying to get me to talk or something, he just spoke quietly with Cinnamon for a few minutes. I didn't really care, but I wasn't surprised.

After he left, Cinnamon came to sit on the side of the bed. "I assume from your, um, distress that something has changed?"

"Go away," I croaked again.

Her voice took on a musing tone as though she were more thinking out loud than trying to talk to me - even though the words themselves were obviously directed to me. "Y'know, I really like working for Jim. The work is exciting and the guys on the team are great, but the really good thing is Jim himself. He's incredibly smart in lots of technical ways, but he's also wise. He continually amazes me with his insights."

I didn't respond - at least, I didn't say anything, but I had to admit I was curious about where she was going with that so I did look at her.

She still looked at one of the standard-issue landscape prints on the wall and kept her voice easy and almost distant. "In just about two seconds he noticed that your hair was longer - which didn't seem like it would make you withdraw like this - and noticed that your figure is better - which probably didn't either since that's been an ongoing issue. And while no one is staying with you any more, if you'll forgive the, um, indelicate topic, we still can tell when you're . . . having trouble with your innards. If nothing else, we can hear the toilet flush over and over. That hasn't happened for several hours now and that can't be what made you so upset."

She finally looked back at me directly, catching my eyes before I looked away. "Altogether, I don't expect it took him four seconds to guess what's wrong. So tell me . . . Duke, are you more of a, um, 'Duchess' now?"

"Go away!" I croaked again, but I felt the tears boil out of my tight-shut eyes and my chest heave with helpless sobs.

"Oh, honey," she said, reaching out to give me a hug. "I'm sorry for you. I know I can't understand what it must mean to you, but I'm here to help you through it. The whole team will help you through it."

I just cried for a while. A long while, it seemed. But she just held me and for some reason all that crying seemed to help. When I finally ran down I even managed a weak little smile. It was more embarrassment than real humor but it was intended to be reassuring and I knew that was actually fair. I truly did feel better.

"It was only a matter of time," she said gently, and even a few minutes before that would have made it worse, but somehow it helped.

It also helped that I had a new set of teeth. I didn't remember swallowing the remaining ones so they must have been absorbed or something. I figured I had about 4 left when I went to sleep - a very trailer-trash look if there ever was one. But I could feel a full set so that little trial seemed to be over. There had been some gaps for a few years that hadn't seem important enough to get fixed with some sort of partial denture and they were gone, too. As I began to emerge from my crying jag I recognized there were some parts of getting younger that were nice to have. They didn't make up for the loss of my manhood . . . but somehow the crying seemed to have addressed that issue in some not-subject-to-analysis way.

Cinnamon wasn't too bad with insights herself. That might have been a test statement, because when I didn't lose control again she prodded a bit more. "So, um . . . Duchess, you told me you weren't one for half measures . . ," she giggled a bit, because we both remembered I had said that one time when I was stinking up the whole wing of the complex, ". . . so are you ready to embrace the girl side of the Force? Are you man enough to be a girl?"

"Not any more," I grumped, but it was sort of for-the-record. I didn't have any choice and if there was any part of the ol' Duke left, it was in facing problems head on. Of course, I didn't know what she meant at the time.

One part of that was sitting to pee. As soon as I let myself be prodded into standing up, I had a real urge to unload. Since I hadn't eaten anything for two days, the last couple of bouts had been all liquid and predominately processed through my kidneys. That's the sort of urge I felt, and thank God I figured out the implication of not having a penis to direct the flow before I made a mess everywhere. I managed to twirl and sit just as the need was becoming truly irresistible, but the only splash was liquid on liquid, not liquid on floor.

That gave me a chance to explore just what had happened. Despite some very . . . memorable occasions studying Cora 'up close and personal' I hadn't ever seen things from this particular perspective. As best I could tell, things *looked* normal - for a woman, that is. However, my rather thin and weak fingers couldn't find any opening behind the guarding shapes so I wasn't fully developed; neither an outie nor a full innie. Thank God for small favors.

When I finished what had to be done, I was trying to remember where I had some clean sweats when Cinnamon knocked on the door. "Are you okay in there?"

"That's way too deep a question for this soon after finding out what happened while I slept," I replied, but I tried to keep my tone light. She took that as some sort of permission I guess, because the next thing I knew the door was opening and she was walking in. I had my underwear on, but the sweats were, well, sweaty so I was naked other than that. My first reflex was to cover my new accessories, which was getting pretty hard to do with a single left hand trying to cover the entire right side.

"Okay, Your Grace, into the shower."

That sounded wonderful. I hadn't taken a shower for the three days I had been awake (I thought I was starting Day 5 since the infection) and probably only had hospital sponge baths for the other two days. I had used washcloths to clean up the worst of things - sweat, too - so I wasn't too funky but I sure didn't feel clean.

Despite her order, before she let me into the shower she took some measurements. I don't know what she expected but she seemed to nod in satisfaction as she sailed from the room. I took my normal quick shower, only extended a little because it took a couple of times with the shampoo to get all the oily slickness out of my longer hair. Before I was done Cinnamon was back. Just as I turned the water off, she opened the shower curtain.

"Okay, Duchess, we need to talk."

That was not an opening designed to reassure me, but I didn't say anything. I was too busy trying to cover my overly ample boob (on the right side, at least) and my newly reduced privates.

"Lighten up," she demanded. "We're all girls here now."

"Now," I repeated, but I nodded. I didn't move my hands, though.

"You need to take care of that," she said, pointing at my legs. "And that," she continued, pointing at my shoulder. I didn't get what she was after for a second, and then I realized.

"I'm not going to shave my pits. No way."

"Yes, you will," she said, but her voice was gentle instead of commanding. "Okay, *Ms.* Chase, you're going to have to make a choice. You're either going to have to become a woman and *live* this new life you've been handed, or you're going to have to become a nun."

"A nun?" I repeated in confusion.

"I would be a crime against all women everywhere for someone with the face and body of Anastasia to go around all shaggy. Millions . . . *billions* of women would pay any price to have what you're going to get. Unless you want to wear a cloistered nun's habit for the rest of your life, you need to embrace your beauty and be proud of it."

"I'm not Catholic," I said like that had anything to do with her real point.

"Good, then that's settled. Here," she handed me a disposable razor and some sort of lotion. "You're going to nick yourself the first time. But be as careful as you can and take your time. This place has a hot water heater that even *I* can't run dry. Legs, pits, and unless you want me to help you, bikini line."

"Oh, god," I groaned, but I turned back into the shower. When I had the water running Cinnamon stuck her hand under it then turned the temperature up to just short of what you use on lobsters . . . and then guarded the control until I quit screaming.

It took forever. And I did nick myself. The first one was on my knee, the front side, followed by another nick on the back of my other knee. And my toes! There were just a few little straggly hairs on my toes but getting them shaved was a pain - literally, because I probably nicked myself three times doing it. However, by the time I (finally) finished with my toes the nick on my knee was completely gone - not even a mark. That gave me a bit more confidence when I did my armpits and the funny thing about confidence is once you move more surely you move more accurately. I didn't nick my pits even once [Thank you, God].

I didn't know if Cinnamon were serious in offering to help me with my bikini line, but once a long time ago Cora had challenged me to 'get creative' about the accent to her own feminine mystery. I had given her a nice little heart. And later a few other things.

I went slowly - very - but I managed to do something similar to myself and it was only when I was finishing up that I realized what I had actually been doing. Trimming my bush in a 'cute' little shape was not on my 'to-do' list when I had gone for a walk along the lake a few lifetimes ago.

When I got out of the shower there was a new pair of underwear sitting nearby. Honest-to-God, accept-no-substitutes panties. Lace and everything (well, at least a little around the top). They weren't granny panties . . . maybe someday every single action I took wouldn't remind me of something I had done or talked about or experienced in some other way with Cora, who told me what that meant . . . but they weren't some silly thong thing either. I chalked it up to one more "take it like a man" challenge - laughing at myself even as I had that thought. There was also a sort of stretchy bra - at least, it had the band and straps and cups of a bra, but it was all one piece and I had to pull it on over my head. To my surprise, it felt really good. The weight of the one on the right was constantly tugging at my skin and with this bra it felt like my shoulder was carrying most of the load.

I was pretty unbalanced. The one on the right had about twice the volume, I think, and that didn't go away when the stretchy bra covered it. But neither of them was wandering around in circles any more. And best of all, the nipples weren't being rubbed all the time!

The girl - and it was definitely a girl - in the mirror wasn't the impossible beauty Anastasia, but she had the sort of understated but undeniable femininity of a busy homemaker on her way to the grocery store. The only real issue was the stringy hair, which Cinnamon had told me not to try to dry.

Or at least, that's what I thought. When I came out of the bathroom, my personal torturer was waiting.

Actually, the first thing she did was give me a new outfit to wear. It was a nice, nylon or something smooth like that, exercise suit. Color-coordinated in a deep blue with something not-quite pink for accent (is 'mauve' really a color, or just faded purple?). She had measured my feet but I was still offered simple little slippers for which I was suitably grateful. That's when she let her inner Marquesa de Sade out.

It started with my eyebrows. I thought they weren't too bad - even for a girl. They were certainly a lot thinner, both in area covered and in bushiness, than my own had been. But that wasn't good enough for the Marquesa.

[She really knows her business,] I decided. [Taking it slow like that achieves the maximum tortuous effect.]

"There, that's better," she claimed after about the second week (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). I tried to get a look, but she held me to my seat. "Just a little makeup . . ."

[Kill me now,] I prayed softly. To whom I don't know.

True to her word she didn't do much more. She brushed just a bit of powder in a couple of colors, then made my eyelashes heavier and painted my lips. Then she turned the chair so I could see the results while she started brushing on my hair while running a hair dryer over it.

I don't know what I expected to see. The photo in Phelps' tablet had been incredible . . . and I wasn't. With Cinnamon's further touches I had moved from harried homemaker to comfortable-in-her-own-skin woman on a casual outing, but not the stone fox of that portrait. I was also a lot older than that photo. I mean, in appearance. I would have judged the woman in the mirror to be somewhere around forty, which was amazing considering I had lapped that age some time ago. But it wasn't the early 20's of the photo. I was surprised to find that disappointed me.

It was a bit awkward to stand straight, but not impossible. When she finally let me up I tried to get the full effect. For some reason, I turned a bit sideways to the mirror, then pulled my warm-up top a bit tighter. My right side just happened to be toward the mirror - coincidence, really! - and the way my back arched a little was just compensation for the scoliosis.

Cinnamon didn't buy it. She just started snickering, then giggling, then flat out laughing. I should have been mortified but I found myself swept along by her joy and was suddenly laughing myself. Somewhere in there I heard an, "If you've got 'em - even just one of 'em - flaunt it." That set us both off again and I ended up laughing so hard that I almost wet myself, which was both embarrassing and hilarious at the same time. I dashed back into the bathroom to relieve that problem, but that didn't stop the laughter from either of us.

"Okay, Your Grace, let's go knock their socks off," she called out when she figured I'd been in the little room long enough. She was right. I had plenty of time to finish, and even to quit laughing. Instead I was frowning as I looked at myself in that mirror and trying to decide if my butt was really as big as it seemed.

After another moment she opened the door and hauled me out by main force. She as still laughing, but she calmed down when she saw my frown.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, stealing one last glance in the mirror.

"Oh, girl, you are *not* gonna tell me you were thinkin' your ass was too big. I'll kill you if you say you were. Your bottom is way too beautiful for negative thoughts."

"Not yet," I said, stopping to compare what I had seen on my body to her hips. She had ditched her suit the day we arrived in the complex and was wearing a pair of jeans that made her look awesome. I wasn't sure why her rear looked so much better than mine because I figured I looked pretty much like a girl except for the lopsided issue up top. But it wasn't the same. I had a ways to go to look as good as her, and a further ways to go to look as good as that Anastasia body image.

"Time to show the guys," she declared despite my own sense of wrongness. It wasn't just that I looked like a woman. I had been through an hour of crying over my lost manhood, an hour of laughing over my emerging vanity, and more than enough time looking at myself in the mirror. I knew that I was past some conceptual point of no return. But I wasn't . . . right. I wasn't . . . I wasn't the woman in that computer-generated image.

And I wanted to be her. It wasn't because I had deep-seated, from-childhood desires to be a girl or anything. I was more than happy being a man - for sure the whole time I had been with Cora - but I was a normal jock Army pilot before that and very comfortable with who I was. So why did I want to be the woman in that image?

[Maybe I'm rejecting the crotchety old codger I had become,] I thought. [Maybe this is that alternative to being dead that seemed not to exist. Could that be it?]

With the sort of, "well, duh" realization that made it a question that shouldn't even have needed to be asked, that was now obvious. It wasn't because I wanted to be a woman and for sure nothing would ever happen in a guy-girl way even if I were as biologically female as they came. But I was becoming younger. And more than that, reasonably attractive. If that sort of rejuvenation were even possible, then why not wish for even more? Why not wish to be truly beautiful?

Cinnamon - bless her heart - gave me the time to be introspective. She didn't chatter or try to get me out of my distraction except by herding me out the door. She made me take my energy drink along though, and start sipping at it even as we walked. It was more than strange to see a spot of lipstick on the straw, but in the list of strangeness in my life I was more surprised that I even noticed such a minor thing than that it was there.

She led me past the dining room to something more like a conference room or work room. There were at least a dozen computers around, with half a dozen flat screens as big as the TV I always wanted to have. The guys had them all in use with various images of what looked like newspaper pages (though the edge frames made it clear those were the online versions rather than scanned-in images), maps, and tables of data.

"We may have a lead," Phelps said as Cinnamon entered. But he didn't tell us what the lead was. In fact, nobody said a thing for what seemed like several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds.

"Wow," Barney finally said.

Willy-T seconded it, literally, "You can say that again."

Cinnamon laughed. Swinging her hips out to the side, she did a Mae West flirt. "Ooh, why, thank you big boy."

You could see the blush even on Willy-T's dark skin, but he smiled and nodded. Phelps went right past that interchange.
"You seem to be adapting very well," he complimented me. "Better than I expected, and I had very high expectations after the degree of courage you demonstrated in Nam."

"Thanks," I said, feeling heat in my cheeks as I dropped my eyes. I realized that somewhere through the hours I had spent with Cinnamon my voice had . . . cleaned up a bit. The pitch hadn't changed a lot from the alto range but the tones were a lot more clear than the earlier rasp. "It hasn't been easy. The trots and twisted body and whatever weren't the worst either, but Cinnamon is awesome and, well . . . I believe in facing the truth, come what may."

"Good for you," Phelps said. "How are you feeling - aside from what I'm sure is a great deal of shock, of course?"

"Good enough," I reported. "The scoliosis is diminishing, and the . . . digestive issues seem to be subsiding as well."

"Would you like something to eat?" he offered.

"No thanks. I expect I still have fifteen or twenty pounds to shed."

"You look good as you are," Barney said gallantly.

"Thank you," I replied, trying on a smile to see how it fit on my new face. With my new, gapless teeth.

Before we got stuck in talking about what I looked like, which was something that was occupying too much of my attention already, I prompted, "You said you had a lead?"

"Yes," Phelps confirmed. "There was a break-in at a chemical supply store."

"What was taken?" Cinnamon asked.

"Barney has a list, but it's pretty clear it *could* be used for biological processes and DNA fabrication. We just don't know if that's what it *will* be used for."

With that, the team swung into what looked like a well-practiced working session. It was informal, with calls across the room, and bathroom/snack/stretch breaks as needed (mostly mine except for the snacking). It would have been nice to be able to run a correlation with similar MO's or something, but there weren't many real clues to the MO. A door was broken in, apparently after neutralizing the alarm, and the guard was killed by a blow to the head that the report suggested had come from the same tool used to force the door. There were a lot of burglaries like that in the US every day, let alone in the not-quite-week since my encounter with the nanites.

I only realized after an hour or so that I was actually part of the team. It was never mentioned by anyone, just taken for granted that I would help where I could. I suppose that it wasn't necessary to mention. If anyone wanted - needed - to know what this Anna Raymond was up to, it would be me. But what made me feel good is that they seemed to accept without question that I *could* contribute.

And then it came to me that I might truly be *able* to contribute, in a meaningful way. All I had done until I retired was fly choppers. First in the Army, including Nam and a bit after, then as a civilian flying oil rig runs. Somewhere in there was even a stint as a corporate pilot flying bigwigs around one megalopolis or another. But I could handle a computer well enough for simple searches and build a spreadsheet or whatever a normal small business needed.

I was going to have to talk with Phelps about flying again. I lost my medical clearance before I lost Cora, but now . . . ? Maybe . . . ?

Chapter 5 - "Leads"

****************
Interlude

The risk that chemicals might be used to cause trouble was sufficient to ensure legal requirements for security precautions. But medical devices are expensive enough that simple economics in a free market ensure their protection. That same free market ensures that there will be local supplies for most items so a moderate sized city like Portland, Oregon has more MRIs than the entire socialized medicine heaven of Canada. The problem for the gang's next target was not who had the right supplies, but which one to pick.

The four shadowy figures approaching "Swift Response Medical Equipment" in Portland had a shopping list, but they didn't intend to pay list prices. Of course, the fact it was well after midnight and the company was closed had something to do with that. They spread to their assigned duties with rehearsed ease. The tall thin one took care of the alarms with a little box of his own invention. The tall broad one waited for the signal, then forced a door. The two smaller figures slid into the interior as soon as it was open enough for their compact shapes.

They were surprised to find two guards. They expected one, but an after-the-fact analysis suggested that the early-shift guard had stayed to watch a game on one of the guard room monitors that had been modified - illicitly - to receive a satellite signal. The two were yelling at the TV - that always helped - to complain about a bad referee call when the door was opened. They never even noticed the motion.

"What do you want to do, boss?" one of the smaller figures asked the other.

"I'm not turning back now," the other replied, revealing a woman's voice. "Do what you have to do."

"Roger that," the man said, not bothering to conceal the glee in his tone. The first guard fell to his silent knife, but the second noticed and actually had the skills to get his service weapon out before the murderous intruder could retrieve his knife. Not that it mattered. The knife wielder was already reaching for a spare blade. That didn't matter, either. As soon as the guard started on his draw, a gun roared from behind the two intruders.

The big man smiled as he waved his gun around to let the barrel cool. "I figured you could use my help."

"Bring the van," the female boss ordered over her radio link.

In half an hour, they had what she required.

************

My back was straight the next day. I moved over to the marks that Dr. Hendricks had left on the wall, and true to his prediction, the points by my hips seemed to be at the same height. My hips seemed huge, but in fact they were a little slimmer than before. My old body had thickened with time and my pants were approaching the forty-inch-waist range when . . . well, when I died, I guess. I might as well think of it that way. Anyway, what made my hips look so big was that my waist was getting very narrow. What I could see of it. My bust - the right side at least - was doing a pretty good job of hiding anything below it. The left one was getting up there, too.

When I did my morning bathroom thing the sensations were different. After I did what I had to do, I did what I . . . had to do. I explored a little. It was probably time to send for Dr. Hendricks again. I was going to need to know if this new equipment was complete and, um, functional. It felt that way. There was definitely an opening down there now.

And some of the nerves were certainly hooked up, too. I wasn't like, trying to do anything, but even touching a few places to . . . figure out what was there took my breath away and set off a chain reaction of tight little buds on top and sloppy wet tissues below.

Well, okay, so I did rub things a little. Sue me. It was my body now and Cora had been most patient in teaching me what worked, and what worked even better. My . . . investigation was successful. Wild, breath-taking, heart-stopping, body-puddling success.

I was a little disappointed that Cinnamon didn't show up to help me get ready to face the world - or at least the rest of the team. The shower I could handle and I even managed to shave my legs and pits slick and smooth all by myself. Knowing that any nicks would heal before I could even get all my hair washed made that a lot less intimidating anyway. Speaking of hair, I had a ton of it, reaching well down my back. It soaked up water for about ten minutes before any of the rest of me even started getting wet, and then it dripped it back out until I was ready to scream for help.

That wasn't the only problem. In some ways, it wasn't even the worst. I now had long nails. Not ridiculous claws, but at least half an inch past the ends of my fingertips, and they poked and pinched and . . . well, when I was, um, 'experimenting' they hadn't seemed so bad, but when I was actually trying to *do* something useful, they were everywhere! Just holding the stupid hair dryer and brush required . . . well, planning. Nothing seemed natural. [*Ha!*, like anything in my life was natural any more.]

Cora had shown me a lot of things, but she had never had really long hair while we were together. Some of her high school pictures showed an awesome glory of blonde sunlight but as much as I liked long hair (on others), I had never really made a point of asking her to let hers grow again. However, even with a merely collar-length cut she did show me the basics of brushing hair that was still wet while running a hair dryer over it. It was a little service I could do her, especially after the cancer made her so weak. I had tears of loss running down my cheeks as I brushed and dried all the hair I now owned, but in a way it was okay. It made me feel closer to Cora again, thinking of how it must have felt from her side. Speaking - thinking - of things from her side, I decided I should try a little makeup. Which was mostly a disaster but Cinnamon had showed me how to scrub it all off. It only took . . . oh, about three weeks to get something that didn't look childish - mostly by using less of everything each time I tried. By the time I was done I had my emotions under control and was actually just a little bit hungry.

I found a clean warm-up suit, plus a pair of athletic shoes in a new box. They fit, which was not surprising considering how many ways I had been measured over the last week, and I finally decided I was ready to venture out of the sanctuary of my room.

As I walked along I discovered that all that hair was a flat-out pain. Even with the small air movement generated while I walked, it flowed everywhere. Some of it got in my eyes. Some got in my mouth, where it stuck to the lipstick I had tried so hard to get right. Some of it tickled at the corner of my nose. I was brushing it back for about the nine-millionth time in the three minutes I walked to get to the dining room when I saw Cinnamon.

"You have to do something about this hair!" I demanded, not even saying hello.

"Why, Duchess, you look great," she said. Then she snickered, "But I can see what you mean. We need to get you to a salon ASAP."

"Not until I figure out a way to keep this jungle out of my face," I said.

"Oh, I can help you with that right away," she promised. It turned out to be simple. She had a scrunchy that was quickly holding my dark forest in a heavy-but-out-of-the-way ponytail. I wasn't sure if my neck would handle the weight all day, but it was better than the alternative of leaving it flying everywhere. Cinnamon promised to show me a few tricks later. Then she was both pleased and surprised when I asked if she had any instant oatmeal. It turned out they didn't but she did have some ready-to-cook oatmeal that was surprisingly easy to fix. All I added were some fruit and a bit of brown sugar. That, plus a cup of coffee, was plenty.

The next thing on my list was to do something about those nails.

"Cinnamon, do you have some nail clippers? I have to get rid of these claws."

"Clippers?!" she repeated in horror. "Don't you dare!"

"What's wrong?"

"A pretty girl *never* uses clippers. We can go to a salon if you want, but for your own maintenance you use an emery board, plus a few other things."

That few other things turned out to be a dozen little bits of this and that. That's when we found the next of Anastasia's design features. Starting with the good news; my nails grew out strong and even and looked manicured with natural color tones even if I didn't do anything to them. The bad news was that they were tougher than aircraft composites. The first time I tried to use an emery board it was demolished in minutes. Cinnamon still wouldn't let me use clippers and I didn't argue because I figured it would take tin-snips or something. In any event, Barney provided a metal file - not a little fingernail file made out of metal, but a no-kidding, grind-down-on-steel metalworking tool. It still took a while to get those things down to a manageable length, but my satisfaction at actually reclaiming even a little control over my life moved getting a haircut up to near the top of the list. However, I decided not to attempt any self-scalping so I made my way back to the war room. If anything, the energy level was higher than the day before.

"More leads?" I asked.

Barney took a moment to smile appreciatively at my appearance, but nodded. "Another burglary last night. A medical supply store. Two dead guards."

"Any other correlation?"

"The door was forced in pretty much the same way, the alarms were bypassed, and something we should have thought about yesterday."

I asked a question with a newly-thinned eyebrow which was apparently enough to get an answer. "They only took a few things. Not even the most expensive items in the store. That was the case in the chemical warehouse as well."

"Not enough to sell for a lot of profit?" I confirmed.

By this time Phelps had come walking up. "No," he said. "That's part of why we're thinking it might be her. Or people working for her."

I thought for a moment about that. This body was amazing. I felt strong yet supple, flexible and energetic. My skin was sensitive - in some places, extremely sensitive - yet nothing ached except . . . I was going to have to take a more careful inventory of aches because I did have a few, but nothing like my old body had before. And the face, while not yet matching the image in the computer file was clearly on its way there. All that spoke to me of meticulous, even fanatic planning.

"She wouldn't send anyone else," I declared. "This woman won't tolerate anything but perfection. And if the exact items she might requisition weren't there, she wouldn't trust anyone but herself to select an acceptable substitute."

"You say that like you know her," Phelps said. "But I think you're probably right."

"I guess you could say that I *am* her," I said. "I'm seeing the results of her programming every minute of every day. She's analytical, and disciplined beyond the genius level. No one else could measure up to her standards so she 'takes care of things' herself. And she's confident. So confident that her initial experiment at the human level was to be on herself. No, she was there."

That raised another question. "If they aren't getting enough from these burglaries to generate a lot of money, where is their money coming from?"

"We were looking into that," Barney reported. "She had several research grants but those went to fund her lab. We can't find any sign that she siphoned off any significant amounts of money. And she didn't have any family money to speak of. Her mother died of some sort of genetic disorder when she was . . .let's see . . . about Anna's age now. Her father died in an industrial accident but the settlement didn't even pay her full way through college. She had some student loans that were only paid off after she got her own lab."

"Hmm," I mused, trying to put myself in her shoes. I wasn't anything like a genius, but I was an Army officer at one time and a successful small businessman after that. Well, successful for aviation, which is not too impressive for a lot of other fields.

Something about shoes was bothering me, but that thought wouldn't stand up on its own yet.

"So, they hit at night. They kill the guards without hesitation - like it was part of the plan all along - and they take specific items . . ."

My thoughts took a twist. "What if the first robbery was for money? Or . . . how did they kill the guards? Two? Did they beat them to death with whatever they used to force the door?"

"No," Phelps said. "One was killed by a knife to the back of the neck. The other was shot."

"Knife? If they shot one then why not both? Unless they planned to kill a guard going in and a knife was the way they intended to do it. I wonder if they only expected one guard. If they planned on using a knife, they have a cold-blooded killer with them."

I started to walk around, trying to loosen up my ankles which were the site of some of those aches that still bothered me. They were tight for some reason. Walking helped me think anyway. "I knew guys in Nam who liked to use a knife. I knew a lot of guys who *pretended* they liked to use a knife, but most of them would have crapped their pants if they were ever in a real knife fight. If this guy *wanted* to use a knife, it wouldn't be the first time he did it."

"You know, it's funny but the guys I knew who were really good with a knife? They were all small guys. Thin little weasel types who were faster than shit. The big guys wanted a gun, and if they couldn't have that then a big club. They weren't fast enough for a knife. I'll bet the guy we're looking for is below average in height and weight. Right, Willy?"

The big black man nodded his head. "Except an issue bayonet when I was in the . . . well, when I was carrying a specified load, I've never carried any more than a pocket knife. Don't like 'em. I did watch one knife fight once when I was in . . . well, a previous job. The guy who won probably weighed a buck-thirty dripping wet, and stood maybe 5'6".

It wasn't my place to lead, but part of being on Phelps' team was that anyone could suggest anything. If the team decided it had merit, it was pursued.

"Can we search for anyone who was killed with a knife in conjunction with a robbery? Not a personal robbery, but some sort of break-in thing? And starting from when I was infected with the little bastards?"

"On it," Barney reported. He frowned when the report came back. "Here's one. It actually had two knife murders in the same attack. But it was at a police station."

"A police station?" Willy-T repeated. "Was it a robbery?"

"Yeah, actually it was." Barney repeated the circumstances of a wall blown out of a building and two dead cops. "Money and guns. That should keep them going for a while."

Willy-T's eyes were looking out the window but it wasn't like he was seeing what was there. Without saying anything, he walked over to the report on the chemical supply warehouse. "Hey, Boss, I think we're talking about more than one guy."

The rest of us walked over to where he was standing. On the table was a picture of the door that had been broken in.

"I think, um, Duchess is right about the knife guy being small. But I don't think a small guy could have popped that door. I mean, it's almost clear off the hinges. I think I could do it, with a crowbar I could conceal under a long coat or something, but I don't think, say, Barney could."

"You're probably right," Barney agreed without any false pride.

"So we're looking at a real gang. Anna, a smaller but quick man who likes knives, and a big guy for muscle," Phelps said. He looked thoughtful for a minute, and then flipped through the images himself. "And it's either the case that one of them is an electronics whiz, or there's a fourth."

"We better plan on a fourth," Cinnamon said, but she was just voicing the feeling that all of us had.

Phelps frowned and his eyes sent Barney off on another search. "Why do I get the feeling that the bullet in the guard who was shot came from one of the guns in that robbery?"

Barney's search was not fruitful because the Portland cops hadn't thought to check, but a discreet suggestion through some link that I didn't understand had them looking into it. We'd have to wait and see but for some reason I was pretty confident what they would find.

In the meantime, Phelps arranged for Dr. Hendricks to come back. This examination was way, way more than undignified. Cinnamon held my hand through it, and I was really grateful even though I think I squeezed it so hard it really hurt. I know mine did.

"Well, um . . . Ms. Chase, you are a fully formed, fully functioning, supremely healthy woman. For the record, you are not a virgin. At least, you have no intact hymen."

"I didn't . . .!" I started to protest.

"Relax, Ms. Chase. I know you haven't. I expect it was part of the design. I don't think Anna Raymond gave Anastasia a body like that and expected her to be a nun. She just . . . took care of that little issue before it even became an issue."

I had twitched at the mention of being a nun, looking up to see an incipient grin in Cinnamon's eyes. Rather than let her tweak me about it, I looked back at Dr. Hendricks. "What's left? What else is going to change?"

He had taken a few measurements as part of his exam and was entering the data as I was getting dressed again. "Well, Ms. Chase . . ."

I interrupted him. "Doctor, I think after that little experience, you better call me . . . well, Duchess seems a lot more pretentious for a woman than Duke does for a man. I guess it will do, but I think I'm going to need another name. Anyway, Duchess for now."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said formally bowing, but his eyes were smiling, and not with the joy of chasing a scientific puzzle. Well, not only with that joy. "Your stature has stabilized right at the 5'9" that I predicted. With that calibration confirmed, it looks like you have about ten more pounds to lose . . ."

"Oh, joy," I interrupted again.

He grinned and continued, ". . . most of which will come from your waist, which has another couple of inches to go."

"It's gonna get smaller?!" I asked in surprise. "I feel like I'll break in half with any strong breeze now!"

"Quit bragging, tramp," Cinnamon said, but she was smiling.

Dr. Hendricks tried to complete his report. "The rest is primarily that your breasts will equalize. The right one is already where I expect them both to stabilize."

"Thank God it's not going to get any bigger!" I said plaintively.

Cinnamon nudged me and silently mouthed, "Tramp. Braggart."

The doctor sighed, but he was still smiling. It was like he thought I was protesting out of duty or something. Like I didn't really mind the body I was getting.

"I would expect your body changes to be complete by . . . oh, tomorrow at the earliest, the day after at the latest."

He stood up and moved closer to me. I wasn't sure what he had in mind and almost took a step back, but he just looked intently at my face. "I think your facial features may take at least another day as well, though women's cosmetics are so sophisticated that I can't be sure how much of the face in that portrait was after enhancement, or perhaps artistic license by whoever made the image, and how much was inherent. In any event, I think you will end up looking several years younger but the other changes from here on should be minor."

I snorted in a not-very-ladylike way and hefted my oversized right boob, then the left. "I would hardly call this difference minor."

"Now you're just fishing for compliments," Cinnamon said, snorting herself. "Fairly well done, by the way, in a sort of blatant, 'in your face' manner."

"Oh, god, that's nasty," I said, but I couldn't help laugh.

Dr. Hendricks laughed as well, then asked, "Is there anything else that’s bothering you?

That reminded me of my tight ankles. When I told him about them he frowned, and instead of looking at my ankles he went back to the computer screen. After a second's manipulation the rotating nude image was back on display.

"My daughter has some sort of Barbie Doll program on her computer. There is an image like this - not as detailed, of course - and you can 'try on' different styles for your Barbie." He pointed at the feet in the image. "Like the real dolls, the feet in that program are arched to support high-heeled shoes. When I saw that on this image, I just put it down to a similar reason."

Now he did have me sit down and take off my shoes. He told me to relax my feet as much as I could, and I saw a similar arch form. He frowned as he stretched my feet to both flatter and steeper arches. "It would seem that Anastasia's feet are designed for high-heeled shoes. Apparently Anna Raymond wanted to be able to wear them comfortably."

"You have got to be shittin' me," I snarled. "I'm going to have to wear high heels all the time?"

"Well, based on the computer image and the, um, natural curve of your feet, I think they'll be most comfortable in about 3-inch heels. You can obviously walk in flats like your tennis shoes, but after a while it will cause your ankles to ache."

"Three-inch heels," I repeated in a softer voice, but one with a lot of growl still rumbling.

"That will probably be most comfortable. Most women seem to be able to wear two-to-three inch heels comfortably, with some discomfort at higher than that. I would guess that you'll be able to wear anything between, oh, two and five inches with no problem."

He stood up and smiled wryly. "Now, you recognize that as a doctor I would never recommend that women wear even two-inch heels. But in your case, your feet are . . . designed a little differently than other women."

"Designed," I repeated, hearing the growl in my voice replaced with resignation.

The doctor gathered up his things while I was putting my shoes on again. Last-chance comments were fairly empty and he was quickly on his way.

After he was gone, I turned to Cinnamon and said, "We have *got* to find that woman now!"

"Well, yeah, but . . . I'm getting the feeling that there's something more than the usual motivation."

"Damn straight," I confirmed, growling again. It was a funny growl. In my new voice it sounded almost sensual, like a feline anticipation of a kill rather than simple anger. Which was probably *another* 'design' feature. "When I find that bitch, I am gonna beat the livin' snot out of her. High heels! I'm gonna kill her."

Cinnamon laughed at my distress, which would have put her on my list for sometime after Anna but she had been so much help to me that I decided to let her off with a scowl. Which only made her laugh more. I was going to have to work on that scowl. Maybe a pout? [Geez, where did *that* thought come from?]

When we got back to the war room the results from the Portland gunshot were available. The bullet did come from one of the guns in the South Hampton robbery. We caught another break because the South Hampton police report included the serial numbers on a lot of the stolen cash, as well. Apparently there was now an electronic way to scan higher-denomination bills for serial numbers and a lot of the cash had been in $100 bills. Those were recorded automatically.

We spent the rest of the day in a not-very-fruitful attempt to connect the dots among the three crimes that we thought were related. Other than a general trend toward the Pacific Northwest, there didn't seem to be any real pattern. Barney studied the lists of stolen items and decided they only needed a few relatively ordinary computers to program and produce another batch of nanites.

"Well, that's not good news," Phelps said. "That means she can be literally anyone. If this crew is working with her, they can become anyone as well."

"I don't think so," I offered. "In the first place, she designed that body - this body - very carefully. Anna is very plain so she has obviously put her heart and soul into this design. She won't give it up easily."

"Meaning you're going to have a twin out there?" Willy-T asked. The way he said it implied things that I definitely did *not* want to consider.

"God, I hope not," I said, shaking my head. That reminded me of the mass of hair that I was carrying around - strange that I could get used to it so quickly. "But I'll bet the body stays about the same. If I were her, I'd change the face a bit."

"You think she'll be a blonde?" Cinnamon asked, shaking her own hair. It wasn't as long or thick as mine - so sue me again, I noticed - but it was full of life and energy.

[I actually noticed that without going into a death spiral,] I realized. [Maybe it's because Cora always wore her hair shorter than that, but even thinking about that difference was easier than it had been. Oh, Cora, am I losing you? Why doesn't it feel wrong to . . . not to feel bad all the time?]

That distraction took a lot less time than it seemed from the inside because when I looked up the others were looking at me, but with patience as though they didn't find my pause unreasonable.

"Nooo," I said slowly. "That would be the obvious choice for someone who wants to be glamorous and beautiful. Too obvious. I may be overthinking this, but I'd bet on a redhead, and . . . maybe a bit younger looking. She'll need a fake ID anyway, so she can keep her claimed age at 21 even if she looks more like 18. Makeup will help when she wants to look older, but she could pass for younger, too, if she needs to."

Willy-T couldn't hide a bit of leer in his grin, "So, we're looking for a teen-age redhead with your body? But she's really old enough to be legal in all states?"

"Down boy," Cinnamon said . . . on my behalf, because I was just staring open-mouthed at Willy-T's expression. Well, that and trying to decide if I should slug him or run back to my room and cry.

Thankfully - I still thought I should at least slap Willy but it didn't give me time to act - Barney provided a new topic to occupy our attention.

"Hey, what about a boat?" he asked in a general way to the room at large.

"A boat?" Phelps repeated. He seemed to be picking up my habit.

"Yeah," Barney said. "I was considering where they might take all this stuff and it's really not that big a list. A largish, but not too expensive yacht might be enough."

"Won't it need to be more stable than that?" Cinnamon asked.

"Actually, a fair-sized - I'm thinking 60-foot range - trawler style yacht is pretty stable, particularly in a sheltered harbor or anchorage. They're not fast, but they're solid and seaworthy, and usually can go a long way between refueling. They could go to Hawaii if they wanted."

"That's not good news," Phelps said. "It opens up the search parameters enormously."

"Maybe not," Barney countered. "I've been trying to decide why they were headed northwest. I mean, there are plenty of high-tech facilities in Seattle, but they could find those other places as well. But from Seattle, you can be in Canada in a day, and between northwest Washington and southeast Alaska there are hundreds - maybe thousands - of marinas and little bays to anchor in. Very private, but never more than a day from a place to get supplies - ordinary supplies, anyway. And I think they have all the biological research supplies they need.

"Did they get that much money from the police robbery?" I asked.

"Well, a used yacht in that size might only be a million dollars or so, and according to the report they got almost two million. Besides they wouldn't have to pay for the whole thing. They could just make a good down payment and then disappear. That would give them the perfect hideout for a month, at least."

"You may be on to something," Phelps said. "We'll start a trace on yacht sales. Good work."

Phelps looked at me with a strange expression as the team started in on the new task. It wasn't the hint of leer that Willy-T was showing all too often. It was more the look of a commanding officer who has a personnel problem to address. Well, I was certainly a problem. But I wondered what was on his mind.

The next day I found out.

Chapter 6 - "Skills"

****************
Interlude

"Mr. ah, Pellinore, I'm sure you recognize that Nordhavns are the best in their class, by any measure," the salesman said glibly. "And the Nordhavn 60 is my personal favorite."




The tall, thin man did not seem particularly impressed. Neither did the others of his party, a middle-aged woman they called Gwen, a very large man they called Lance, and a smaller man who made the salesman so uncomfortable that he unconsciously tried to avoid looking that way. He didn't get the small man's name and didn't particularly want it.

But, a sale was a sale - or at least might be. The man hadn't seemed fazed at all by the price.

They were serious enough that the salesman arranged for a brief sea trial out in the Salish Sea. In part, that was so he could assess the competence of the prospective buyers. He'd sell to them even if they couldn't tell an anchor from an antenna, if they had the money, but they might be interested in some training as well which could add to the profit margin.

When the time came to deal, the training was thrown in for free - well, nothing is really free, but the owner agreed to accept a little less - and the deal was made. A healthy down payment made the rest a formality, not necessarily easy because they wanted papers to enable sailing anywhere from Alaska to Ecuador, but for the commission on even a used N60, the salesman made it happen. The salesman didn't know that the source of the money was the proceeds from the sale of a truckload of stolen guns. The buyers didn't know how lucky that was, because the serial numbers of that money weren't on a watch list.

There was one curious thing, the salesman found out a few days later. The captain/instructor said that the big guy had taken the master cabin and what he had figured for the boss had taken a bunk in the third stateroom along with the small guy. The woman slept in the second stateroom, but it wasn't like she really moved in there. She had lived out of a suitcase, not even putting cosmetics or a hairbrush out on the dresser.

They also had a lot of gear, but it didn't seem like typical boating gear. The instructor didn't know what it was - they kept it sealed in plain boxes the whole time he was with them - but they only broke out the minimum amount of tools, oil, and other normal supplies to operate a boat. The Nordhavn really was a good design and they should be okay for a few months. God help them when they needed something, though. The lack of a simple gasket or clamp might end up with them taking a long - and expensive - sea tow. But that was their business.

The newly rechristened "Camelot" sailed from Anacortes with little fanfare just a week after the group showed up. And they sailed from the salesman's mind as soon as they were out of sight.

**************

I actually slept clear through the night, or most of it. Six hours at least. That was pretty nice, and quite a change. I think Dr. Hendricks had been a bit off on his estimate. I still had a little quality 'throne' time before I went to bed and more as soon as I woke, but I might not have to lose the full ten pounds that he predicted.

Part of that was because my left boob finally caught up with the right one. I was not only standing straight, I was actually symmetric. The mirror and my hands judged that my waist was even smaller, but it was tight and smooth and I wasn't really complaining. The only real negative - [Hah- aside from being a damn wet dream of a girl, that is.] - was that my hair was even thicker. It actually took me a couple of minutes of self-inspection before I realized my nails were back to their stylish-but-inconvenient length. [One more reason to kill that bitch when I find her,] I snarled silently. At least if I managed them without thinking about it for a few minutes, there was hope that I could get used to them. Like I had any choice. It was seven days since I had been infected and as far as I could tell I now matched that computer image.

Cinnamon was there when I stepped out of the shower. Her early warning system must have been working better that morning. She insisted on more girl lessons, and I . . . didn't argue. I felt like I should. I felt like I should be screaming at the incredible injustice that had been inflicted on me through no fault of my own. But it was something I felt I *should* do, not something I felt like I wanted to do.

I was young. I had told myself every day after Cora died that I would make it through one more day because anything else was just . . . less than she would have expected of me. But getting older and older had been getting less and less preferable to what had seemed like the only alternative. Now I had found - or it had found me - another alternative. I was young and fit and very healthy and impossibly good looking. Was being a girl so bad, if that were the price for all the rest?

That answer was obvious, really. Yet, if I were going to be a girl, some part of me wanted to go beyond mere acceptance and be a pretty girl. A really, really pretty girl. Wanted to take advantage of all the features that Anna had built into this body and face. Wanted to be admired by men and hated by envious women.

I could say that it was just my basic nature. I had always wanted to be the best at whatever I tried. I was a really good chopper pilot. I knew it and had made a living at it doing things where the smallest mistake would have been fatal - yet doing them again and again because I was good enough not to make even that smallest mistake. I truly was the best helicopter pilot I ever met.

And God knows I tried to be a good husband to Cora. Sometimes that wasn't possible. Some of my helicopter missions - military and civilian - took me away from her for longer than either of us wanted. But they also brought in enough money that we could be secure. And when I *was* with her, I tried to make it up to her. I actually made plans on romantic things I could do for her; written out with timelines and budgets. She laughed when she found one . . . and her eyes were shining with unshed tears that I took to be joy when she pulled me to bed and showed me how much she appreciated my intention.

So now I had a new mission. I had to overcome this event and it looked like the only way to do that was to embrace it. I would learn to be not just a woman, but a hot, desirable one.

Not that being desirable mattered except as a measure of success in becoming beautiful. I wasn't about to do anything with a man. Not gonna happen. Never. I was trying hard not to notice how pretty Cinnamon was because there wasn't any place that could go, but the alternative of being with a guy was just . . . well, not an option. Besides, despite a lot of opportunities when I was a helo pilot in some far-off land, I had been a virgin when I married Cora and faithful ever since. I'm not apologizing either. My ego didn't demand lots of conquests and my masculinity was enough for the only woman whose opinion mattered. That was just another gift I was privileged to give Cora, and I was happy that she had given the same gift to me. So I would just have to do without sex. Been there, done that. Not as big of a problem as it might have been for someone else, maybe.

All that introspection was a sign that I was actually ready for another girl lesson and I really needed one on how to handle all that hair. We spent a half day experimenting and practicing; laughing at the things that didn't work and enjoying the things that did. Part of my practice was doing things with Cinnamon's hair, and . . .

I stopped. Cinnamon looked up with simple curiosity. "Did you forget what to do next?"

"No," I said quietly. I stepped away and looked in the mirror. The face that looked back was not Duke Chase. The person in the mirror was not being unfaithful to Cora just because she brushed another woman's hair. It wasn't really a sign of intimacy between women like it would be between a man and a woman.

It wasn't.

"What's wrong, Dee?" Cinnamon asked. She had started calling me 'Dee' instead of Duchess. Willy-T picked up on it right away, with his typical snarky grin. I couldn’t really be mad at him because he did it so broadly that it was a joke between friends, not a dig. In fact, he started an amazingly natural stutter to make it D-d-dee and cracked me up even though the joke was at my expense. So I was Dee to everyone, even Jim.

I sighed and turned back around. "Sorry, it was just . . ."

" . . . Something you did with Cora?" she offered.

I nodded.

Her voice took on a wistful tone. "Y'know, if I'm really, really lucky . . . and either really good or just bad enough . . . I may, someday, find someone to love me as much as you loved her. She was a lucky, lucky lady."

"I was the lucky one," I said.

"Yes, you were, too. That's the best part of that sort of love. It's not either/or, it's both together."

I couldn't do anything but nod at that. Cinnamon started bustling around a little, putting things away.

"I thought we were going to work on my face," I said.

"Can't improve on perfection," she said lightly, but she smiled. "We'll get back to it later. We took long enough on hair that we need to move on. Jim wants to see you in 20 minutes and you should have something to eat. Besides I want to spend some time on jewelry too, now that your ears are pierced."

"My ears are pierced?" I repeated, reaching up. I could hardly feel the tiny holes, but a quick, closer look in the mirror showed a couple of indentations. "When did that happen?"

"Well, I noticed it for sure this morning, but they started at least yesterday," she said, then laughed. "Most girls would know their way around their own face well enough to notice immediately. Be grateful. This way you won't have to get it done and go through all the sanitization while they heal."

"I wasn't planning on wearing earrings a lot."

"Oh yes you will. It's part of being a pretty, stylish woman. Besides, clip-on earrings hurt."

Since I was still captured by my self-inspection, she went to a little jewelry box that I hadn't even opened and found some small gold hoops. That almost caused me to get lost in the mirror again as I twisted my head back and forth once she had the rings installed, but she grabbed me and physically pulled me out into the hallway.

Another bowl of oatmeal was enough for a quick breakfast but I had the feeling I was coming out of my imposed eating habits - or not-eating habits - at last. The reason for the appointment with Jim Phelps was made clear after Cinnamon escorted me to a part of the complex I'd never seen before. They had a gym, and a gun range.

I'd never been Wild Bill Hickok but I qualified with pistol and rifle while I was in the Army. Jim showed me that his team had some kind of pull because they had the latest CAR-4s with ACOG sights. That included the semi-auto and burst modes. I hadn't actually used the burst mode before. M16's just had semi- and full-auto when I used them. But it was not an issue. Even with my restored nails, I shot well enough to qualify after just a couple of practice mags, doing the longer distance shots in a cool electronic range that looked only about 25 yards long when the screen was off, but went out to 600 meters when it was active. Qualification with the rifle and pistol went quickly, and at least as well as I had done before.

There were weights in the gym and he put me through a strength test that was both amazing and ordinary. The ordinary part was that I was about as strong as Duke Chase had been in his young-jock heyday. The amazing part was that I weighed 50 pounds less than Duke and looked like a frail hothouse flower. I had a lot of depth of chest [snicker inappropriate, but mandatory] . . . but it didn't look like there was room for the actual muscles it would take to lift that much. My endurance on the treadmill was actually better than Duke ever had. After 20 hard minutes, I still felt fine.

At least, my breathing felt fine - and no cracks about great lungs, thank you very much. I wouldn't be signing up for any marathons, though. Even with the sports bra my jugs were jiggling enough that it was getting more than irritating when Jim let me stop.

That took me through the afternoon, followed by another shower. And another unavoidable marathon exercise to get all that hair back under control. With Cinnamon's aid, I actually did a rollers and pins "hair style" and not just a brush/dryer/gel thing. Then I got my long-delayed glamour lesson in makeup.

In some ways it was a pain. Literally. I stabbed myself in the eye with the eyeliner and the resulting tears messed up liner, mascara, and cheek. But the first thing Cinnamon had showed me was how to clean off the mistakes and I had lots of practice with that. Lots of practice.

Jim showed up just about the time I was getting it right. Full evening look and all. I was about to scrub it off and go for a more casual look for the first real dinner I had felt like having for a long while, but he stopped me.

"Why don't we celebrate a little? You and I need to talk anyway. Put on something nice and we'll go out for dinner."

"Something nice?" I repeated.

"Sure. Just . . . y'know, nice."

Well, I didn't know. I looked in panic at Cinnamon, and she smiled reassuringly but she looked thoughtful as well.

She didn't say anything, though. At least, not immediately. She went to my closet and started pulling out clothes that I had never seen before. Well, in truth I had probably seen them hanging in the closet, but all I noticed were an array of colors from the line of shoulders that the hangers displayed.

"I think you're a stylish lady in basic black tonight," she said. "With . . . hmm, with your eyes . . . I think gold accents."

I didn't have any reason to argue, nor any knowledge on which to base an argument. I felt like the Barbie doll that Dr. Hendricks had mentioned when Cinnamon started draping clothes on one shoulder, and then the other. She didn't have me put any of them on, though. Just held them up to me. After a moment, she nodded.

"Strip," she said firmly, though the twinkle in her eyes made it all part of a game.

So I took my warm-ups off. Then I stood up and started to reach for the dress that she had apparently chosen.

"Oh, no, girl-san, not yet," she said. She went to another drawer and pulled out something that I had frankly been trying not to think about. So much for the idea that I was ready to be the hottest, most beautiful girl I could be. The reality of women's lingerie - the real, sheer, soft stuff - was so far beyond my sports bras that I felt like I had fallen through a rabbit hole into a whole new world. [Alice, look out. I'm about to land on you!]

The problem - the real, heart-stopping, mind-bending problem - was that I liked it. I liked the feel of the silky bra that tickled my little - well, not so little after just a second or two - nipples. I liked the feel of silk - real silk as Cinnamon informed me - underwear as it touched lightly on another highly sensitive area. I even liked the feel of sheer stockings as I slid them up my legs to be fastened to a just-plain-naughty garter belt that was racier than anything I had ever gotten Cora to wear.

God help me, I even liked the shoes. For the first time, my ankles felt good. I don't know how high the heels were. They certainly qualified as high but my feet snuggled into them like old friends. I could even walk in them. I don't know if that was some more Anastasia magic or just another aspect of the way my feet were shaped, but I was comfortable and stable almost immediately. I also learned that shoes like that force you to move more gracefully. You have to take smaller steps and good posture is required to keep your balance. Cinnamon showed me - and she didn't even smirk when she did it - that a little bit of hip swing allowed me to get a little more length into each stride without over-extending my ankles, so I used some of that, too.

But I couldn't tell you why I was thinking of what Willy-T would say when he saw it . . . thinking of it with pleased anticipation.

The dress hid all that silky finery behind another silky layer (not real silk - some sort of synthetic) and the only remaining problem was that I couldn't get the little earring posts into my ears by myself.

"Dammit, this is stupid," I snarled.

"We all have to suffer for beauty," Cinnamon said, not sympathetic at all.

"Yeah, but I've done enough suffering for today," I complained again. "I'll just, y'know, go without tonight."

"Nope," she said. "They (gold teardrop shapes that hung down long enough to accent the line of my neck) look nice, and that was what the boss ordered. If he's taking you out tonight, then it means you're fully out of quarantine. Besides, the Anastasia design came with piercings for a reason. Without them, the little nanites would probably heal the holes if you ever tried it and believe me, clip-ons are worse."

"Worse than poking myself with little pins for half an hour?" I asked. Then the rest of what she said hit me. "Wait, what? Taking *me* out? Jim's taking us all out, isn't he?"

"That's not what I heard," she said. "He said you and he needed to talk. He could do that here if the rest of us were invited."

She smirked and touched a finger to wipe away a tiny lipstick smear. "It's just you and Jim tonight, baby. I'll want details in the morning."

I'm sure my face showed the horror she was after because she started laughing so hard she had to sit down. I didn't find it particularly funny so I didn't join in. Besides, I was trying to decide why my tummy had fluttered when she implied I was going on a date with Jim.

"It's just business," I insisted, which had little effect except to set her giggling again.




After a moment she relented, struggling to her feet and giving me a hug. "Oh, relax, girl. Jim's a gentleman. He's our boss - and knows it - so there won't be any hanky-panky even if *you* initiate it."

"I wouldn't . . ."

"Hell, girl, *I* would," she interrupted me. "I was so wrapped up in naughty fantasies the night he took *me* out, that I don't remember a thing he said. Except 'good night' when he brought me home. He takes all the team members out for a private discussion every now and then."

"Although . . ," she continued, pausing for effect, "I think he took the guys out to some place where they could get half-a-cow steaks and beer by the pitcher."

"Where did he take you?" I asked.

"Someplace nice," she said enigmatically. I thought I was done getting dressed, even dressed for 'someplace nice,' but there was another whole dimension to explore: perfume.

Cinnamon took me through a spectrum I never knew existed. On one end were 'flowers and powders' that were light and cheery and something I actually liked enough to think I'd like to try them on a continuing basis. But those were apparently only for casual occasions, not something nice. In the middle were spicy smells - including cinnamon, of course - and those were okay but I realized right away that they weren't really me.

Then she got to the musky scents that were - definitely - right for some place nice . . . well, actually not after I thought about it for a moment. 'Nice' and those rich aromas didn't really go together.

I must have washed my wrists twenty times as she tried each new candidate. But what was really surprising was that I found one that I really liked for a night on the town. Rich, subtle yet pervasive . . . mmm.

Cinnamon noticed my appreciation and smiled. "That's not something a blonde can really wear. It's too dark-nights-and-lightning-flashes for me, but for you . . .

"Do you really think so?" I asked, but we both knew the choice was obvious. With a little more instruction in how to apply it in all the right places, without too much in any of those places, I was . . . maybe . . . actually ready.

Cinnamon led me to the war room. As might be expected, Jim had made productive use of the time while he was waiting for me. I didn't know whether to feel grateful or insulted. Just how long did he think it would take me, anyway? But as soon as he saw me, he made up for it with a nicely astonished stare. He broke it pretty quickly, but the domino effect of his attention was that Barney and then Willy-T looked my way as well.

"Holy . . . shit," Barney whispered. It was amusingly reverent for such a scatological reference.

Willy-T just whistled. I didn't think a real human's lungs could hold that much air, but he went on, and on, and . . .

"Okay, Wolfman, that's enough," I said, but I couldn't help smiling. The big black man walked up to me and by his huge smile I knew I was in for some more teasing.

"I want the mineral rights," he said obliquely.

My confusion was his reward, so he left me in that state for a long enough time to make the point he had my attention.

"That canyon has got to have some valuable minerals in it," he explained, and his eyes told me what canyon had caught his attention. But they came back up to meet my eyes to see how I would react. "I'm available for prospecting at any time."

That didn't really help with my confusion. I mean, I had chosen - or let Cinnamon choose for me - a bra that I knew emphasized my assets, coupled with a dress that celebrated that decision. So what had I expected . . . that no one would notice? In my heart, I knew I'd have been disappointed if that happened. So it would have been pretty stupid to be disappointed because someone *did* notice.

Well, the only way out of there was forward. I selected a Mae West cadence and said, "Sorry, big boy, but that concession has already been spoken for . . ." I interrupted myself to give him a big wink, " . . . at least for tonight."

With that I sashayed over to Jim, who had his jacket on by this time. When I reached him, I waited for him to offer me his arm. That might have been the first night I played for the other team, but I knew what the lady was supposed to do. Besides, walking in those heels pretty much required some hip swing anyway, at least if I were going to take steps longer than about six inches at a time. That's my story and it's the reason I ended up with one hip swayed so far out to one side.

Barney dropped something but I had the presence of mind not to turn to see what. I did turn to see what caused a much louder sound, sending a smirk of victory over my shoulder at Willy-T's sprawl across a fallen chair. Cinnamon's giggle was a nice accent and reward mixed together.

Jim picked up his part quickly enough, offering me his arm. Cinnamon had handed me a silly little purse that didn't seem like it could hold more than a hanky, but it made a useful accessory by giving me something to do with my other hand. We left with regal dignity. Mine lasted until were out of sight of the war room.

Barely.

Then I had to pull up for a moment and take a few deep breaths. And no, I wasn't really fishing for Jim's attention, but yes, I did notice that movement of my, ah, canyon caught his attention anyway.

"Wow, that was . . . unexpected," I said softly.

"You should have expected it," Jim said. "You look incredible, and those guys are . . . well, they're guys after all."

"You're a guy too, Jim," I pointed out.

"Yes, yes I am," he replied easily, taking my arm again and leading me toward the garage. Man, why couldn't I had that much suave confidence when I was still in the game?

"Willy-T doesn't mean anything by it," Jim said. "He's just playing the part of the macho stud. He'd come through on his promises if you called him on it, but he doesn't really expect anything. Because he does really respect you."

"He does?" I asked, but it was more for reassurance than because I doubted what Jim said.

"T grew up in a tough situation. And then things got harder. He needed - needs - to know that you won't have a melt down at the first bit of stress. And considering the way you look, the type of stress to hit you with was pretty obvious. If it matters, I think, ah, walking out in such a feminine and . . . provocative manner was the right response. It's not an insult to be a pretty woman, or for men to notice it. And it certainly showed you weren't some hothouse flower he couldn't count on if things went south."

At some level I suppose I should have been insulted by the blatant sexism of T's attention . . . but I wasn't. It was challenging, not demeaning, because it was about something unique for me to resolve, not just a comment from a man to a woman. He was pushing me to overcome all the strangeness by embracing it; by celebrating my femininity as it was reflected in his open appreciation of it. I knew, somehow, that T was only teasing, and doing so because he respected me enough to know I was strong enough to take it. At some instinctive level I had known that all along, which is why I had counter-attacked instead of retreating in the face of his comments.

By this time we were at the cars. Jim led me to a sedan so nondescript it might as well have had government plates and opened the door for me. Sixty years of living with a woman who could have defined "lady" in any reference book taught me a few tricks and I managed to get into the seat without too much awkwardness. The business of getting on our way took a few more minutes, but Jim moved on to the real topic for the evening.

He started out by smiling at me. That smile caught my attention, and . . . more. My breath stopped as though those gray eyes were paralyzing beams. He was an amazingly intense man, but the combination of piercing eyes and friendly smile had my mind chittering in confusion. His own words were casual. "While you were . . . indisposed over the last few days, we discussed your situation."

That got my attention, but I only lifted a brow to ask him to continue.

"You've faced a lot of challenges in the last week, and faced them with great courage," he said. "Being infected with an unknown biological agent. Learning that you were changing gender. Discovering that you were becoming younger. Finding out that the physical transition was going to be messy and embarrassing. Any one of those might have been enough to send someone into psychological overload. Yet other than a few faints when you received some truly intense shocks, and one short withdrawal when you . . . lost something men think is very important, you've been a trooper the whole time. I have to tell you, that we all admire you immensely."

"It's not like I had any choice," I said.

"Actually, you did. That's the point. You could have become so angry you were a danger to yourself or others. You could have withdrawn entirely into some psychotic break with reality. After all, if you weren't directly experiencing it, this would be literally unbelievable and a lot of minds would have shut down over the very impossibility of it. You could have been grudging and sullen, retreating into depression that would be just as debilitating. Instead, here you are teasing as good as you get and looking like you were born to be this beautiful."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" I asked in a small voice. It wasn't a ploy. Maybe some of the unreality of what Jim was talking about still applied. At some level, I kept wondering if I had really died in that accident and this was all some sort of strange limbo afterlife. Yet, being praised by him seemed so important that I just had to know he was serious.

"Yes," he said simply, but that very simplicity made it a powerful affirmation.

"That's just the Anastasia design," I said, still looking for something.

"No," he countered. "What would show in a photo is the Anastasia design. The way you move, the way your face lights up when you smile, the intelligent contribution you've made to the team, the courage you've shown . . . all those are what make you truly beautiful, as well as very pretty."

"Thank you," I replied, smiling with gratitude at an assurance that made real what I wanted so much to be true.

"No," he countered again, "thank you. You're an example to us all. I mean that."

There was that smile again. Lordy, he had a killer smile. I wondered why he wasn't married. And I understood why Cinnamon had been so distracted. Jim was the first man I had been alone with since my . . . change. All sorts of signals were going off in places I didn't even used to have. But I just couldn't . . . I mean, you don't just dump over half a century of attitudes in a week, even if your body wants you to.

But dear Lord, my body did want me to.

Before I had a good chance to respond - not that I could think of anything to say - we were at the restaurant. It definitely was "someplace nice" with quiet elegance accented by snow-white tablecloths and sparkling goblets. I still wasn't eating much and didn't have an appetite anyway so I just called on another Cora lesson and asked Jim to order me something light. He conferred with the waiter and they seemed to be satisfied, so he turned his attention back to me.

"What would you like to do now?" he asked.

I misunderstood. I had been fiddling with my new pendant earrings, using a lazy finger to set one swinging, then feeling the little tugs while it damped out, then doing it again. As a result I hadn't really been paying attention when he asked his question, and a quick mental replay missed the subtext. I thought it was a simple question on like, right *now.* "What? We just got here. And I don't need to . . . y'know. I should be good for several hours."

He smiled and shook his head. "No, I meant with your life. It would seem that you have some planning to do."

"Oh, yes," I said, blushing fiercely. "Well, I want to find Anna. I don't know yet if this is a miracle or a curse, but she can't be playing God like that."

"No, she can't," Jim said. "I'm still worried about unplanned mutations. Those nanites are fully biological so they can evolve just like any other organism. The safeguards she had built in are not really enough."

"But there's more?" I prompted.

"Yes," he agreed. "Her nanites change you in just about every way imaginable - at least at the physical level. If she can turn a - sorry - turn an old man into a young woman with a programmed new face, then she can change anyone into anyone else. It would be chaos, and a security nightmare."

I nodded, not saying anything because I saw the waiter returning with wine and the salads. When we were private again, I shrugged.

Then giggled, because that motion had pulled Jim's eyes from mine and I had to let him know I noticed.

"What are my options?" I asked.

"Ah, a good question," he said. "I can't really tell you about my team . . . at least not yet . . ."

That set off a host of questions in my mind, but I tried not to let anything show. Which wasn't too hard because I didn't know how to react to that anyway.

Jim continued, ". . . but I can see that you are set up in a new life of your choosing. Think of it like the witness protection program, though of course it's not run by the US marshals."

"Of course?" I repeated, making it a question.

He smiled easily. "I told you we're not a government organization, though I can assure you we do our best to work in the interests of the United States."

"Good," I said, but my mind was elsewhere. What did I want to do? The answer, at least part of it, was obvious.

"I want to fly again," I said. "Helicopters. It's what I'm best at, and I got that good because I really love it."

"Done," he said easily. "We're still working out plans, but I can get you the necessary documentation. With a little refresher training we can get you a checkride and you'll be fully qualified. That's easy."

"That's easy? What would you consider hard?"

"Oh, I don’t know . . . making you the hottest star in Hollywood might take a little longer. Can you sing?"

I had to laugh at that, too. Well, perhaps more of a giggle. It was silly funny rather than a deliberate joke-for-laughs, but it was nice that he pretended it could be done. He was pretending, wasn't he?

He looked a bit more serious for a moment. "You do need a new identity, of course. I can arrange the documentation for that, as well. What name would you like?"

A name? Hmm. I instantly chose, and then rejected, Cora. I couldn't be her and wouldn't diminish her memory by pretending I could do justice to that name. But maybe . . .

Hmmm. It was a puzzle.

"I always hated Galahad," I said, seeing a wince of sympathy from him again. "But part of me is still him. I need a name that, um, 'remembers' his name without trying to deny that I'm someone different. Any ideas?

"Well, I guess it depends on how close you want to be, but you could use, 'Galadriel,'" Jim offered.

"From the Lord of the Rings?" I remembered.

His nod confirmed it. "Can I keep my last name?"

"I think so," he confirmed with another nod. "As far as we can determine, you didn't have any living relatives . . ?" At my confirming nod he continued, "And there's no reason to believe that Anna Raymond and whomever she has on her team know anything about Duke Chase, so that won't be a problem. Do you like Galadriel?"

"You know, I think I do," I said. "I mean, I'd hate it as a real name. I guess I'd just as soon still be 'Dee' on the team - at least if we can get Willy to stop stuttering." My righteous anger was spoiled when I giggled again. Jim joined in with an understanding chuckle.

"Galadriel Cora Chase. If that's all right with you," I said.

"I think it's a fine name," Jim said, laying that powerful smile on me again.

[No. No. No. It's wrong. I may be wearing a dress, but Duke Chase is still who I am on the inside.]

Somewhere.

[Maybe if I just concentrate on breathing. I should be able to get my heart under control if I can just . . . . breathe.]

Chapter 7 - "Shopping"

Cinnamon and I had a girl's day out the next day. Based on the assumption that Barney's guess was right, he was running down leads on trawler-style yachts in the Pacific Northwest. Willy-T was wading through large cash movements to see if he could find any serial numbers from the police evidence robbery. I didn't know what Jim was doing because . . . because I don't know why. But I just couldn’t handle thinking about him too much.

Which meant, of course, that I thought about our night out pretty much constantly.

Cinnamon was amused at first, but she began to be concerned.

"Wanna talk about it, Dee?" she asked.

"Talk about what?" I replied.

"Don't give me that," she said, smiling gently. "I was all twittery after he took *me* out, too. But at least I got over it by the next morning."

"I don't know what you're . . ."

She interrupted me with a poke in the ribs. "Don't try that with me. You may lie to yourself, but I'm not going to let you lie to me. Not so obviously anyway."

I sighed, but I still didn't know what to say. "Jim is a nice guy . . ."

She laughed and cut me off again. "Don't try that, either. You weren't . . . aren't thinking of him like a kindly uncle or 'just friends.' He got you hot last night. Admit it."

But I didn't, and it wasn't because I was denying it. I frowned and thought about it, but I shook my head. "I don't think so. I mean, yes, I was . . . feeling something some of the time, but that wasn't just because of him. This body stays that way a lot of the time."

I didn't tell her that my little attention whores were hard right then, too, and were that way a lot when she was around. And there were other sensations as well - new sensations that were never . . . available to me before. Part of what was confusing me was that all those signals were at least as compelling right then next to Cinnamon as they had been with Jim. I could understand being, um, aroused by Cinnamon. She was gorgeous, and fun, and witty, and had a great sense of humor - even when it was at my expense. That all made sense. I had spent almost 80 years appreciating those qualities in a woman (I started early, never having one of those 'I hate girls' phases), appreciating them even more when they were all together in Cora.

What didn't make sense was what my body had been sending me the same messages when I was out with Jim - and I just couldn't be 'aroused' by a man. Intellectually, I could appreciate that he was good looking - for a guy. And things like being witty and having a good sense of humor came in all sizes. But why did his smile haunt me? If I were under some sort of, um, compulsion due to something in the Anastasia programming, then wouldn't I be thinking about his build or his . . . well, some other feature?

Cinnamon let me have a few moments to my thoughts. She was not prodding me to explain, probably because she realized how much trouble I was having understanding it myself. I looked up from my distraction to catch her eyes and smiled. Her return smile had an invitation that I was happy to accept. I reached out and embraced her, then said, "Thank you. You're a good friend, and I appreciate it."

"Yeah, that's me, loyal as a German Shepherd," she said with such over-the-top sadness that both of us started giggling.

With the heavy topic covered we moved on to the mission of the day: shopping. We hadn't resolved anything of course, but maybe that wasn't necessary. Just rolling some of the thoughts around a little was progress. Some, anyway.

Actually, we didn't start out shopping. The first thing we did was go to a salon. I believe they call that pampering, but I couldn't tell you why. About the first thing they did was rip a lot of hair out with wax. (Cinnamon had told me not to shave that day.) Then they put chemicals on my hair that smelled so nasty I was ready to agree with Dr. Hendricks that my earlier, um, 'aromas' weren't that bad. I couldn't let them cut it - as much as I might want to - because that would probably just cause it all to grow back. In the end, she trimmed it a bit around the edges to frame my face better (she said) and I figured it wasn't worth arguing about.

Then I saw the results. I'd like to say that I was so shocked that I fainted. I didn't. Cinnamon was as good as the beauticians and even if I couldn't quite match her yet, when I was getting ready to go out with Jim she had shown me how awesome Anastasia could be. What *did* impress me was the way they had styled my hair. It had a wonderful bounce and swing, and best of all it didn't fall in my face. Part of that was some clips that held key waves in place, but part of that might as well have been magic.

"I like it!" I said enthusiastically.

"I do, too," Cinnamon said, walking up.

"Oh, you look great!" I said with equal enthusiasm.

"Yeah, right," she said dismissively, but her eyes were sparkling. "How about if we go trolling for boys and see who makes the biggest catch? My money's on you."

"Yeah, right," I copied, trying to keep my mind from spinning out of control at the idea of 'trolling for boys.' "Let's ask these ladies."

I turned to them. "So, ladies, is it true that blondes have more fun?"

The question wasn't what they expected, but I had noticed that three of the four beauticians who had worked on us were blonde and the other was a redhead. The freckles on the redhead made me think she was natural, too. Since there wasn't a brunette among them, I figured they'd have to say that being blonde was better.

So much for my deductive logic. Three of them were immediately pointing at me. Only the redhead was pointing at Cinnamon, and I think that was because she envied her blonde co-workers.

Cinnamon laughed at my failed ploy, but she took my arm and led us from the salon for some serious shopping. Actually I already had most of the clothes that I might need. Cinnamon figured that I wouldn't have firm preferences for women's clothes so she had gone ahead and stocked my closet with essentials even before I could go with her. The biggest issue was that I needed something instead of flats for more casual wear. We found everything from wedges to boots with heels in the three-inch range, and I think I bought one of each. In each color.

That wasn't really true. We - and Cinnamon certainly helped so it was 'we' - chose half a dozen pairs of boots and another half a dozen pairs of casual wedges and sandals. All had enough heel to keep my ankles from complaining. Together with the twenty pairs of formal heels that Cinnamon had already obtained took care of my shoe needs. But I did have one more thing to get.

"I want some jeans," I said.

"You have some on," Cinnamon giggled.

"No, I want some jeans like you have. They're awesome." I leaned over to whisper, "I want my tush to look like yours."

She laughed - an honest, full laugh instead of a giggle - and shook her head. "Your butt looks a lot better than mine now that you've reached your final shape. The problem is that those jeans don't fit that shape as well as they need to."

So she took me to a place where I could get jeans that 'fit.' At least, they fit if I jumped up and down a little as I tried to get them up over all those new contours . . . and maybe had a little help from Cinnamon. Then they fit. Boy, howdy did they fit!

"Oh, god, I hate you all over again," Cinnamon moaned, but her eyes still showed that incredible sparkle.

So I got several pair of jeans and - at Cinnamon's insistence - some denim shorts in the same style. Emphasis on short. Which emphasized just how long my legs were. I had the legs of a six-foot-tall man - well, legs of that length, anyway - on a 5'9" body. They didn't look out of proportion, though. Pretty much just the opposite. They looked so great that I actually let her convince me to wear those tiny shorts out of the store, along with some wedge sandals.

Of course, the price for my exposure was that she had to wear something similar herself. It wasn't like we had only been shopping for me, after all. The fun thing - well, one of the many fun things - was that the only shoes that Cinnamon bought that were comparable to my wedges were sky-high white sandals. They were actually a little too fancy for casual shorts but I didn't think anyone would complain.

And no one did . . . well, if you don't count the death-stare looks from any woman between 18 and 80. That just made it better, of course.

So did Barney walking into Willy-T when we got back to the complex. Barney bounced off, and I don't think Willy-T even noticed. He was so far gone that he didn't even make a suggestive remark. We managed to contain our disappointment behind a dual-tone cascade of giggles.

Jim was the only one who said anything and even he had to pause for a moment. After some wide-eyed, but silent, appreciation he shook himself. "Your hair looks very nice, Duchess. I'll be happy to approve your expense vouchers. Willy, I expect they've got more packages in the car." Then he grinned ruefully and added, "You look very nice, too, Cinnamon."

"Nice of you to notice," she said dryly. But she smiled and let him off with nothing more than a transient scowl . . . which her girl-next-door face couldn't do very well anyway.

Jim's order got the big black man moving. Barney was right behind him. By the time they got back, Willy had recovered his composure and he made his next move subtly. At least, subtle for him.

"Hey, Barney, old pal, did you have any girls in your family when you were growing up?" he asked. I think they must have worked out something while they were out of earshot because Barney played along a little too enthusiastically.

"Why, yes, big guy, I had a couple of sisters, and of course my mother."

"Did you have the tradition where at Christmas and birthdays, the girls had to model any new clothes?"

"Why, yes, big guy, we did have that tradition."

Willy-T smirked at us and I expected the obvious punch line, but first he tried to recruit one more person to his side. "Hey, boss, you always say that we should be as close as a family, right?"

Jim smiled and agreed. "Something like that, anyway."

Now Willy-T turned to us for the punch line. "Then I think it's only fair that you should model all your new clothes."

I laughed, a bit nervously, and I was going to just shrug it off when Cinnamon counter-attacked. "Are you sure you want that, guys? All of our other clothes are jeans." She did a little pirouette and said, "I wouldn't have thought you'd want us to cover up Dee's legs . . . or mine."

Barney dropped his friend's conspiracy like a bad smell . . . oops, that analogy was too close to home. Dropped it like a hot rock. "Oh, hell no. Sorry, Willy, but I'm with Cee on this one."

He blushed immediately because his eyes had clearly been looking at something that triggered the use of Cinnamon's initial instead of her whole name. I supposed we were to blame. Cinnamon had selected scoop-neck tops for both of us and she had been the one to declare, "If you've got 'em, flaunt 'em." Both name initials were so obviously applicable that I knew it was running through everyone's mind already anyway. It certainly was running through my mind and if some of that was smug pride, well, I had paid the price.

So that's how we became the Alphabet Team - at least among ourselves. With a 'Dee' and a 'Cee', and an obvious 'Bee' and 'Tee', that left only Jim with a regular name. His name was short enough that it worked just as well as a single initial, which didn't stop Willy from trying to get him to wear a black suit so he could be 'Agent J.' Jim never went for it, though. His gray suits worked so well with his steel hair, and if he happened to wear a blue suit it was always in a color that made his blue eyes . . .

Well, he dressed very well and I was just as glad he didn't go with Willy's suggestion.

The guys had just put all the packages in my room so they still needed to be sorted. Which meant they needed to be reviewed and discussed and in some cases modeled again (though without the guys present).

Cinnamon had pulled off her shorts so that she could put on a skirt that she only got because she insisted I buy one and I said only if she did . . . which was a pretty silly condition because she was happy to do it. But before she put her new skirt on she decided she needed a different top. The next thing I knew she was there in front of me with only her underwear and her white heels.

Dammit, it wasn't entirely my fault. That new body was young! I had juices singing in my veins that hadn't been there for years. And there's a reason that a pretty girl in underwear and heels is a cliché. It's about the most common turn-on there is and it certainly worked on me. Besides, maybe the Anastasia design was oversexed or something. I wouldn't put it past Anna Raymond to do that.

So it wasn't really my fault that I found my arms around her and my lips seeking hers. To find hers lifting to mine. Just the kisses alone sent my mind and my heart - and all the rest of me - spiraling up into some unreachable place where the air was too thin to breathe, though neither of us cared.

Then it really got intense.

And then it got languid and I discovered the magical, wonderful, incredible fact that things didn't have to stop after the intense time for girls. They could go on and on with a gentler, slower, and even more sensual pace.

And then it got quiet. We were snuggling together with Cinnamon under my arm. Her oh-so-talented tongue started to draw an oh-so-delicate trace up the line of my jaw. When she got to my ear she murmured, "Cora was a lucky girl."

"I was the luck . . ," I started reflexively. Then I stopped. I was certainly the lucky one overall in our marriage, but just then, having experienced the miracle of what a woman's body could do . . . well, just maybe Cora was the luckier in that one way. I squeezed Cinnamon again and decided to find something else to argue about . . . some other time.

The guys were smirking when we finally returned to the war room, dressed in jeans and boots with enough heel to keep my ankles quiet and to make Cinnamon's legs look just as good.

"Shopping is hard work. We were tired," Cinnamon said blandly, daring the guys to say anything more. They did, but not with words. I thought Willy-T's eyes might pop out with the strain of not saying anything, and the fog of distraction was enough that I hoped none of the data they were working on was unrecoverable. But no one said anything until they had their mental processors rebooted enough to talk about actual work.

Unfortunately for the team, there weren't any new leads since the medical equipment robbery. Fortunately for me that gave Jim time to set up my new identity, and my requalification in helicopters. I don't know who was funding him, but he didn't seem to have any trouble getting whatever he wanted. Jim asked what helicopter I wanted to be qualified in and I launched on a discussion of the relative merits of the OH-6 and OH-58. He listened patiently until I ran down. Since I hadn't made a clear choice, the next thing I knew I was scheduled for refresher training in each.

It was all very mysterious. A little before dawn - thank God I had advance warning because it was taking me at least an hour to get ready each morning - I was driven to an isolated field a few miles west of town. A helicopter with normal civilian markings but no company identification flew in and a handsome young pilot [Oh, crap, did I just think that?] got out. After the more-or-less obligatory ogling and drooling and other things that virile young men [Oh, God, I'm doing it again!] do, he got down to business. It didn't take long for him to verify that I knew the technical side of the choppers, and it didn't take long after that for him to verify that I knew the operational side as well. I was a bit frustrated because I wasn't flying as well as I had in my prime, but considering it had been almost 20 years since I had been behind the stick, I did okay.




It actually took a couple of days and for the second one Cinnamon drove me to the field. After the checkride, she pulled me aside.

"So, are you gonna do him?" she asked.

"What?"

"The pilot. The way he was fishing for your phone number, with you dancing around a direct answer with all those lowered eyes and shy smiles, I figured you were setting a date by now. Can I be your bridesmaid?"

"What are you talking about?" I said, getting irritated. "He just wanted to know how to contact me if I needed more instruction."

"Exactly!" she said. "Of course, the kind of instruction . . ."

"Don't even go there," I said. "That wasn't it at all. Besides . . . I mean . . . you and I . . ."

She interrupted, ". . . were wonderful together." She smirked and checked over my shoulder to make sure the instructor pilot wasn't looking, then poked me in one of my oversized boobs. "But those puppies were made to feed babies. Don't tell me you aren't interested in what only a man can give a woman."

"I'm not!" I insisted, causing her to giggle in a most irritating manner.

When she could get her amusement under control, she said, "Then we need to talk, girl. You've got the flirting bit down so well that I may need lessons from you!"

"I wasn't . . ," I protested again.

And she interrupted, but this time with a bit less hilarity. "Truly, Dee, if that was all innocent, then we *do* need to talk. You're putting out 'interested' vibes so strong I felt them way over here, and that poor guy is going nuts with the conflicting signals when you won't give him your number."

"I don't even *have* a phone number!" I protested again.

"So, you *do* want to give him your number?" she asked.

"No!" I said. This was past irritating and into confusing. I think my frown must have finally gotten through her humor because she looked more serious.

"Seriously, Dee, we need to talk. If you're that innocent about what a girl does to show interest in a guy, then you'll get yourself in trouble."

"Like I'm not already in trouble with all this?" I asked, trying not to cry, or scream, or . . . do something about the unending, confusing, frustration of my life.

We were interrupted by the pilot coming over with my logbook. The checkout was dutifully entered in a faked logbook, after which I dutifully signed to affirm that all that faked data was true.

Well, the flying was fun. And I enjoyed the flattery of their attention until Cinnamon pointed out that she thought I was actually flirting with them. I had to admit to myself that I enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger aspect of everything. I hadn't felt so alive in decades. But flirting with men? No way.

And yes, a part of that was because at least every other night either Cinnamon made her way to my room, or I made my way to hers. The guys knew. They had to know. I mean, we were never actually 'caught' in a compromising position, as it were, but they had to know. And they were great because after that first afternoon that Cinnamon and I were together, they blandly played the game of pretending not to know. I decided to add another to the list of thing that friends do for each other. After helping to bury the bodies, add 'look the other way when the hottest girl you know gets it on with another hot girl.'

Though I do think Willy-T was losing some sleep because of unrequited fantasies. Serves him, right, the big letch. Actually, as Jim had said, Willy was a nice guy. He always grinned when he teased me in a way that made it clear it was a sign of friendship, not lack of respect. But I had to admit to myself that I enjoyed the idea that I was 'teasing' him as well, even if just by being around.

One issue was that none of us knew just what the Anastasia modifications included and we had to be on the lookout - me more than the others, of course - for any further changes. The . . . ahem . . . 'big' things had already showed up. My boobs had stabilized just about as Cinnamon had predicted. My measurements matched up pretty well with the doc's predictions. My hair seemed to like being styled and would hold a nice shape even through a night of sleeping . . . or not sleeping as the case may be. The little nanites didn't race to make my leg or armpit hair grow back after being waxed away.

A little experimenting and I found I could change the shape of my hair or nails a little, as long as I held mostly to the programmed length. On my nails, a more oval look seemed better to me than square, but at least part of the each nail needed to be a certain length or they'd quickly grow out anyway. My hair was the same. The shaping that the stylist had done worked well, but later I found that too much trim resulted in the whole mass of it returning to the nominal shape so I was careful not to change things too much. The good news was that once my hair and nails reached the programmed length, they pretty much quit growing. After a while I learned to compensate . . . not that I had much choice in the matter.

Something told me that wasn't all the little tricks that Anna designed into the Anastasia program.

I know the guys were getting antsy, but I was nicely busy for those couple of weeks and aside from occasional confusion about the whole girl thing, having more fun than I'd had since . . . .

. . . since Cora died.

Y'know, that was the first time I could admit that I had fun of any kind since Cora. I felt guilty the first time I realized that I was truly happy. I guess it was a good thing that my new name was Galadriel *Cora* Chase, because I wouldn't have wanted Cora to be sad if I had passed first, so being partly Cora helped me get past the guilt.

That, plus discovering the magic of two girls in one bed. I could just never talk myself into feeling guilty about that. And if *that* were okay to be happy about, then what wasn't?

There still wasn't a day that went by that I didn't miss Cora, but now it was, "I wish she could have shared this, too" instead of, "This wasn't even worth doing because Cora wasn't here." That's an enormous difference.

******************
Interlude

[Boob job,] the saleswoman decided as soon as the girl walked through the door. Emily Dawson had been running the stylish little boutique near the University of Washington for most of a decade, and she stayed in business by meeting the customers' - the paying customers' - needs. Near the University, there were two types of co-eds. There were the real students who only came in to dream because the prices were way out of their league.

And then there were the 'daddy's girls' who had more money than they could handle - not that they thought so. A good sign that a girl was in the second category was a boob job. Emily had to admit that this was a good one. The shapes were much more natural than the obvious half-a-cantaloupe mounds that showed none of the natural flow of one curve into another. However, it wasn't really the shape nor even the size that gave her away. It was the way she flaunted them. She strutted. She preened. She struck poses. All were signs that they were new, not something that had grown into place so that they were - literally - just part of her body.




"Can I help you, Miss?" Emily asked politely.

"Yes," the girl said happily. When the saleswoman got a good look at her face she received another, unneeded, confirmation. This girl was 18 going on 25. Her face was younger than her body, but her attitude was one of claimed sophistication and maturity.

The girl, a nice looking redhead who would have been a cheerleader in any college squad even without her augmentation, showed her perfect teeth in a wide smile and said, "I've just recently, um, grown a little, and I need a whole new wardrobe."

"Indeed, Miss, I'm sure we can help you."

The last piece of the puzzle to confirm the daddy's girlness of this young woman was when Daddy himself stepped into the room. The man was old enough to be her father, which was only a minor confirmation. The main proof was the indulgent smirk he sent toward his daughter. Well, that along with a high-dollar suit and a bodyguard. Though to be sure, the way the bodyguard looked at the girl was going to get him in trouble if Daddy ever noticed.

"I'm Emily Dawson," the woman said. "I own this little shop, and I'll be more than glad to fit you out in the very latest styles."

"Oh, I'm um, Anastasia," the girl said, stumbling a bit on her name. And she frowned when she said it, which was a little unusual considering it was a very sophisticated name that you would think she'd like for herself.

"I wonder if it's her real name," Emily mused. "She's probably just an 'Ann' or an 'Amy' or something. The new name is part of her new persona."

"Pleased to meet you, Anastasia," Emily said. "Now, with your red hair, we'll obviously want to focus on greens, at least initially, but despite what they say, redheads can look just fabulous in red as well . . ."

******************

Chapter 8 - "Sightseeing"

"We caught a break," Willy announced. We were working through boat registrations looking for trawler yachts. There were too many of course, with too few clues, but it was better than staring at the walls. Besides, Jim was a firm believer in learning all you could in the chance that at some future date a correlation would become apparent.

Willy, on the other hand, had been looking for money traces. The good news on that was it was largely automated. The bad news was that there was a lot of money in circulation as well. But he had come through. Or at least, he thought he had.

"We've got several of those $100 bills in a boutique in Seattle," he announced.

"A boutique?" Cinnamon repeated.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Something out near the University."

"What size were the clothes?" I asked.

"What?" Willy asked in turn. "Why?"

"I'm betting that Anna Raymond used the Anastasia body template, like I said. If the clothes were in, well, my size, then it's likely to be her."

That information wasn't available, but even the chance was enough for Jim. In just over an hour we were all on our way to a local airport where a G550 was waiting.

Of course, I had to bug the flight crew. The G550 has an incredibly cool cockpit. I don't think they minded all that much. On the other hand *I* minded that the copilot couldn't have told you the color of my eyes after we talked, because his own eyes never got that high. Just to be mean I gave them a walk as I went back to my seat that was going to give them stiff necks for a month.

It didn't take long after we landed before Willy-T was driving us from the airport in a black SUV big enough to hold the whole team and all our gear. Our immediate destination was the "Stylin'" boutique and Cinnamon had a suggestion on our approach.

"Let Dee and I go in first. The owner is more likely to open up to two women than a bunch of guys."

"Makes sense," Barney said, and Jim nodded.

Cinnamon and I were dressed for travel so we were wearing jeans and sport shirts that could have been co-ed uniforms. The woman who welcomed us was not impressed.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely, but I got the impression she didn't think that was likely.

"Oh, I hope so," Cinnamon said with heartfelt need. "The Duchess and I lost most of our luggage - don't you just hate airlines? - and we need something for tonight!"

"Duchess?" the woman asked, warming up at the thought of a likely sale.

"That would be me," I said, joining in on the pitch. "I'm not really a duchess, of course. But my real name is Galadriel, and that's just . . . I mean, can you imagine? So somewhere along the line - y'know, I don't even remember when - people started calling me Duchess, or sometimes just Dee." I took a moment to arch my back - quite unconsciously, of course - to give her a pretty good idea where a 'D' nickname had come from. "Anyway, we're supposed to go on a big retreat for high performers. It's the first time Cinnamon and I have been invited and we just *have* to have a nice outfit for tonight."

The woman's eyes narrowed for a moment and she looked me up and down with a more critical eye than any on-the-hunt guy. Her opinion of us dropped several notches when she decided just what our part was likely to be in this corporate retreat. But her prospects for a sale climbed in direct proportion to our loss of respect. So she dredged up a smile and started in on a sales patter about her offerings.

"I'm sure we can find something suitable," she said. "I'm Emily Dawson, the owner, and I'll be glad to show you what we have personally."

"Oh, thank you so much," Cinnamon gushed. "I’m just sure we'll find something, too. At least, I'm sure you can find something for me. 'Dee' . . ," she pointed at me, ". . . is a bit harder to fit."

"Yeah," I said sadly, but my sadness didn't last long. "But if we do find something, I'm sure the guys on our retreat will like it."

"Yes, quite," Emily said. "I'm sure we have something in your size. In fact, just last week I provided a new wardrobe for a young woman with your . . . features."

"Oh, really? Was she a brunette like me? Maybe I could get some of the same things. Or a blonde like Cinnamon?"

"Oh, she was a redhead . . ."

[Hah! I knew she'd be a redhead.]

" . . . and younger than she wanted to pretend," Emily continued, "but her shape was, ah, fully developed. You could share clothes."

"Really? That would be great, at least until our luggage catches up. What's her name?"

You could see the struggle in Emily's eyes. On the one hand, if she seemed too greedy, she might lose any sales at all to these customers. On the other hand, shared clothes are not new sales. She frowned for a moment, then shrugged.

"I never really got her whole name or a phone number or anything. She just said her name was Anastasia."

[Bingo!]

"Although . . . she did have some of her packages delivered. Let me see . . ."

" . . . yes, here it is. 'MV Camelot. Diamond Marina.'"

Cinnamon managed to hide her pleasure behind a frown. "Oh, I left my checkbook in the car. I'll be right back. Dee, find a bikini. You'll need one."

That was not what I had in mind but Emily was already on her way to an eye-grabbing array of tiny bits of fabric. Bikinis had gotten smaller since the last one Cora wore. A lot smaller. Thankfully they still attached in more or less the same way so I could try a few on without looking like a total idiot. By the way, one size *does not* fit all. At least, not if you think that fit includes coverage of more than just the, um, dark areas. And what's up with thongs? That didn't even make sense.

Until I tried one on. Gotta give that Anna credit, she did design a killer bod. There was enough of Duke left on the inside to appreciate the outside, and I just couldn't say no. Emily showed me one that she said Anastasia liked and I could see why. I could see just about everything, in fact. Dark red, with a shimmer that moved even when I didn't. I found myself daydreaming about what the guys would do if they saw me in something like that. It might be worth it just for the shock value.

"We need to pick our outfits for tonight," Cinnamon said, her eyes laughing at my self-absorption. I hadn't even noticed her come back in. Of course, we didn't really need new outfits but they told me that the first lesson of a good cover identity is never to let it be a lie. You need to live the story and our story was that we were 'executive assistants' with skills that didn't necessarily involve shorthand.

However, there were two of us . . .

"Since I can't get a black one - I'll look too pale - then you can't either," Cinnamon insisted.

"But Cor . . . correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that a little black dress was a necessary part of every, um wardrobe?"

"It is," Cinnamon agreed, "but not the only part. And I don't want you to look elegant while I look . . . festive."

"Festive?" I repeated. "That doesn't sound so bad, Cee."

Emily felt a need to intervene, still hoping to make more sales. "Oh, festive is an excellent look, but elegant is also. Perhaps we can find something in each for both of you . . ."

So now we were buying two outfits . . . each. Jim was going to have a fit when he saw the bill, but we had found a major clue so he'd probably accept it. Eventually.

Cinnamon settled on a cornflower blue wrap dress that had a wicked little slit on the thigh. The bra she got to go with it was positively indecent - it didn't even cover her nipples, at least, not all of them - and I was instantly jealous. For no good reason, of course. There was no reason for me to be jealous because another girl . . . because *a* girl looked really hot in a daring outfit.

Her dress for the elegant look was another argument.

"You can't have that one," I said firmly. "That color matches *my* eyes as well as that cornflower one matches yours. I just *have* to get it."

"Oh, poo," she said, sighing artificially. That was one thing she could do better than I could because in most of the tops she wanted me to wear, if I sighed like that something would pop out entirely. Guys' eyes, at least. But she agreed to let me have the deep blue one and go with a violet slip dress that looked just fabulous on her. My 'festive' dress was white with silver sequins on the bodice and looked like it belonged on a Hollywood star at some super-trendy nightclub. It had a built-in bra because it was slit about to the navel. The garter belt nearly showed.

And heels. Ohmigod, I was gonna break an ankle for sure but they looked *sooo* good.

By the time we escaped Ms. Emily's clutches - more than a thousand dollars poorer, but that's what expense accounts were for - Barney had found an online listing for Diamond Marina and Willy-T had directions programmed into the GPS. Jim's job was apparently tapping his toe. He was certainly performing that function. Oh, and frowning.

Cinnamon just smiled smugly and handed her packages to Willy to put in the back. Barney was there for mine and we took our places in the SUV as though we had merely finished our assigned duties just as the plan had indicated.

I don't think they bought it, but it didn't really matter.

Before we actually entered the marina offices, Jim had a planning session. This time he had the cover ideas. Actually what he did was build on the cover identities that we had already decided on, though now we needed to refine the characterizations.

"Okay, Cee, you're actually an executive assistant, but you're jealous of your new competition. Dee, you're so naïve that you don't really know what is going on. Think, Little Annie Fannie from the Playboy comics - and don't try to tell me that you don't know who that was."

"But Annie Fanny is a blonde," I said, trying on my wide-eyed innocent look. "Doesn't that mean Cee should play that part?"

Cinnamon started to sputter, but Willy's roar of laughter drowned her out. Even Jim snickered enough to interrupt his planning for a moment.

"Okkaayy, moving right along," he finally said. "Barney, you're the other real executive. Willy, I think we need some internal tension on the guy's side, too. That means you feel like you're being patronized. You're more irritated than pleased to be part of the party. Got that?"

Willy-T didn't say anything. He just scowled enough to make me feel uneasy about the whole role-playing thing . . . until he broke out in a huge smile. "Got it, boss. I can do sullen all day long."

Cinnamon had a question. "Um, boss, just how far does this . . . executive getaway go? Are you expecting Dee and I to . . ?"

"Just be friendly," he said. "I don't want cheap hookers. I want naive rather than worldly. Act as the cover story indicates. You're up-and-coming young secretaries who are thrilled to be included in the executive retreat . . . and not against the idea of . . . 'taking advantage' of some private time with the boss."

"Got it," she said, and I hoped that I understood as well.

"One last thing," Jim said. "We're looking for our own yacht for a cruise because we heard about another group that had one. We'll use the fact we found out about the 'Camelot' the way it happened, from a saleswoman who helped another similar group. It sounded like a good idea so we're looking for them to discuss their boat."

"And Barney, you were right about them using a boat. Do you have one lined up for us?"

"Yeah, boss. After Cinnamon came out and told us what to look for, I found out that the 'Camelot' is a Nordhavn 60. They're a good, stable boat, but they're only rated at about 10 knots. I've got us in an Ocean Alexander 62 that can go at least 25 knots."

"Good," Jim said, then he winced. "I'm not going to want to know how much that costs, am I?"

"Well, you know they invented that price saying about yachts. If you have to ask, you can't afford it."

Jim winced again, but sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

And then it seemed like all that planning was wasted. Jim 'sailed' into the Diamond Marina office like he owned the whole state of Washington. Cee was draped on his arm possessively and I was wide-eyed looking at 'all the pretty boats.' Unfortunately, 'Camelot' had sailed two days before. Supposedly they were on their way to Friday Harbor, but that was nearly into Canadian waters so they could be almost anywhere.

I wanted to use a chopper to fly around looking but Jim decided that would be too obvious. Even float planes would have been unusual just flying around in that area. There were too many ferries and regular shuttle services so there wouldn't be much chance that a lone helicopter was up for any reason but searching/sightseeing. However, even the name of the yacht we were after gave us a place to start because Barney's check of records showed the 'Camelot' had received her new name in Anacortes.

"Yes, I remember them," the salesman in Anacortes said when we backtracked to there. We weren't playing our assigned roles with him. Jim just went at the salesman head on with a faked (at least, I thought it was faked) Homeland Security ID.

"We understand that there was a young woman and an older man," Jim prodded.

"Nnnooo," the man said slowly. "There was an older guy, but the woman was middle-aged as well."

"Ah, well, then perhaps our data were wrong," Jim said easily, but I couldn't keep my own eyes from widening. "What were their names?"

"The older guy, he seemed to be the boss, signed the papers as Rex Pellinore. For insurance, he had to list his crew and there is a . . ," he checked his paper, ". . . Lance Dulac, mate; a Mort Dredd, deckhand and the woman was . . . let's see . . . funny spelling . . . Gwenyvere Pender. They had her listed as 'Chief Medical Officer.'"

He looked up at Jim and said, "You don't need a 'chief medical officer,' of course, but she seemed to want to be listed and the older guy didn't argue. Anyway that's what they said."

"Where were they heading?"

"I don't know. We ran them around this area a little, showing them how to operate the boat. I don't think they went too far."

That caught Jim's attention. "Why not?"

"Well, it's only March. The days are still fairly short and you don't want to cruise at night around here."

"I see," Jim replied thoughtfully. I didn't know if he knew why cruising at night would be a bad idea. I certainly didn't.

I did, however, pick up on the name references. After we left the marina office, I sighed - not too heavily, though Willy's eyes crossed for a moment (I figured it was another tease).

"What's wrong?" Cinnamon asked.

"Well, all those names are faked. We won't be able to backtrack them."

"Why not?" Barney said. He already had his laptop open and was setting up a search.

"C'mon, don't any of you read?" I said. "Rex - as in King Pellinore? Lancelot du Lac? Mordred? Gwenyvere Pendragon? Her married name of course. Changing the name of the yacht to 'Camelot?'"

"But she told the woman in the boutique that her name was Anastasia," Cinnamon said.

"Yeah, and once upon a time I was someone else, too," I said dryly. "I expect they've figured that they might have left some data traces - they did, after all - so that we'd know the Anastasia name. She probably used it in the boutique because she couldn't think of another fake name fast enough - she wouldn't want to use either Anna or Gwenyvere."

Barney sighed and closed his laptop.

Jim pulled out an area chart he had picked up in the chandlery and considered the area. "Well, there are too many choices to make an exhaustive search practical and I still don't want to show them a snooping helicopter. But . . ."

He pointed to the San Juan Island chain. "There are three main harbors in the San Juans; Friday Harbor, and we've heard that name before; Roche Harbor; and Rosario Resort. I think we need to set up surveillance in those places for at least a few days or until we get another lead."

And so we did. First, however, we had to get our own boat, the "Discreet Delights." I don't know if Jim pulled some sort of official permission, but we had the boat with little more than a handshake and a casual look at some of the manuals. Then we were on our way.




"Please, Jim? Pleasepleasepleaseplease, pretty please?" Cinnamon begged. She wanted to be assigned to the watch at Rosario Resort which had a spa that was on the normal tourist 'must-see' list. Jim laughed, but he agreed. We dropped her off on our way to Friday Harbor, where Willy and I stayed behind. Jim and Barney were going to poke their head in to a few of the nicer anchorages like Sucia Island before spending a day or two at Roche Harbor.

The Hillside House wasn't the resort that Cinnamon had wheedled out of Jim but it was a nice bed and breakfast that was almost empty at that time of year. I did a little wheedling of my own to get the harbor master to let me see the list of the yachts in the harbor, and as long as I kept the top couple of my buttons undone, I was sure I'd be able to check the list as often as I wanted.

The 'Camelot' wasn't in the harbor, of course. We knew that before Jim and Barney sailed away. So Willy-T and I set up a surveillance routine. We didn't figure that Anastasia - or Gwenyvere - would show up only for a few hours in the middle of the night and then leave, so we set up both separate and shared periods during each day and into the evening but planned on sleeping at night. Oh, and we found out the reason that no one cruises at night in the area. There's a lot of logging and they move the logs to the mills in big floating rafts. Logs are coming loose all the time and just wait for boats to come along. You need to keep a close watch out during the day and you're just about guaranteed to hit one if you cruise at night.

It was actually fun just to hang around as a girl on my own. Particularly a pretty one. The Anastasia design hardly needed makeup so that wasn't as much bother as it might have been. My complexion was so flawless that foundation would have diminished it. My cheeks had a permanent glow of health that took only a little light blush to highlight. My lashes were so long on their own that I hardly needed mascara, though I did use a bit along with some liner to draw attention to their blue depth. A bit of natural-tones shadow to add contour to my eyes; a shade darker and redder for my lips with some gloss for accent; and just enough powder to keep the shine away at nose and forehead meant I could face the day secure in the knowledge that I was not . . . squandering my opportunity.

I was also finding that the little courtesies like someone holding a door were as nice as the little insults like someone talking to my tits . . . um, boobs were unwanted. In fact, I had gone over to the girl side far enough to like attention if it wasn't just leering. Most of the islanders were nice people so on the whole it was fun to be out and about.

Except for the rain, of course. It was called a rain forest area for a reason. I just kept my hair in a ponytail most of the time and wore a wide-brimmed hat. The end of my ponytail would get soaked - and heavy - but it was always heavy so I just dealt with it. Besides, I was young! I was fit and could walk the hills without getting so tired that it became a chore. I felt like skipping along picking wildflowers. Hell, I felt so young I thought about getting some chalk and laying out a hopscotch grid. I didn't, but it was grand to feel so alive after so many years of a tired old body. The great disaster of growing old is that the body ages but the mind does not. I still felt - well, had always felt as Duke - that I should be able to do the same physical things I had always done. That made it always disappointing when I couldn't. Only now I could, and more besides. The Anastasia body design was just wonderful. I had to force myself to go back to the B-and-B when it was time to check in.




The Hillside House had a nice verandah that faced the harbor. None of the other guests seemed to want to sit out there - which was understandable because of the misty rain and cool temperatures - but we had a mission so Willy-T and I parked out there as sundown approached. The verandah had an old-fashioned porch swing and we were moving idly back and forth while the harbor darkened. I had taken my hair down from the ponytail and was slowly running a brush through it so that it would dry without tangles. I knew that Willy was staring at me but for some reason it didn't really make me uncomfortable. We'd worked together for long enough that I trusted him completely so his attention wasn't like stalking or anything.

"Why didn't you go with Jim, Tee?" I asked after a few minutes. "I'd have thought you'd like being on the boat."

"Oh, I'll get plenty of boating time," he said easily. "Actually, Jim wanted one of us to stay with you and Barney has a scanner of some sort he wanted to try out so he was going to stay with the Double D."

"Double D?" I asked, then snorted with unladylike laughter. "Discreet Delights . . . Double D. I should have known that's what you'd pick up on. I also should have insisted on a different boat."

Willy smirked, but only for a moment. His face settled in to a look so neutral that I knew he had something serious to discuss. He began obliquely. "Agent J doesn't really like us to talk about our lives before the team much. Some of us have come aboard at different times and from assignments we couldn't talk about anyway. Rather than have the awkwardness, he just discourages reminiscing."

I wasn't sure where he was going, but I put my brush down and listened patiently. Apparently part of his reason for staring had been because I was working on my hair. When I stopped, he looked out over the harbor.

"Before I was invited to work for Jim, I was a bodyguard . . ."

"You'd be good at it," I suggested.

"Thanks, and you're right. I was good at it. I guarded some of the most famous bodies in the world. Glamorous Hollywood stars, rich young heiresses, even for a while a 'courtesan' - she didn't like to be called a 'call girl' or anything like that - whose fee was in the five figures for a single night . . . and she stayed busy."

I was trying to decide what to say to that, to encourage him to continue toward whatever objective had started him on that topic, but I didn't need to.

He moved closer to me and looked me right in the eyes. I was thinking that I should have moved back, or pushed him away, or something, but . . . I didn't do it. It wasn't that I was intimidated and was afraid if I rejected him he'd get angry. He truly was a 'gentle giant' and I knew all I would have to do was say no and he'd sit back. But there was something strangely compelling about his eyes. Well, maybe about all of him. He was intensely masculine, but without any of the swaggering macho overtones - unless it was a deliberate joke, which is probably why it was so clear it *was* a joke and didn't bother me. I could smell his musky scent, hear the resonance of his deep chest when he breathed, feel the warmth that came off his body, and it all seemed so . . . comforting. So protective. He was yang to my yin, and rather than crowding me, I was reflexively drawn to him.

Willy said he felt the same. "Yet none of those famous women, even when gowned in the most expensive fashions, wearing the most expensive jewels . . . none of them were as literally attractive as you are sitting there in your jeans and bulky sweater, brushing your hair. I feel like there's a physical pressure pulling me to you."

As he said that, he moved even closer. Now was the time for me to tell him to back off . . .

But I didn't.

He moved slowly - but with the unstoppable inertia of a glacier - until his lips were pressing into mine. I found myself kissing him back, first tentatively, and then with a building avalanche of passion that swept me up into some strange new dimension of intensity. It wasn't only - in fact, wasn't even mostly - a physical intensity. Cinnamon and I had shared much more frantic sensations and I still remembered incredible times with Cora. But Willy-T's kiss demanded more from me - and gave back more to me - than any physical sensation I had ever experienced.

What I felt wasn't love, either. Not even Cinnamon's kisses touched my heart as deeply as those Cora had blessed me with. For all that my heart was fluttering out of control and my diaphragm was quivering too fast for any real breathing, it wasn't the same as when I had kissed my lost wife.

It was just . . . completing. Willy gave me something that I didn't even know that I needed; filled in a hole that I didn't even know existed.

But it was also too much, too fast, too . . . impossible. A few weeks before I had been Duke Chase and what I was doing with Willy just did not exist in that world. The reality twist reached out from somewhere deep inside me and I pulled back.

"I'm sorry, Tee, but I can't . . ," I whispered.

He smiled gently and slowly leaned back. After a moment his smile was a bit wider, with a bit more real humor. "Well, I'm not going to say I'm sorry - at least, not for trying."

I managed to smile at his calm acceptance. "Yeah, well, it was an awesome try."

"Glad to be of service, pretty lady. I'll be here if you, ah, change your mind," he said, standing up and moving toward the door into the bed-and-breakfast.

I carefully did not notice the, um, impressive sign of how . . . hard it was for him to walk away.

Very impressive. And very hard.

Chapter 9 - "Watching"

*******************
Interlude

"Hello, boys," Gwen purred as she slinked into the salon of the Camelot. "Miss me?"

Lance followed her in. He hadn't missed her. In fact, they now shared the master cabin and he had been 'getting' her ever since she had completed her change. His appreciation for her new form was at least as great as her own ego provided and he was only too happy to show that appreciation - sometimes several times a day. His eyes showed continuing appreciation for the look of the woman he followed, lingering on the tight buns she displayed so openly as she took the few steps up from the stateroom passageway.

Pellinore, on the other hand, winced when she did her feline strut into the room. Gwen could walk in heels gracefully enough. She had worked for a long time to get the foot bones and connecting tissue worked out so that she was steady in heels. But that didn't mean she had good taste to go with her graceful motions. She wore a bright red 'why bother' bikini that was both tiny and thin, coupled with nosebleed heels and a silly little beach cover up in a sheer green that made her look like some erotic Christmas ornament. That get up didn't keep her very warm - obviously not a requirement - so the interior of the Camelot was heated to a level that the rest of the occupants found almost oppressive in what could have been a bracing northwest spring. Pellinore thought she was just trashy and had no trouble ignoring her flirtatious attempts to start a jealous argument among the men of the party.

A sign of that lack of taste was the way Gwen had painted up her face. Pellinore had needed to use all his persuasive power to get her to go to a real salon for a makeover before she bought her new wardrobe in Seattle. And then she had reverted right back to something . . . well, tasteless. Though he never showed it on the outside, Pellinore had always liked redheads - young, nubile, innocent-looking redheads. He had urged Anna Raymond to abandon the Anastasia Romanov design when it was possible that it had been compromised. And he had urged her to go with a redhead design for the second iteration instead of her original blonde-bombshell idea. Then the stupid bitch had to go and cover up the charming freckles with makeup as heavy as a sixteen-year-girl's initial experiments. Which was perhaps fair after all, since it was clear that Anna Raymond had never gone through that stage in her first youth. But it still looked cheap and it was like painting a marble statue - a desecration, not an improvement.

No one knew what Mordred thought of the woman's fashion sense. Pellinore expected the wiry man didn't really notice. He was only happy when he had a reason to put his knife in someone - well, one of his knives, actually, He always had several and seemed to spend all his off-watch, non-eating time sharpening one or another of them. He was a dutiful enough crewman, though in the back of Pellinore's mind he wondered how long Mordred would stay dutiful if they quit giving him opportunities to kill people.

"Let's have a toast," Gwen said brightly. She swept into the galley and pulled out glasses. "Lance, dear, bring me something . . . red."

Her large paramour did as he was told, as he usually did. Gwen got out wine glasses and busied herself behind the counter, getting some items from the refrigerator to set out a surprisingly domestic little snack array. Uncharacteristically, she carried a tray with glasses to the others herself. It wasn't difficult. Camelot was anchored in Reid Harbor so there was little wave motion and besides, Gwen truly did move gracefully.

"One for you," she said to Lance, "and one for you, Pelly, and one for you, Mordred, and one for me."

"I toast to the future, glorious and famous," she said.

Pellinore didn't want to be famous. He didn't want people looking over his shoulder. But their agreement was that when they had enough money, he would arrange for Gwen to star in a movie so he dutifully clinked his glass.

"Drink up, everyone," Gwen commanded. "There's plenty more."

She passed around the tray of cheese and bits of fruit in a nicely domestic scene made ludicrous by her skimpy attire. However, she didn't pass around the wine bottle. She watched, and only after Lance and Pellinore had drained their first glasses did she give them more wine.

"C'mon, Mordred, drink up," she said cheerfully, but her eyes were narrow. The smaller man just shrugged and gulped his drink without apparently tasting it.

Gwen didn't bother to refill his glass. "Alright, everyone, give me your attention."

The tone in her voice, so distinct from the empty-headed flirt she had seemed, did indeed get their attention. She walked over to Pellinore and leaned forward so that he could see into her cleavage - as though that hadn't already been on display. Her words were light, but there was a hard undertone that was reflected in her frown. "Pelly, dear, you don't like it when I dress like this."

He didn't bother to deny it. She continued, "But Lance likes it and I like it, and I'm going to dress the way I want. However, just because I'm catching up on a lifetime's worth of beauty doesn’t mean that I lost my brains when I grew these boobs. Despite what it does to men's intelligence, a woman's IQ is *not* inversely linked to the size of her chest."

Gwen moved back with her intrinsic grace to lean one hip on the arm of the salon settee. "I have just infected each of you with some of my little friends."

"What?" Pellinore said, rising from his seat. Even Mordred seemed affected by that revelation, though in his case the response was to produce a black-bladed, shiny-edged throwing knife.

"Relax, gentlemen," Gwen said easily. "You'll like what I've done for you."

"We better," Mordred said, breaking his typical silence.

"You most of all, Mordred, dear," Gwen claimed. "I've improved you all - not as much as I've improved myself, of course - but improved, nonetheless."

She stood up and sidled over to her paramour. Turning so that she could rub her nearly-nude derriere against the hardening bulge in his pants, she purred, "Lance, baby, you are going to be more pleasing than ever," she claimed. "But that's for me to enjoy. For the purposes of our team, my little friends are going to make your bones almost as dense as steel, and as strong. And since I do like your body - a lot - I've made it so that it will heal very quickly. Let me show you."

Though her words remained conversational, at the end of her statement she picked up a cheese knife and sliced it across Lance's arm. He yelled and struggled to get his arm out of her grasp, but even as he looked the blood quit flowing. It continued to heal and it was clear that in a few minutes there would be no sign of his wound.

Gwen pulled herself up onto one of the stools near the counter, letting her long legs stretch down to the floor. "Actually, I put my little improvements into place in Lance a couple of days ago. I just wanted to be able to give you a demonstration."

She turned to Mordred. "Mordred, honey, how would you like to be invisible?"

He just snorted, but his eyes widened at the thought.

"Well, not actually invisible," she said. "But with perfect camouflage. I've given you the ability to mimic your surroundings like a chameleon; at least, in a few days you'll have it. See, I told you that you'd like it."

The small killer's eyes went back to their typical hooded furtiveness, but he made his knife disappear which was message enough.

Gwen looked at Pellinore again. "So, Pelly, we're back to you. You and your computer skills and your alarm tricks. Whatever could I do for you?"

"I don't need anything," he said gruffly.

"You know, Pelly, I think you're right," she said, gaining the look of surprise that she had wanted. "But even though you don't need it, I think you'll like my gift."

She moved over to pick up a little remote control that worked the lounge TV. "In a few days, maybe a week, you'll be able to sense infra-red and radio waves directly, as though your skin were a big antenna. Do you think that would be helpful?"

"How does that work?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. Migrating birds and pit vipers gave me the DNA to modify." She added lightly, "The rest was just another aspect of my genius."

Then her expression grew serious again. "But it would do you all well to remember that just as I can improve you, I can kill you. And you'll never know until it's too late."

She strutted up to Pellinore again. "I know you've been thinking that you're the real brains of this outfit, but you're not. You're not the boss. You're not in charge. You're not anything without me."

With that, she turned around and said, "C'mon, Lance, honey. All this power has made me quite . . . stimulated."

"Wait, An . . . I mean, Gwen, what sort of transition is there?" Pellinore asked.

"Oh, nothing much," she promised. "Your skin will probably itch a bit as the new nerves grow, but it won't be more than irritating." She smirked over her shoulder. "At least, it shouldn't be. If you're worried, find a harbor to rest in for a few days."

**********************

It was a sign of just how nice a guy Tee was that our relationship didn't change after I, um, declined his pass. He stayed friendly, cheerful, and funny. And he teased me just as much as he had before, complete with artificial - well, I thought they were artificial - leers whenever the occasion presented itself.

Two days after the adventure on the verandah, Camelot showed up. Neither Tee nor I saw her arrive and I hadn't gotten by the harbor master's office that day yet. We should have been more careful.

I was walking up to the Whale Museum on the top of the hill overlooking Friday Harbor when I just 'happened' to stop in a jewelry store a little below the top. Okay, so I had been in it twice already. One of the problems was that other than a little spending money from Jim for the assignment, I didn't really have any money of my own. So I was window shopping. Again. Part of my conflict was that I really wanted to get something for Cinnamon. She'd been so much more than a friend - and I didn't just mean our times in bed. But the prices were way out of my range since I couldn't even call on Duke Chance's old accounts. My plan was to get with Jim as soon as Discreet Delights returned and work something out. And to do that, it was necessary to have a well-worked-out plan. That meant I had to know exactly which piece I wanted for Cinnamon . . . and maybe which piece I'd get for myself if Jim let me have enough money.

The front of the shop was about the size of a decent bedroom, though there was a work area in back where the jeweler himself could usually be found. There was another woman in the shop when I entered but she was bent over a display case and I turned to another case for my own browsing.

I don't know what it was - maybe there was a car outside or something, though it didn't register in my memory - but the other woman and I both looked up at the same time.

And she jumped back hard enough to cause half the items in her case to fall over.

After that she ran out of the place so fast I didn't get a really good look at her face, but I did get a good view of red hair and enough look at her derriere to recognize it . . . even if the perspective were a bit different from what I usually saw.

"Hey, wait!" I called out, literally biting my tongue to keep from calling out her name. But the girl just ran off. By the time I picked up my purse and headed out after her, she had disappeared. I debated with myself about trying to follow her, but that might have been fruitless and I needed to report in. I had a cellphone of course.

"Tee, this is Dee," I said, sounding like some stupid spy novel. "I saw her. I saw Gwenyvere!"

"Where?"

"Just down the hill from the Whale Museum. Check the harbor. I'm going to call Jim."

I didn't even give him time to confirm that he would do as I suggested/ordered/whatever. I just broke the connection and called Jim. He listened while I told him what had happened, but for a while after I finished he didn't say anything.

"Jim, what's wrong?" I asked finally.

"I was just looking at the charts," he explained. "We just picked up Cinnamon and we're probably . . . 3 hours out. Can you . . ?"

"No," I interrupted him. Down in the harbor, a Nordhavn 60 was taking in her lines. We had all looked at the photos of that type of boat and though I couldn't see the name, I knew who she was. The breakwater at Friday Harbor curves around a bit and it was actually quicker to pick someone up near the customs dock than to wait for them to walk around to where that boat had been tied up. If Tee and I ran for the dock at that moment, we probably wouldn't be able to do more than wave good-bye. Especially since it was misting (again, or still) and the visibility was down enough we couldn't even see the customs part of the dock from the hill, just the near end where the Nordhavn was already rounding the breakwater.

"They're gonna be gone by the time we could get there," I explained. "Boss, can you arrange a chopper?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to," he said tersely. Before I could complain, he added, "Look, Dee, I know you could fly it even in this weather. But you couldn't *see* anything. You could pass a mile abeam the Camelot and miss her completely. We'll have to do this by boat."

"But you won't be able to see any better," I protested.

"No, but we will be able to follow them as far as we need to go," he said, and his tone made it clear that the discussion was over.

True to his prediction, it was just under 3 hours later that Tee and I were boarding the Discreet Delights. Barney and Tee got the lines in immediately and we were soon on our way back out the channel. Toward where, I didn't know. Barney took the helm and the rest of us gathered around the pilothouse chart table.

"Look, Boss," Tee was saying. "This was all my fault. I had the watch this morning."

"What was the visibility this morning?" Jim asked, and it was clear he was aware that sighting the Camelot wouldn't have been easy.

"Then I should have been down on the breakwater instead of up in the B&B," Tee said.

"In which case you would have been obviously watching for someone," Jim said.

"It was *my* fault," I insisted. "I should have checked in with the harbor master earlier. Then I was in the same room with her for five minutes without realizing it, and then I let her get away."

"And if you'd have visited the harbor master more than a couple of times a day *he* would have been suspicious," Jim said. "Look, I don't care about the past. We have a chance to catch up, and we'll do it."

"But where do we go?" I asked.

Jim looked pensive for a moment. He looked at me and asked, "Where would *you* go?"

"Me? Why ask me?"

"Because you've understood her better than any of us so far," Jim said.

Well, right or wrong, I had the responsibility and I'd never been one to duck responsibility.

I started thinking out loud. "I obviously surprised her. I'll bet she thought that her first batch of nanites was lost. When I showed up, she panicked." I started pacing the small deck area as I thought. The others obliging got out of my way, though I couldn't help noticing that Barney's eyes were burning holes in my tail whenever I was headed the other way - and that I had to be careful to fight down the urge to let an extra bit of wiggle into my walk. "But she doesn’t know that I'm not here alone, or for sure know that I recognized her. By the time she gets away from the harbor, she'll even be starting to wonder if what she saw was real. But she's too arrogant to admit to doubts, so she'll . . ."

I looked at the chart and asked, "What's her long-term plan? It can't be to hide out up here in the middle of nowhere. She's . . . going to be famous, and glamorous, and . . . she needs more money. She'll *always* need more money. What do famous, glamorous people have that she doesn't have . . . yet?"

I was playing with an earring while I asked myself that, tugging on the unfamiliar feel. I had put on a bigger pair this morning - just hoops, but a bit heavier than I was used to. I guess all the others were watching me because all of the sudden Cinnamon said, "Jewelry!"

"What?" I asked.

"Jewelry," Cinnamon repeated. "She was in a jewelry store, right? And a glamorous, rich woman needs jewelry."

Barney waved at Tee to take over the helm as soon as Cinnamon made her announcement. He was calling up pages on the satellite link and soon had a list of jewelry stores in the area.

"No," I said when I saw the search. "Not in the San Juans. She won't stay that close. I don't know why, but I'm thinking someplace in Canada."

"Okay," he said, and widened the search.

There were a lot of jewelry stores in the area, including some pretty high end ones with imports from Asia.

*****************
Interlude

"I'm telling you, it was *my* body, and *my* face. That bitch stole my life!"

Gwen was pacing around the salon, three steps each way then back.

"How could that happen?" Pellinore asked.

"I don't know," Gwen admitted. "That batch should have decomposed after 5 minutes in air. If they didn't find a host body in that time, they were toast. No one would have just . . . swallowed that stuff without testing it, and by the time they completed any meaningful tests it would have been worthless."

"It must have been an accident," Pellinore said.

"Maybe," Gwen admitted, stopping in her pacing. After a moment, she started up again. "But that doesn't explain why she showed up here."

"Um, Bountiful," Lance said diffidently, "could it have been just . . . another dark-haired girl? With a good body? Maybe?"

"No!" she insisted, but there was something about her tone that made it less certain that it had been.

"Well, let's lay low for a day or two and then we'll get you some pretty baubles," Lance offered. The way he said it made it clear he wasn't planning on paying retail. That caught Mordred's attention, who gave the closest thing he had to a smile. Pellinore, on the other hand, scowled at the thought of another pointless robbery. But he knew better than to buck the rest of the group. For that matter, he wouldn't buck that redheaded bitch alone unless he were very, very sure he could get away with it.

Besides, a couple of days cooped up on this yacht in the springtime rains, and she'd be more than willing to listen to a few of his ideas.

And maybe the damn itching in his hands and arms would go away.

******************

We had cleared Canadian customs and found a berth in a Victoria marina. After dinner, the guys went off to get some sort of technical goodies. Barney had some specific ideas in mind and Tee was our best driver. Jim was along to pay, of course.

I was feeling pretty low so I decided to go to bed early. Unfortunately, the boat was too small to sneak anywhere so Cinnamon knew where I was. She came in to talk . . . but then she didn't say anything.

"Say something," I finally demanded.

"Why don't you start?" she offered.

"I already told everyone what's bothering me. It's my fault she got away."

"Actually," Cinnamon said quietly. "It's *my* fault."

"You didn't have anything to do with it," I countered.

"If Jim and Barney wouldn't have been all the way up in the East Sound after me, they'd have been here soon enough to catch them."

"But that's not your fault," I said.

"Wasn't nobody else up there," she said flatly. After a moment she sighed and said, "Or we can just decide that all of us could have done better. So, either we suck as a team - which I'm not accepting - or we did as well as could be expected in the circumstances. That's what Jim has decided and I have a great respect for Jim's judgment."

[Yeah, well, none of you were close enough to touch her,] I thought, but I didn't say it.

Cinnamon moved over to the bunk I was lying on and slid in next to me. "Even though I understand the logic, I also understand the emotions. How about we just hold each other for a while?"

I wasn't one to turn down the opportunity to snuggle with a beautiful woman. We squirmed a bit to find a mutually comfortable position and then grew still. I was just about asleep when I felt an electric charge in one of my always-sensitive nipples.

It wasn't really electricity, but it was certainly shocking. Cinnamon snickered and tweaked my not-so-little bud again. "I missed you," she whispered.

"Geez, girl, you weren't alone that long," I protested, but I couldn't help smiling.

She moaned a complaint. "That's the *point.* I was in this spa and the masseuse was rubbing my body . . . and it felt sssooo good, but not good enough. I thought I was gonna scream when she just draped the towel over me and walked off."

"Maybe you should have," I said, snickering. "She might have come back."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that," Cinnamon said. By now her talented fingers were doing deliciously naughty things to me. And dammit, Tee had gotten *me* hot, too! So speaking . . . well, thinking of 'delicious' and 'naughty' . . .

Later, when we had our breath back enough to whisper, Cinnamon giggled.

"So, what did you two do while I was gone?" she asked

"What?"

"You and Tee," she said, as though that were obvious.

"Nothing!" I said sharply, but even I could hear the guilt in my voice.

She pinched me most rudely, except, well, a little while before it hadn't been unwelcome at all so I could hardly complain. "You're different. Not passive - geez, you're incredibly active - but more . . . receptive. Less projecting and more receiving. It's not hard to guess what that means."

I could hear another, fluttery, tone in my voice when I tried to explain but I wasn't sure whether to cry or moan or . . . I just wasn't sure what to do. "He kissed me!" I finally blurted out.

"Oooh, tell me more," she pushed.

"That's it," I said. "We were just . . . talking, and the next thing I knew he was kissing me."

"And you liked it," she said as though that were obvious, too.

"Oh, god . . . yes," I whispered. Now tears where definitely part of the response.

"And you're crying because . . . that's all you did?" she guessed.

"No!" I claimed. "It's all just so confusing. I mean, I love what, y'know, we do. It's better than I could ever have imagined . . ."

"But you're curious what it would be like with a man," she concluded, smiling at the compliment, but returning to the main topic.

I didn't answer, but that was answer enough.

Cinnamon sat up a bit and looked seriously at me. "I can't imagine what it must be like to find yourself in a different body; a different sex. I don't know how much of sexual orientation is mental or cultural, and how much is biological but you can bet that the Anastasia design has all the biological parts wired into it."

"Oh," I said in surprise. I hadn't thought of that. "But . . . inside, I'm still . . . I mean, Duke never . . ."

"Not even curious?" she asked.

"No," I said, and it was true.

"But you're not Duke any longer," she observed, letting her eyes walk slowly along my body.

"No," I whispered, which meant that no matter how true it was for Duke to be interested only in women . . . that might not be enough.

"It could be worse," Cinnamon said, and her tone was light-hearted again. I knew she was trying to lighten the mood, and I needed some time to think as well so I went along.

"What? How?"

"Well, you know what they say about black men, and if you'd have found out before I did what Tee is *really* like, I'd have been insanely jealous."

"Oh, you skank!" I said, not able to stop myself from giggling. But the thoughts that were running through my mind were not funny at all. Naughty? Yes. Confused? Absolutely. Scared? Intensely. Curious? Ohmigod!

Chapter 10 - "Cruising"

We spent two days in Victoria . . . to no avail. Well, not much anyway. We did work a bit on our characterizations. The women of our little group wore clothes that were a bit impractical for a boating expedition with slightly-too-tight, slightly-too-scooped navy sweaters and more-than-slightly-too-short white skirts or shorts. However, we weren't too far out of line for the stylish navy blazers and white pants worn by Jim and Barney. Jim also had a jaunty little Greek fisherman's cap - which he hated, so we were always sure to make him wear it. Our coordinated attire made it clear we were all part of the same slightly-too-self-important yacht party.

All except Tee. He wore his blazer and white pants just often enough to establish that he had them but he also found reasons to go out on his own and on those occasions he always wore jeans and a polo shirt. It didn't quite make him 'crew' to Jim as 'owner', but it did keep him from being part of the real party. That allowed the rest of us - conveniently two men and two women - to become not-quite-couples. I was still having trouble relating to Jim even in a pretend-girlfriend way . . . because I wasn't sure it would be pretending. We didn't do ostentatious public displays of affection, but even little things like walking close and rubbing shoulders would make it so hard for me to breathe that it was more than distracting. He noticed. Jim noticed everything. So it just seemed to work out that Jim was usually escorting Cinnamon and Barney was with me. Barney was a super-nice guy so that was no hardship at all. But it wasn't the same. Maybe that's the problem. Barney was so nice that he treated me like a kid sister and we never 'clicked' as anything more than that.

I took on the Annie Fanny role with wide-eyed wonder at everything from megayachts to the huge ravens that hopped around everywhere. The harbor master in each marina was more than willing for me to look over his shoulder at the list of boats in the marina - particularly if my breast happened to rub against his arm when I did. It was hard to stay so gushingly impressed at all ten marinas in Victoria that Camelot might use, and harder still to go through the whole thing all over again at the five decent marinas in Sidney.

And harder still when none of it paid off.

Jim called us all together on the fourth morning, "Okay. I still think they'll be coming back to this area. The logic that she'll want jewelry is still good and the best opportunities to steal some - at least, the best in Canada within several day's cruise - are all here. But they're lying low for now so we need to work out something else."

'Something else' involved cruising to marinas and anchorages in the Gulf Islands . . . which wasn't so bad a deal. The islands really are beautiful and for a few days we even had sunshine. It was still too chilly for bikinis - Cinnamon and I were adamant about that - but whenever we weren't being more formal we could wear conspicuously nautical outfits of low-rise, bell-bottom jeans and midriff-baring tops with little kerchiefs. As long as I didn't actually deck anyone for slobbering into my cleavage, we'd be fine.




Once we were established in a marina we made a point of inviting people from other yachts over for a drink. Boaters were sure to notice a yacht as nice as a Nordhavn 60 so if Camelot had been around anywhere they'd been, they'd remember. And they were sure to be impressed by our Ocean Alexander 62 so they were happy to come aboard.

It took three more days, but then we got a sniff. Camelot had been in Bedwell Harbor when we were in Victoria. We heard she'd come from Maple Bay Marina, so we poked in there and got better descriptions of the members of the gang. Then Jim decided it was time to head for Vancouver.

We didn't get very far . . . at least, not on that day.

*******************
Interlude

"I'm bored," Gwenyvere said to anyone listening. "We've been just sitting around for a week!"

"You're the one who said they were after us," Pellinore reminded her.

"Yeah, but we haven't seen any search planes and we haven't had any trouble at the marinas we've visited."

Pellinore thought that was a fairly good argument. He had become about half convinced Gwenyvere had imagined that the girl she had seen was the Anastasia design. Even if - somehow - the woman had truly been infected with the Anastasia nanites, if she were associated with any government agency then the Canadian authorities would have posted a watch. They might not know about Camelot directly, but Gwenyvere was too distinctive not to be noticed if there were a warning out for a beautiful, curvy young woman - particularly if they thought she was a brunette. And if the woman who had frightened Gwenyvere were *not* associated with any government agency, then why would she be following Gwen to the San Juan islands? A total coincidence was totally unbelievable. Occam's Razor said the woman Gwen saw couldn't really have the Anastasia nanites.

Besides, now that the literal itching in his skin had gone away, Mordred was figuratively itching to try out his new chameleon power. For that matter, Pellinore wanted to see what he could do with his electromagnetic sense.

"Okay, Gwen, you've convinced me," he said. "What would you like to do?"

"Jewelry!" she said firmly.

They developed a plan that was part smash-and-grab and part subtle infiltration. Camelot sailed from Ganges Harbor - not realizing they were headed down the east side of Saltspring Island just as Discreet Delights was heading up the west side - and arranged a berth in the Wharf Street Marina in Victoria. Lance took care of most of the deck jobs while Gwenyvere was picking out an outfit for a stroll around town. After her 'don't underestimate me' scene when she infected her 'colleagues,' she had toned down her makeup and looked much better as a result. Pellinore thought it was still too obvious, especially for a casual daytime stroll, but not so bad it screamed of poor taste. And Pellinore played the doting father well. They actually bought a few things, to Gwen's excited delight.

That evening they dined in a local restaurant but instead of heading back down to the docks afterward they turned to Beacon Hill Park. It was well wooded and they found a place to change from upscale boating clothes to dark coveralls that Lance had been toting in a touristy backpack.

Dark coveralls for everyone except Mordred. He stripped off his clothes entirely other than a pair of dark sneakers. Gwen gave him an appraising leer, which Mordred didn't seem to notice. Then he did the next best thing to disappear.

"Wow, man, that's cool," Lance said. He walked around and looked at the distorted shape from a couple of sides. "It's not perfect, but it's damn good."

"Thank you," Gwenyvere said, grandly taking credit.

Pellinore found himself walking with hands well spread from his body. He could sense emissions that he couldn't see, and with the spread of his arms as a baseline, quickly locate them.

"Camera," he said tersely, pointing at a dim shadow high on the wall. They were out of sight of the surveillance device but wouldn't be able to get to the rear door of the jewelry store without being seen.

Well, most of them couldn't. Mordred's distorted presence slipped away and in a few minutes Pellinore nodded. "He got it. At least, it's not sending its signal anymore."

The rest was just about that easy. Pellinore used his already-demonstrated skills to bypass the alarms. Lance broke the door with a casual snap. Gwenyvere and Mordred entered together to check the interior.

"Lance, honey, bring the bags," Gwen's voice called quickly. Lance proceeded to scoop up handfuls of baubles while Gwenyvere carefully pondered specific choices. In the end, they were both satisfied. The only one who was disappointed was Mordred. There hadn't been a guard to kill.

******************

The news of the robbery in Victoria was all over the place in Telegraph Bay the next morning. We had spent the night there before setting out on the Georgia Strait crossing and it turned out to be a good thing. Since no one was killed - knife or otherwise - it wasn't absolutely certain that the perpetrators had been the Camelot gang. But the bypass of the alarms, the broken in door, and above all the jewelry target were enough to make us plan on that basis.

"Do you think we can catch them if we head back?" Tee asked.

"No," I said, then blushed for stepping in so quickly, and so firmly. "Sorry, but they've never stayed around after they hit someplace. They didn't even stay very long when they made a legitimate purchase at that boutique in Seattle."

"Where do you think they're going?" Jim asked.

I looked at the chart for a while. "Y'know, a lot of this shows the hand of Anna Raymond. It's almost magical in some of the abilities they show, yet it shows her self-indulgent desire for pretty clothes and sparkly jewels as well as technical needs. It's like she's making up for a lifetime of being . . . well, drab. I'll bet her end objective is to be queen of the world or something like that - beautiful, glamorous, respected, and famous."

I turned back to the chart, "But some of this shows a lot more maturity than what we've seen from her. The older guy may not be 'the boss' per se, but I'll bet he has found a way to manipulate her. What is his objective in all this?"

"Money," Tee supplied.

"I expect you're right," I agreed, "but there are lots of ways to go about that. Do you think he'll be satisfied with a long string of smash-and-grabs even if they're good enough not to get caught?"

"No," Jim supplied. "That's a good point. What is the big score that he wants?"

"Bio-weapons," Barney provided. "If he has the contacts to put this gang together in the first place - a big guy, a knife fighter, and his own electronic wizardry - then he has the contacts to sell to rogue nation-states or their agents."

"That's a happy thought," Cinnamon said, sighing.

"But likely to be a valid one," Jim said. "However, that sort of weapon needs more than a stateroom on a boat. They'll need a base."

"Pick a place," I said, waving my hand over the charts.

"Too hard," Jim said tersely, "but we can still track the boat. Even though we won't catch them in Victoria, we'll head back to review the scene. I'll arrange for us to get access." He paused for a moment, looking at the chart. "Okay, there are a lot of assumptions in this, but I think they're going to head further up the Inside Passage. And I think they'll split up."

He pointed at various marinas along the Inside Passage. "I don't see Gwenyvere being satisfied with a back-country hideout. She'll stay with the boat and keep moving while this Pellinore guy sets up the real hideout. He's going to be very hard to find. She won't be able to stay hidden."

"Good point," I agreed. "So, we chase them?"

"More or less," Jim said. "I don't want to hit a log either so we won't cruise at night. And we'll have to make stops in several of the marinas. Word flows both ways and I don't want them knowing we're after them, which they might at least suspect if all we do is nose around in several marinas a day. They may suspect there's someone looking for them after Gwenyvere saw Dee, but they won't *know* unless we're too obviously not legitimate cruisers. On the other hand, we can cruise three times as fast as they can between marinas or the little anchorages that dot that passage, so we should be able to catch up, particularly after they get past Vancouver and into the Inside Passage itself."

He looked at the large area map and sighed. "The good news is that it will take a while to set up a hideout in the middle of nowhere. It wouldn't surprise me if we chase them all the way to Alaska, but I think we have the time."

We made it back to Victoria by mid-morning. At Jim's direction, we changed from effete yacht people to government agents; which agency I never figured out. Jim wore one of his nice suits with Barney and Tee in professional, but clearly less-expensive variants. Cee and I wore dark slacks (with heels, of course), nice blouses, and light jackets. Well, maybe the blouses weren't really 'nice'. They were a bit too tight and should probably have been buttoned up a little further, but we were to be a distraction more than a CSI team.

What really impressed me was that as soon as he flashed his credentials, Jim and Cee both started in with flawless Canadian accents (eh!) and Tee laid on this Bahamian (which is *not* the same as Jamaican) patter that was so veddy Bri'ish that I expected to see the Union Jack on his lapel. Barney didn't bother with an accent, which was not really a problem because he clearly was the technician among us.

Not to be left out I went for a soft south'ren belle lilt that would have had those men jus' eatin' out of mah li'l ol' hand, if a propuh lady would have even conside'ed lettin' a man to whom she had not been prop'ly intr'duced touch her hand.

If it matters, I think I won. After a couple of minutes Barney could have walked out of there with the rest of the jewels, the chairs, and the drapes and no one would have noticed. He did confirm that the alarm interruption showed the same techniques as the previous robberies we were tracking, and Tee did the same about the broken-in door.

We finished our review of the scene, but when the others turned to head toward the docks Jim called me aside. "I think we need to talk again. Let's go to dinner."

I nodded, not really surprised. He had taken the other team members out periodically for one-on-one talks and I was actually wondering if I were being excluded. We found another 'nice' restaurant not too far to walk - well, not too far for him but I was in my typical spindly heels and though my feet didn't exactly hurt, it was still a *lot* of steps for me. In any event, Jim was soon giving the waiter our orders. We spent a few minutes talking about nothing. When our orders came the conversation transitioned.

"You've been doing very well," he said easily, aiming one of those killer smiles my way. His tone was more conversational than formal, but it was nice to hear so I nodded my thanks. His warm, inviting smile changed as he grinned wryly at something, then explained. "Even as I was saying it, I realized that was true on several levels. You're an asset to the team, particularly with your insights into Gwenyvere . . ."

He interrupted himself with a laugh before continuing, ". . . and you seem to have talents I didn't recognize. That southern accent you did was just wicked."

"Wha, thank you kind suh. A gul can only do her best to he'p out howevuh she can."

He showed another heart-stopping smile at my silly reprise, but then he frowned. "That's perhaps the most amazing way in which you're doing so well. You seem very . . . immersed in your new gender."

"I do, don't I?" I said, realizing it myself. Somewhere along the line it had quit being a role I was playing.

Or had it? Was I all the way to the girl side? Did I want to be?

"I've had a lot of help," I said.

Then I reached out and put my hand on his. I don't know why I did that. Well, actually, I did know, but not why I did just *that* and just right *then.*

"I don't think I could have coped with being . . . a woman, without help." I lowered my eyes and looked up at him through my lashes. And though my hand and my eyes seemed to know exactly what they were doing, I still had no clear idea *why* it seemed appropriate. I didn't know what I was going to do if he responded to my . . . offer, but part of me was making that offer even as part of me was screaming in panic.

Jim didn't move. His hand might as well have been part of a statue. Well, it was warm, and sinewy more than soft but it wasn't hard like stone. After a moment he picked up his fork with his other hand and worked on his meal. He continued to talk about the mission, putting my contributions in context to show how the team was stronger with my participation, just as I was more capable by being part of the team.

It was not what I expected. Half of me expected - maybe hoped - he'd pull his hand back, and half of me expected - hoped - he'd do something to follow up on my offer. Instead, it was as though it never happened; that the touch of my hand on his didn't exist. Since it didn't exist there was nothing to accept or reject, and so he was not rejecting me.

After a moment the waiter came up to check on us and as I saw him approach I pulled my hand back into my lap. Jim reached for his glass with his freed hand so naturally that it seemed he had just not wanted any wine before he moved, but both of his hands were now busy.

"Would you like some dessert, Dee?" he asked politely.

It was my turn to grin wryly at the situation. I could actually eat dessert and not gain any weight. I found that out the hard way. Cinnamon had brought in a tub of ice cream one night and we had watched old movies and cried together while we ate it. Later that night I was back on the throne, then so thirsty I thought I would die before chugging a sports drink, then back on the throne again. My little frenemies weren't going to let me gain weight whether I was that disciplined or not. Even as mixed up as my life had become I was smart enough to realize that it was easier just to watch my diet in the first place.

"No, thanks," I replied. "But you can have some if you want. I won't mind."

He didn't take up that offer, either. Instead we walked together back to the Double D.

The funny thing was that I didn't get upset. It was the definitely the strangest and the second-most-important (after proposing to Cora) offer that I had made in my life. I expected to be embarrassed, angry at being rejected, confused about what I had really wanted . . . and at some level I was all of those. But Jim had created the fiction that my touch never happened - or at least that it had no meaning that mattered - and somehow that fiction became more true than my own memory.

I didn't get the validation from Cinnamon that I expected. She laughed when I told her about it.

"You need to get laid, girl," she said, then she confused me even more by kissing me with a passion that stopped any thinking at all for a few [too few!] long [not long enough!] delicious moments. I thought that was an invitation for more and I was always ready for some quality time with her, but she held me back. "Not by me . . . well, at least not only by me." She giggled and wiggled and winked and made it clear that she still had plenty to offer. "Girl, you may decide that you're only interested in girls, but you need to have at least a sample of what you might be missing. I hope to tell you that I'm not giving up on what a man can give me just because I enjoy what *you* can give me. I won't even say which is better. They're just different. Besides your mileage may vary."

Like that helped anything. But at some level I knew she was right. I didn't know what to do about it, but I knew she was right.

It crossed my mind that Jim might have arranged it as a distraction, but when we got to Vancouver I got a chance to fly a helicopter . . . which turned out just to be a chance to fly *in* a helicopter. Jim agreed that we should check out the Vancouver marinas by air but he wouldn't arrange it so that I got to fly. I had to smile sweetly and agree, but I *hate* to ride while someone else flies.

Just to be mean, I spent extra time on my hair and makeup, then picked a pair of tight little shorts that were too low for even a thong panty. In a pretense of modesty, I wore a long sweater that actually covered the shorts (barely, at least some of the time) which only made it look like a very, very short dress. Oh, and the sweater should have been a size larger. Maybe two sizes.

Then I went into my Little Annie Fanny routine. The poor guy never had a chance. He was a nice young man - well, young relative to Duke Chance at least, though he was probably close to thirty which was almost too old for the age I appeared to be. But he was fit and handsome enough to interest a girl . . . if I'd have been interested in that sort of thing, I mean.

"Mr. Davis?" I asked with wide, impressed eyes. "Are you my pilot?"

He nodded, more or less. He gulped. He blushed. He let his eyes drop down the pulled them guiltily back up to my face. Maybe that counted as a nod. Finally he said, "Ken Davis," and put out his hand.

Cinnamon had taught me to shake with my palm down, as though inviting my hand to be kissed instead of shaken. I did just the tiniest of dips to hint at a curtsy and then looked demurely down. Through my lashes I could see him blush again, but he shook himself and looked at the chopper. I followed him around as he did his preflight, supposedly because I was just sssooo fascinated by everything but mostly because if my tail was going to be in the chopper I wanted to know that it had been thoroughly preflighted.

"So, Mr. Davis," I asked once the preflight had been done. "What holds it up? I mean, with no wings."

He launched into an explanation of the rotor, and the tail rotor, and even threw in a bit about autorotating . . . all of which showed me he understood helicopters well enough that I could trust him with my delicate new body. Well, as, ah . . . 'healthy' as I was, delicate might not apply. Perhaps 'soft' new body would be better. [Now, why did I think of that?]

After we were strapped in - something that seemed to take a lot of attention from him, at least for my harness - he started up and completed the checks.

"Vancouver Tower, Helicopter Charlie Fox Fox Tango ready to go from the east pad for a tour around the harbor."

"Helicopter C-FFT cleared for takeoff. Stay out of the departure lanes."

"C-FFT roger."

We lifted off and he turned to the marinas that were just east of the airport. There were, unfortunately, half a dozen large trawlers in the Nordhavn class and he wouldn't get close enough that I could make out any names. When he turned toward the marinas that were north of the field, I turned my big blue eyes on him.

"Is it hard . . ?" I had to pause for effect, and I managed not to giggle, "I mean, is it difficult to fly a helicopter?"

"Well, it does take some training," he said. I knew he was an instructor pilot because the cyclic and collective were still installed on my side of the chopper so there was an opportunity that I wasn't going to pass up.

"Oh, I'd just *love* to learn to fly one," I gushed.

"Well, let's just make this a bit of a lesson then, shall we?" he offered. "Put one hand on the stick in front of you . . ."

This time he interrupted himself, blushing fiercely, and I knew what he had really been thinking. ". . . and the other on the stick by your side. Now, follow what I do."

Without prompting, I put my feet - wedge heels that I had chosen for just that reason - on the rudder pedals as well. Then I changed my voice tone from airheaded ingénue to terse professional. "I got it," I said, then took over.

At first he didn't resist, too surprised that I had the confidence to do anything dramatic. Besides, I had been a helicopter instructor pilot since before he was born and that terse, authoritative "I got it" is so standard that releasing the controls is the next best thing to a reflex. On the other hand Ken was a helicopter flight instructor too, and flight instructors know all too well that some students do stupid things. They have to be prepared to overpower them on the controls. Still, before his own counterpressures had built up enough to matter I was showing him that I knew what I was doing.

"Hey, you already know how to fly," he said.

"Sorry, Ken," I said, trying - but not really succeeding - to keep my smile from being smug. "But I get patronized so often that I just had to . . . well, to be a bitch I suppose."

While he was recovering, I was guiding our bird down the line of boats at Coal Harbor Marina. It wasn't much more productive than the earlier marina visits even though I got a bit closer than he had been willing to go. That's my story on why I took over the controls and I'm sticking to it. There were plenty of boats that *might* have been Camelot, but too many of them were berthed stern in and the names were obscured.

Ken managed to laugh and say, "Well, you got me. And I guess I can see what you mean. It seemed like lipstick color would be a major life decision for you, but I expect I'd have been, as you say, patronizing anyway."

After that we were if not friends then at least colleagues in the whop-whop community. "So, how many hours you got?" he asked.

"Why Ken," I said, wide-eyed again, "asking a girl how much . . . experience she has is pretty personal, don't you think? It's as bad as asking her how old she is!"

He blushed - again - but he was still good-natured about it. "Okay, so be mysterious." Then he demonstrated what sets pilots out from 'ordinary' ground-pounding humans: brash confidence. "So I'll let you make it up to me, for teasing me like that, I mean. Say . . . over dinner?"

"Mr. Davis," I said, batting my lashes at him, "are you asking me out on a date?"

"That's what it sounded like to me," he said, gaining even more confidence - as though he needed any.

Well, I had been pretty mean to him so I found myself nodding my head. Besides, he had let me fly his pretty toy!

"Did you have any luck?" Cinnamon asked when I returned to the boat. That was too relevant to answer right away. I just had to duck my head and try not to blush too brightly.

"Okay, girl, out with it," she said, laughing and not fooled at all by my silence.

"I didn't find the Camelot," I said. "I have a list of possibilities, but I couldn't tell for sure."

"We'll send Tee and Bee off after them," she said dismissively. "That's not why you're glowing brightly enough to cast shadows."

So much for my attempt to hide my blush. I gulped some air, looked up at her and blurted, "I have a date!"

"A date?" she repeated, then she laughed. "With a handsome pilot, no doubt."

"A handsome *helicopter* pilot," I corrected her, not able to contain my own snicker.

"Tell me more," she demanded while she herded me to our stateroom.

She showed me some things to do with my hair that I had never considered. She made it strongly asymmetric, with the left side held tightly by pins and a nice comb while the other flowed freely over my shoulder. A long, dangly earring on the exposed side tinkled lightly in my ear as it accented my long neck. A correspondingly asymmetric and very red dress covered my left shoulder but dropped in a daring diagonal flow that was loose enough I was going to have to keep my posture perfect all evening or I'd be advertising more than the law allowed. The very dark hair that spilled over my right side made my pale, untanned shoulder - did you know it rains all the time in the spring in British Columbia? - seem very, very bare. Hidden under the loose drape of the dress was a not-quite-big-enough strapless bra that put my . . . assets on a shelf like some sort of proud trophies.




So okay, I liked my new body.

Then there was the makeup. Cinnamon made my eyes darkly alluring with dramatic shadow and enough mascara to make it look like I had false lashes. My lips were a deep, incredibly glossy red that complemented the highlights of my jewelry. Subtle contouring, particularly in contrast with the dramatic eyes and lips, provided an elegance to my cheeks yet made my chin and nose seem even more delicate. At some level I was making mental notes so that I could repeat that look - if, for some reason, I ever needed to of course - yet at another level I was just watching in amazement. She was an artist and no amount of practice could ever match that pure talent.

The diagonal motif was continued with an asymmetric flow of skirt from a high slit on the left to something that claimed to be almost knee length on the right. Heels even my feet found high were right for the dress and I resolved not to listen to their complaints.

Jim did not find my date to be as amusing as Cinnamon did . . . but only by a little. When he saw me transferring a few items from my normal purse to a little clutch bag, his warm eyes twinkled and he went into an in loco parentis interrogation.

"Tell me again why you need to go out with this guy?" he demanded, trying to hide his smile.

"Well, I sort of . . . teased him today, and he was a nice guy so when he suggested that I should be, um, nice instead . . ."

"Nice? In that dress, you think you look nice?"

"What's wrong with my dress?" I asked innocently. Of course, Cinnamon had to ruin my question with a laugh. And it was infectious enough that I had to giggle myself. Even Jim's lips twitched with a grin that pretty much undermined any remaining sternness he might try to pretend.

"It's a good thing Tee and Bee are off following those leads you found," Jim said. "Else they'd both be banging their heads against the bulkhead."

"Oooh, that's right," Cinnamon said. "Let me get my camera."

So I let her take a couple of photos . . . and then a couple more. By the time she was done I was vamping it up pretty well. Even she was fanning herself. Jim just left the room.

We were still laughing when Ken showed up. He had dressed up, too . . . for a bush pilot. He had on slacks and a sport coat, plus a chambray shirt. At least it had buttons.

Jim had to catch Ken to keep him from falling in the water because just as he was stepping on board the DD he saw me standing in the door to the salon. Ken froze, but his body had some momentum and his foot was going to go down right into the water when Jim, who had met the pilot at the gate in the gunwale to invite him on board, grabbed Ken's arm.

Ken didn't even seem to notice. I think it was Cinnamon's laughter from further into the salon that finally got his attention.

"Do I look okay?" I asked, using the wide-eyed wonder I had laid on him earlier. He gulped, but nodded, and then finally began to get his processors rebooted. "Don't start with me again," he said with a scowl, but it didn't carry up into his eyes so it wasn't very intimidating.

"You kids be good . . . or at least careful," Cinnamon said, fluffing at my hair.

"Cinnamon!" I said sharply, but she just giggled.

Ken finally managed a real frown. "I'm afraid I'm a bit underdressed . . . a lot underdressed."

I just waved it away. "Well, you're the one who knows where we're going. I'm sure you're fine. Would you like me to change?"

So okay, I was fishing. But it was fun and I'm not apologizing.

"No, God no!" he said quickly, then blushed again. Cinnamon sent us on our way with another giggle.

Ken was a lot of fun. Even though Cinnamon had led me to the girl side of the Force, I still had roots in flying - and in particular, flying helicopters. I couldn't really tell him where I gained some of my experience, which meant I couldn't really tell him how much experience I had. But I could talk about flying a JetRanger and a Hughes 500 and we could genially argue about which was better. It was a camaraderie that I hadn't realized I missed.

I don't remember what we ate. I think Ken winced at the bill so it was probably a nicer place than he had intended to take me. But I didn't think he was disappointed with the evening.

"I had fun," I told him as he escorted me into the Double D cockpit. I had noticed that our stateroom light was still on so Cinnamon would be awake and waiting for me. Double D was large for a private yacht, but not so big that I could have taken him to my room even if I didn't have a roommate. [Wait, it's not like I wanted to, even if I had my own place. Where did *that* come from?]

Ken was nice enough not to be too suggestive. After dinner and conversation he had asked if I'd like to go somewhere else, which was both subtle invitation and face-saving way for me to choose to go 'home.' He agreed with good grace and brought me right back to the Double D with no stopovers in any discreet places with nice, um, views.

"I had a good time, too," he said. "I'd have been talking about tonight with my buddies even if you had turned out to be the airhead I first thought, but to find a girl who is incredibly beautiful *and* flies helicopters."

He grinned ruefully and sighed. "Not that anyone will believe me."

"Your cell phone has a camera, right?" I asked.

He nodded, frowning a little in puzzlement.

"Wait here," I said, then ducked inside. I rousted Cinnamon out of our stateroom - grinning smugly that she wasn't wearing makeup and her hair was a mess. She was also wearing a t-shirt and panties.

"Put on a robe and come with me," I ordered.

"I don't have a robe," she said.

"Then put on some sweats or something," I said.

She shrugged, but she agreed. In a couple of minutes we were back out with Ken.

"I need you to take a picture," I said. Ken handed me his cell phone and I passed it off to Cinnamon.

I moved over to stand beside Ken and took his hand to place his arm around my waist. Leaning into him a little, I smiled for Cinnamon. She dutifully took the picture, but then she smirked and I felt like I was about to pay a price for rousting her out of bed.

Which turned out to be exactly the case.

"Hey," she said, her smirk widening. "You don't get me out of bed for a picture your mom could take at prom. Show me you had a good time tonight."

Then she puckered up her lips in a kissing motion.

Now it was my turn to blush, but Ken was a bush pilot and they don't make timid bush pilots. He was polite and he was well-mannered enough to blush when he inadvertently implied something that might be taken as improper, but with an actual opening . . .

I felt myself being turned into his arms and all of the sudden I was facing the choice of rejecting him or . . .

I mean, I couldn’t just . . . slap him or something, could I?

The flash on the camera showed even though somewhere in there my eyes had closed.

The first one was a showy display. Ken bent me backwards like the Times Square photo and Cinnamon snapped off three or four quick images. But after Ken stood me back up on my feet - stabilizing me on those impossible heels - he just . . . enveloped me in his arms and kissed me gently . . . slowly . . . deeply . . . passionately.

I don't even know if Cinnamon took any more pictures. I don't remember much of the specifics, just the feeling of being cherished.

At some point he must have leaned back, because I realized we weren't kissing any more. Then I realized that Cinnamon was clapping in an interrupted sequence. When I managed to get my eyes going again I looked at her and she was alternately clapping and fanning herself, and pumping her fist and then clapping again.

"Damn, girl, I shoulda been taking notes," she said, giggling again. "What do you say, Ken, is she as good a kisser as it looks?"

Okay, two could play at that game. Even as Ken was trying to stammer out some sort of praise, I just looked at Cinnamon and said, "You should know."

I turned back to Ken and winked. "She's my roommate, you know."

Which was enough to get him to blush so brightly that I figured we'd better ease off or the Canadian Coast Guard would be sending fire boats.

It sent Cinnamon off into a laughing fit so intense that she wasn't even able to breathe. She managed to get one finger up to give me a score point.

"We seem to have ended up teasing you again," I said, turning back to Ken. "We're really terrible and I'd say that I was sorry but I have a feeling you still enjoyed your evening."

He managed to choke out an agreement despite a blood pressure that would have cost him his flight physical if the medical types saw it. But he managed a smile as well.

"Okay, Dee, you got me. I can promise you that I won't be underestimating beautiful women again. Over-estimating all of them probably, because none are ever going to measure up to the standard you set for sharp wit. None of them could possibly measure up for beauty, but that was pretty much a done deal from the first moment I saw you."

He sighed, and moved back for one more quick, friendly kiss. "I don't suppose you'll be staying in this area for a while?"

"We might," I said, "but I probably won't be doing any more flying. Believe it or not, we are on a business trip."

"Yeah, well, that would be my luck. At least you didn't have a hulking boyfriend waiting for me when I brought you home."

"Stick around," I said. "He's due any time."

"By now, I'll believe anything you tell me - at least believe that it's possible. Of course, I'll never know if you're just yanking my chain until it's too late but that's just part of your charm. Truly, pretty lady, I did have a nice time tonight."

"Truly gallant sir, I did as well," I countered. He waved to Cinnamon as he stepped to the dock, then grinned wryly when he had to step back for the phone that Cinnamon was innocently holding.

The moment he was out of sight, Cinnamon was dragging me to our room. "Lordy, that made me hot," she declared. "Get out of your clothes before we mess them up."

Well, I had been mean to Ken earlier. I figured I should be nice . . . well, good to Cinnamon to make up for it. Wouldn't you?

Chapter 11 - "Chasing"

Jim had not scheduled any particular 'yachting crowd' events for the next day so I dressed in my alternate uniform of low-rise bell-bottoms and crop-top. The asymmetric look Cinnamon had created for me was too fancy for daytime, but I did pin my hair up with combs on each side instead of a simple ponytail, and I chose some heavy pirate loops for my ears. Apparently it was a good choice because when I showed up in the pilothouse, which was our defacto office, the conversation stopped. Cinnamon shot me a quick thumbs-up (for some reason it never took her as long to get ready as it did for me).

"What?" I asked petulantly, but inside I was smiling.

Jim changed the conversation before it got started by pointing at a chart. "We found the Camelot." Before I could congratulate them, he added a disappointing qualifier. "Actually, we found where she was. Apparently she sailed early yesterday, before you flew over."

Of the other two guys, Barney was the first to find his voice after my entrance. "We chased down the Nordhavns that you found on your little sightseeing jaunt. None of them were Camelot, but one of the owners *had* noticed another Nordhavn. They didn't get the name, but it was definitely a 60. And it also had a bombshell redhead aboard."

"Here's the interesting thing," Jim said. "When they showed up, there were four people aboard: the redhead, a big guy, and two others whom the guy we talked to didn't really notice. When they left . . . there were only two. The big guy and the redhead."

"So they did split up," I said.

"It looks like it," he agreed.

Tee was finally ready to join the conversation. "We - that is, Jim - figured that Pellinore and Mordred are getting a barge or some sort of work boat to take supplies to wherever they're going to put their base. We're going to check out the working parts of the harbor today."

"What can we do?" I asked, moving over to stand by Cinnamon.

I had been amused to see that you can tell when even a black guy gets flushed in the face, if you know the signs. Apparently, what first came to Tee's mind for what 'we' could do was not entirely focused on business. He swallowed and then smiled at his own reaction.

Jim bailed him out with a more practical idea. "Frankly, I don't expect we'll find the work boat. There are a lot of barges around here. I'm actually expecting that they'll want something that is self-powered so that they don't have to let anyone else know where they go, but there are . . . unpleasant options on how to keep a tugboat crew from talking so we just don't know. Even though we have to make the effort, I don't want to spend more than a day on it. So that means we'll be leaving port for a fairly extended cruise where we might not have time for shopping . . ."

Cinnamon laughed and finished for him. "So, dear Duchess, you and I get to go do the women's work. We need to get groceries, do the laundry, that sort of thing."

I pouted as though this was all just *ssoo* unfair, but it only lasted long enough to make the point. "If the choice is between crawling around a bunch of dirty old barges while being leered at by dirty old men, or doing laundry, I'm happy to do 'women's work.'"

I looked at Tee and couldn't fully contain a giggle. "After all, I can get leered at by dirty-minded *young* men just about anywhere."

His dark face showed a flush again, but he grinned good-naturedly at the validity of my comment.

For some reason Cinnamon really wanted to make the grocery store run so I busied myself doing laundry. The Double D has a washer and dryer but it draws a lot of current and isn't particularly fast. However, Coal Harbour Marina has laundry facilities and I could run a couple of machines and three dryers at the same time. They also have little pushcarts so that I could get all the clothes back and forth.

Not that I had to. Both going and coming some young men (who looked older than I did) found the time to help me push the cart. Those Canadians sure are nice, eh?

When Cinnamon got back I found out why she wanted to be the one to go shopping. In addition to a week's worth of groceries, she had found a place to get some pictures printed. She actually got back from her chores before I finished with the laundry and had the food packed away when I returned. That meant she was free to tease me as soon as the young men left. They had politely insisted on carrying my laundry onto the boat.

"Man, you just can't help trolling for boys, can you?" she said. Before I could reply, she started singing - pretty well, actually, "You oughta be in pictures . . . you oughta be a star . . ."

"What's up with you?" I asked.

She pulled out a largish envelope and waved it in front of me. I tried to grab it but she snatched it out of my reach. Turning ostentatiously around to protect the contents from me, she opened it and pulled out an 8x10 photo. It was one of the ones she had taken before my date with Ken.

It was, in fact, one of the later ones when she had talked me into playing around with different expressions. In this one, I had the heavy-lidded sensuality of Marilyn Monroe coupled with a wicked little teasing, taunting smile that was overflowing with suggestion.

"I didn't smile like that. How'd you doctor the picture?"

You *did* smile like that, and I got another print for you and me. We're both going to practice in front of a mirror until we can match that."

"I will not!" I said . . . but in my heart I knew I was tempted. Actually, the look was Temptation personified, but I meant the idea of practicing it was tempting.

"That one is for Tee," Cinnamon announced. She started looking through her envelope again, but I had to protest.

"For Tee? Are you insane? That's . . . I mean . . . he'll get the idea . . ."

"Yep," she said smugly. "On the other hand, just seeing you walk around in your tight little tops . . ."

"You made me get them!" I interrupted to protest. It didn't work, at least, not if success meant she would be embarrassed at the unfairness of her accusation.

"Yep," she said again, even more smugly. "Anyway, every time you breathe you're an incitement to riot so we might as well give Tee something he'll enjoy. And believe me, he'll spend a lot of time enjoying that photo."

"You're . . . that's just . . ," I was starting to protest again, but the idea tripped my funny bone. I started to snicker, then to giggle, and in a moment we were both laughing so hard we had to sit down. "Oh, god, that's just evil," I finally finished.

"Yep," she said. She was being smug again but her idea really was wickedly funny.

She finished getting the next photo out of the folder. This one was so different that it looked like a different girl - at least in personality. It was as though the Anastasia design had been applied to two people. The first was a lusty wench, unapologetically sensual. This photo showed a more introspective expression. The eyes were still heavy-lidded, but it was with remembered pleasure. The lips were tilted in a quirky little smile that was both enjoying a happy memory and wistful for an opportunity to repeat it.

"Ohhh . . . my . . ," I sighed. Even I thought that was an incredible look, and I remembered this one. This was a girl who made life memorable. The sensual eyes showed she was comfortable that she would be remembered, too. It was the face of a woman you could spend a lifetime with - even in a single encounter - because the memories would always, always be cherished and fresh in your heart.

That picture was from a moment when I knew I had been thinking about Cora.

Even as I looked at it I felt guilty because I knew that I had gone days at a time without even thinking about Cora, let alone feeling the aching void in my life where she used to be. Despite a pang of guilt, the photo actually helped at the same time because it reminded me that even though I had a new life, I hadn't completely lost the old one.

Cinnamon saw my introspection and started to pull back the picture. "I thought you might give this one to Barney, but we can use another one."

"Not, that's okay," I said, smiling. "I may want one of those for my own as well, though."

She pulled out a third image, and it was so full of joy that the photo seemed to glow with an internal light. I remembered that one too and it was after Cinnamon had been telling me how gorgeous I looked. I was happy to look so pretty and that photo caught that happiness. There was wonder in there, and even a bit of humility because I knew it wasn't something I had ever deserved. That girl was the kind of girl that you just wanted to know because her world was a nicer place to be than wherever you normally lived.

"That one is for Jim," Cinnamon said - unnecessarily. I would have insisted that Jim get it even if she hadn't already realized it was appropriate.

"You have to sign them," she said, handing me a Sharpie.

"With what?" I asked. "Just, y'know, 'Dee', or 'Duchess' or . . . well I'm not going to sign it 'Galadriel'.

"Not just your name, ditz," Cinnamon said. "Make it something personal. You know, something like, 'Dearest Tee, you make me hot. All my love, DeeDee."

"No way!" I said, but I couldn’t contain a giggle at the thought of how Tee would react to that. "I can't say, 'All my love.' He's, y'know, we're teammates."

"So, he does make you hot?" she said, picking up on the part I hadn't protested about. Her arch expression - so perfectly the stern mother look - just cracked me up.

"I'll never tell," I countered through my giggles, which sent her collapsing back into her seat with her own out-of-control laughter.

I knew I was eventually going to regret it, but I just couldn’t pass up the chance to tease Tee. On his I wrote, "Dear Tee, you'll always be my first. (Heart) Dee."

"Your first?" Cinnamon said, reading the inscription. "I thought you didn't . . ."

"My first kiss from a man," I said blandly. "What did you think I meant?"

"Oh, god, that's wicked. He'll be so twisted up that he won't be able to think straight for a week even if you aren't around . . . of course if you are around it wasn't going to happen anyway. And the other guys are gonna rag him about it - especially since they know that the 'it' they'll be teasing him about didn't really happen."

I snickered at her comment, mostly because it was too true to argue with.

That gave me an idea for Barney's photo - the introspective one. "Dear Bee, nobody does it better, (Heart) Dee."

"What's the 'it' this time?" she asked.

"All the technical stuff," I explained with another innocent expression. "I am just *ssoo* impressed with all his technical skills."

"Oh, god, woman, I'm done. No more advice for you. You don't need it. You're just too good at this. That is perfect. When you give him that photo, you have to say it just exactly that way."

"Well, of course," I said, continuing with innocently wide eyes. "It's the truth."

Cinnamon was going to have sore ab muscles after all the laughing. So was I.

However, we calmed down for the third photo. I needed to say something nice for Jim. In the end, the hardest thing was deciding how to sign it. 'Dee' seemed too informal and 'Duchess' to formal. In the end, the image itself told me what to do. "Dear Jim, Thanks for bringing me to life. Love, Galadriel."

It was the only one where I wrote 'love' out instead of using a little heart, but it was also true. Even though he had ignored my offer, he was still special to me. Special enough that if he somehow made it clear that a repeat offer would be accepted I'd give him one in a heartbeat, though I didn't expect it. I realized that I did love him, even if not in a physical way.

[Maybe he thinks he's too old for me - even though I'm really more than twice as old as he is. Maybe I could . . . no. I shouldn't. As usual, he's right. What we have isn't really about age anyway.]

The reaction from the guys was just about everything that we could have hoped for. Cinnamon went into a serious, formal mode and made them all come into the salon and sit down for 'something important.' Then she did a big flourishing magician hand twirl, ending up pointing toward me.

I gave Tee and Barney their photos at the same time. I was afraid I was going to have to get a dustpan to gather up their eyeballs. As they stared at the images, I remembered that they had never seen me dressed up for my date with Ken. Thanks to the Anastasia design and Cinnamon's expertise I knew it was a good look, but their reaction reminded me that it was more than just 'good.'

Then Tee finally got around to reading the inscription. "But we didn't . . ." he said, looking up at me. I gave him an air kiss from six feet away and he realized he'd been successfully tweaked. He grinned ruefully and chalked me up a point, but his eyes went back to the photo and his smile became more genuine, even a bit . . . proud.

Barney was confused by his own inscription, which gave me the chance to deliver my, "I'm just so impressed by all your technical skills" line. He first looked stricken as fantasies self-destructed behind his eyes, but in the end he smiled and nodded his appreciation both of the photo and of the tease in the inscription.

When they were more-or-less recovered, I gave the third picture to Jim. He had already seen how I looked on the date so the basic image wasn't as surprising. I could see his eyes flick to the inscription and then back to the image itself. For a moment I thought he didn't like it. His eyes tightened a little and he sat back slowly.

But then I saw a shine in his eyes, and I knew that I had reached past his professional shell and touched him in a positive, memorable way.

Other than Tee's brief protest none of the men had said anything and the dead air was starting to bother me. "Cinnamon took the pictures," I said, "and picked out the ones for each of you."

"There's more?" Tee said, his humor resurrecting with a full-on leer.

"This is perfect," Barney said, cutting that off with just a bit too much seriousness.

"I'm glad you like them," I said. "I owe you all so much, and when Cinnamon arranged the prints it was something I really wanted to do. Even though it's more conceited than I think I should be, I just . . ."

"Not at all," Jim said. "You just may be the most beautiful woman in history. If you're starting to accept it - without getting arrogant about it - then we're all happy for you."

It was my turn to blush, but I smiled gratefully. Cinnamon gave me a hug and her motion seemed to be a switch that let the others move, too. The guys all disappeared for a moment to put their photos somewhere safe, with Jim telling Cinnamon and I to prepare to get underway. Maybe it was a reward for thinking of them but he let Cee and I take Discreet Delights out of the marina and around under the bridge until we were heading northwest through the Strait of Georgia. That took most of an hour and during that time Jim was explaining his plan.

They hadn't found any trace of Pellinore or Mordred, so the idea was that we would follow Camelot up the Inside Passage. They had a three day head start, but Jim figured they would only cruise 5 or 6 hours a day at no more than 10 knots. We'd have to check in at more marinas and anchorages along the way, but with 10 hours a day at 20 knots, we should be able to catch them in less than a week.

It took ten days. We actually passed them even though the Inside Passage is a narrow enough waterway that we didn't think we could do that. But instead of staying in the main channel or the nearby marinas, Camelot had anchored in an out-of-the-way little bay that we hadn't checked. After a day when we couldn’t find a trace of them in any of the marinas we stopped at, Jim decided to backtrack but we had to be even more careful on the way back so it went slowly.

We met them coming the other way in the Passage itself. As soon as Tee - who had the helm - reported that there was a big Nordhavn coming our way, Jim called us together. "I'm pretty sure they don't know about this boat. The only reason they think anyone is even close is one brief sighting of Dee in that jewelry shop in Friday Harbor. And their backtrack trip to Victoria to rob the jewelry store might have been designed to throw off pursuit or - if there actually were any government agencies involved - make them reveal themselves. It's getting close to dark so I expect they'll be settling in for the night soon. As long as they don't see Dee again, I don't think they'll guess who we are."

I had to laugh. "Hell, Jim, I've been with you guys for over a month and I *still* don't know who you really are."

He just smiled and moved on with his plan. Binoculars revealed that Lance was at the helm of Camelot, using the pilot house instead of the fly bridge because - as usual - it was raining.

"Northbound Nordhavn yacht, northbound Nordhavn yacht, this is Discreet Delights," Jim called.

"Vessel calling Camelot, go 13."

Jim switched to the standard bridge-to-bridge short range channel and said, "Camelot, this is Discreet Delights. Do you have a minute to talk about what's south of here?"

"Discreet, um, Delight, no problem, but it won't take long. We were anchored in a little bay for a couple of days so we don't really know."

"Is it a nice bay?"

"Nice enough, but it's pretty isolated. It's a long way past there to the next good harbor."

"That's not good news," Jim said over the radio. "There's a nice marina a bit north of here. We may need to backtrack."

Actually, there were half a dozen good anchorages within reach of DD on the way south. Jim would never have let us get caught out after dark. We'd just have had to crank it up to 20 knots to get there in time. However, since Camelot couldn't even go that fast it was a good bet they'd think the southward bays were too far away.

"Camelot to D-whatever, good luck," Lance said, closing out the conversation. Jim turned Double D around and had us heading after Camelot, but far enough back that we didn't crowd them. We followed them into Hartley Bay and tied up nearby. Jim had changed into his nautical outfit of blazer and white slacks and with Cinnamon in tow, walked over to Camelot. It's pretty traditional to share drinks and talk with other yachters, and Jim had taken a bottle of wine so they were welcomed aboard. With binoculars from inside the Double D salon, I could see that Gwenyvere was wearing a silky little green dress that looked more like lingerie than outer clothing. Tee could see it too, and I heard his breath catch.

"Geez, fickle much?" I teased. "Here I pour my heart out to you in a personally signed picture - it even has a little heart right on it - and the first chance you get you throw me over for a redheaded tart."

"Meeoowww, fzzzt, fzzzt," Tee teased. Then he laughed and ostentatiously licked his lips. "Tart is right," That cracked me up and so he won that one.

Barney had to stay on Double D so that he could work the satellite radios in case we needed to call for official help. That left Tee and I - already changed into dark clothes - waiting until it was dark before getting into a small life raft that we could deploy without using the davit. I was invited along because I healed really fast and because seeing her Anastasia design 'in the flesh' might distract Gwenyvere. We paddled our way around to the offside of Camelot and quietly boarded over the bow. It was a long way up to the bow, but Tee had a collapsible ladder and we did it without making any real noise. The four 'yachters' were in the salon as expected, so we let ourselves in through the pilot house and prepared to capture the gang members.




As the old saying goes, our plan did not survive contact with the enemy.

Jim saw us at the stairs to the pilothouse. He stood up and said, "Okay, this ends now. Surrender peacefully and there's no need for anyone to get hurt."

"Surrender?" Gwenyvere repeated. "What . . ?"

That's when I made my appearance on the steps from the pilothouse.

"Give it up, Gwen, we know all about your schemes . . . and the murders you've committed."

She screeched at me and jumped from her seat. Lance's reflexes weren't quite as fast perhaps, but his strength was incredible. He picked up a large chair with one hand and threw it at Jim who couldn’t dodge quite fast enough. It hit him on the shoulder and he further injured himself with a knock on the head as he fell. Cee was at his side in a heartbeat but there wasn't much that Tee and I could do for him right then.

Tee launched himself at his big opponent. Lance met him with a huge fist that Tee dodged. I think Tee had figured on Lance's attack and had deliberately dropped below it even as the bigger man wound up his swing. Lance's fist slammed into the side of the galley countertop and knocked a chunk right out of the granite. He pulled his bloody hand back and laughed. Dark bones were sticking out - they didn't look diseased, but they didn't look like any healthy bones I had ever seen. They also didn't look broken and I could already see the skin healing back over the dark shapes.

Right about then I lost track of the men's battle because Gwenyvere had arrived screaming, "You bitch. You stole my life! You stole my body? It's mine!"

I hadn't really been just standing around, but I have to admit that I was not being as effective as I should have been. When Tee came down the steps from the pilothouse I tried to stay out of his way and because of that I almost fell down a companionway leading to the Camelot staterooms. By the time I got myself turned back around, Gwenyvere's fingers were stabbing into my midsection.

Literally. I found out why she made "our" fingernails so hard. While I had been using a metal-working file to control the shape of mine without shortening them, she had apparently been using a file to sharpen hers. They weren't points, they were blades. All eight fingers stabbed into my abdomen and penetrated like knives.

My drop in combat effectiveness when Tee had rushed by me vanished and I felt a combat mindset return. It wasn't the first time I'd been in combat; just the first time in about 50 years. But I remembered it. There are several effects - at least for me - of the combat mindset. The first was for time to slow down. The bad thing about having time slow down is that your body seems to move so slowly that it makes you want to scream with frustration. The good news is that at least your mind is moving and you can plan what you want your sluggard body to do. The second effect is that pain becomes a more distant thing. It's still there, but it doesn't control you. Eventually the damage that the pain is telling you about can affect you . . . it might have already killed you, in fact. But pain alone doesn't limit you. The third effect when you're in a life-or-death combat situation is that you realize there are no rules.

So I used my own hardened nails to reach out and destroy both of Gwenyvere's eyes. I poked a finger in each one almost casually, in that slow motion that was all my body could provide. Even as she was recoiling back, my hyper-fast mind was thinking that Dr. Mengele would finally have a chance to test whether the nanites could repair major damage.

Almost as fast as it started, when the threat - Gwenyvere's finger knives - was removed the world snapped back into real time. I started to settle to the steps, reaching - which hurt like the fires of hell - for a towel that was on a rack near the galley counter. I crammed the towel into my abdomen and tried not to let the dark overcome me. Under my fingers I felt pulsing blood so Gwenyvere had reached at least one artery. In a few seconds it stopped and I figured either the nanites had fixed it or I was too low on blood to pump. So in a few minutes I would either live or die, and I was past the point of being able to do anything about it.

About then there was a distant rush around me. Through a fog I heard people shouting and wondered who was winning. I had tunnel vision pretty badly and about all I could see was Gwenyvere writhing on the floor and holding her eye sockets. I was not sympathetic.

"Are you okay?" someone at the other end of a long tunnel asked.

"No," I croaked - no brave stoicism from me. In my tunnel I saw Cee pulling Gwenyvere's hands back and putting a cable tie around her wrists. Then she started to wrap another towel around the redhead's face. In the course of that I could see that there wasn't really much blood on Gwenyvere's face so perhaps her own nanites were on the job.

Jim's face intruded into my tunnel and he was saying something but I couldn't make it out. Besides I had something important to say myself. "Cable ties won't work. She has sharpened nails that will cut through them. Get handcuf . . ."

Chapter 12 - "Surrender or Freeze"

I had an incredible tummy ache the next time I was aware of the world . . . which wasn't that bad considering it meant I was still in the world to be aware. [Sorry, Cora, but I guess I'm just not ready to join you yet. I hope and believe you're happy for me.] I considered my abdomen problem as a tummy ache because it wasn't that my stomach was on fire with pain. It felt like my innards were squirming in a classic upset stomach. At first I thought I was going to be sick but it was mostly lower down and nothing seemed to want to come out the top way, yet it wasn't the same as the deep rumbles with which I'd become too familiar during my transformation. After my quick self-inventory diagnosed continued life, I opened my eyes and looked around. As best I could tell, I was in my regular stateroom on Double D.

Other than the squirmy feeling I was pretty much okay. I was a bit weak and more than a bit thirsty, but I wasn't so weak I couldn't move. I stood up and winced when I saw myself in the stateroom mirror. A few savage minutes with a brush took care of the worst problem and a few handi-wipes removed the dregs of my destroyed makeup. That would have to be enough for now.

It was already apparent that we were underway. My priority was a sports drink - two, actually before I felt better - and then I went to the pilothouse.

"You're up?" Barney said in surprise. "With all the blood, we were . . . well, it didn't look good."

"I guess my little bastards aren't so bad after all," I said dryly. "Where is everyone?"




"Tee is below in his own bunk," Barney reported. "He got a few pretty good thumps from that big Lancelot guy. The others are on the Camelot."

"With Gwenyvere and Lancelot? That's too dangerous. They nearly beat us even though there were four of us and we had surprise on our side."

"No," Barney said quietly. "Well, Gwenyvere is over there, but . . ." He interrupted himself and pointed at the pilothouse settee. "Sit down before you fall down. This will take a few minutes."

When I was comfortably ensconced, wrapped around one of the throw pillows as a comfort cushion for my still-churning tummy, he continued. "Apparently, Gwenyvere's nanite body modifications are not limited to making a girl look gorgeous. She arranged for Lancelot to be stronger, to have bones where the calcium was largely replaced by iron, and to heal really fast."

"Wow, how'd you guys beat him?"

"We didn't, exactly. This is second hand to me, but apparently he hit something in the Camelot . . ."

"Granite countertop," I supplied.

Barney nodded and continued, " . . . and Tee saw that he was healing really fast, with unbreakable bones. And he was strong. Tee is about as strong as anyone I've ever seen, but they got into some sort of wrestling thing and Tee got launched out onto the aft deck like he was a little stuffed toy."

"Uh, oh," I said, imagining how powerful that made Gwenyvere's boytoy.

Barney grimaced, "Yeah, but it was a weakness, too. Tee figured it out right away and egged the big man into coming out into the cockpit. When he charged into Tee, our guy did one of his fancy martial arts moves and sent him flying . . . right over the transom into the water."

"What happened next?" I asked when Barney didn't continue.

"There was no next, at least, not for Lance. Apparently the bone changes made him a lot heavier as well as stronger. He never came up."

"Oh, wow," I said softly. After my own pause, I asked, "What about Gwenyvere?"

"She's with Jim and Cee on the Camelot. We're heading back to the hideout or base or whatever - where Pellinore and Mordred are."

"So you found it?"

"Well, more or less. Gwenyvere knows the name of the place - some abandoned logging camp. She also knows about where it is. Jim has been working through the possibilities with Canadian tour guides over the radio. He doesn't want to bring in the authorities yet."

He grinned his proud-little-boy grin and said, "Actually, he never did figure out how to run my encrypted satellite radio, so I guess I should say that he's sending me messages and I'm relaying them." He let his voice get very nasally and said, "'Operator, what is your number puhleeze?' I'm just like the girl on Saturday Night Live."

"Hell, Bee, you're not even old enough to *remember* when Lily Tomlin did that shtick," I said, laughing.

"Ever hear of reruns?" he said, laughing himself.

That was a nice distraction for a moment, but it passed and I remembered the rest of what had happened . . . what I had done.

"How is Gwenyvere?" I asked quietly.

"Best guess is that she'll be okay," he replied. "It's only been about . . . let's see . . . ten hours since you, um, injured her. Cinnamon has kept her eyes bandaged but she says there are new shapes in the sockets. I guess none of us know - not even Gwenyvere - whether the nanites can repair damage at that level but she's quit panicking. I think she expects to get well."

"Good," I sighed. "I don't like her. I don't like her playing little tin goddess. I don't like the way she thinks ordinary people are unimportant and kills them so casually. That girl is sick, sick, sick . . . but I don't want her to be blinded."

"That was what you needed to do," Barney said, trying to comfort me.

I didn't really need comforting, "She was trying to *kill* me. I'm not apologizing. But I'd rather kill someone cleanly than maim them. Being blind is one of the . . . really bad ones." I guess maybe I needed a little comforting at that because I shuddered at the thought of what I had done. Barney reached over and put his arms around me and the next thing I knew I was crying like the end of the world.

"Oh, god, Barney, I was so scared. I felt her literally ripping my guts out. It was . . . it was something the VC threatened. They'd get out a big old machete, or sometimes to be different they'd use some sort of claw thing . . and they'd . . . and they'd swing it at our stomachs, or our . . . our genitals. Sometimes they'd hit us, but not with the sharp side. Except one guy. He was a Vietnamese soldier and they used the claw to . . . to disembowel him right in front of us. While he was still alive."

I was shaking so hard now that I could hardly talk. "I hated her, Barney. I hated her like I hated the VC. I wanted to hurt her for all the times the VC had hurt me. I just . . . hated her." At the end, my voice was such a low whisper I'm not sure if Barney could even make out what I was saying. But it didn't seem to matter. He just held me and let me cry and protected me.

After a while I ran dry. I dredged up a not-very-convincing laugh at my own silliness and moved out of Barney's arms. It felt good to take a shower and get myself back together. I wore the bell-bottom jeans, but it was cool enough that I chose a long-sleeved knit shirt that I could be sure wouldn't slip out of my low-rise pants and didn't bare a lot of skin. A sweater and some hot chocolate sounded good, too. By the time I was done it was getting close to lunch and I went back to the pilothouse to see what Barney wanted. He was on the radio to the Camelot. A glance asked if I wanted to talk to them, but I shook my head.

Barney signed off and then sighed. "Well, we found out some more from Gwenyvere. Apparently, Pellinore now has an electromagnetic sense. He can 'feel' radio waves and infrared."

"That's not good. We won't be able to use walkie-talkies - at least, not without letting him know where we are."

"That's not the worst part," Barney said. "Apparently she has given Mordred a 'chameleon' power. He can now change his skin to match his background."

"Uh, oh," I said softly. "He's the one who likes to use a knife, too. That's too good a match for his skills."

"Yeah," agreed Barney.

"So, what's the plan?"

"Well, apparently we're going to wait until tomorrow to go in. Except, *we* are not going in. Gwenyvere and Cinnamon will come over to Double D. Jim and I will go in."

"Not gonna happen, Bee," I said quietly, but firmly. "I've got more combat experience than any of you . . . well, maybe not Jim. But more than you do. Probably more than Tee and he's laid up anyway. I'll let Cinnamon stay with the Double D, but I'm coming with you."

"That's not what Jim said," Barney reported.

"Well, it's what *I* am saying," I declared. "Get Jim on the radio."

This was not a time for chivalry. Actually, Jim thought I was still injured but when I told him I was good as new - and even half-stripped so that Barney could confirm I didn't even have a scratch showing - Jim relented. So the plan was changed. We left Queen Charlotte Strait at Branham Island, then worked our way into Cougar Inlet. There is a nasty rapids near there that can only be crossed for a few minutes at slack water. Above the rapids was Pellinore's hideout.

Tee was feeling quite a bit better so he helped us get the two yachts rafted together. Cinnamon had found a metal-working file in the Camelot's gear and had ground Gwenyvere's nails back so that she couldn't use her finger knives. That and being blind kept the redhead pretty subdued. In any event, she didn't put up a fuss when we moved her to the Double D with Cinnamon to take care of her. Tee joined us on the Camelot without a word, and without a word - though with a long, appraising glance - Jim accepted him.

Jim's plan was simple and direct. The hideout was in a rough enough area that no one could survive for long without shelter. If they had a boat, we would sink it. Whether they had a boat or not, we were going to destroy whatever shelter and supplies were handy. They might be able to go back into the woods and build something, but we could stay just off the beach for long enough to make sure they didn't build anything using any remaining supplies they had stockpiled for the hideout itself. Getting past the rapids meant we'd have to approach them in daylight but none of us wanted to face Mordred in the dark anyway.

*************
Interlude

"Someone's coming," Pellinore announced. He stood up and spread his arms, twisting at the waist to sense the signals. "They're using a radar. No one comes this far back by accident. Get ready."

Mordred nodded and moved through the camp secreting various sharp blades. The one real problem with his chameleon skill was that he had to strip to make it effective. Carrying a single knife - even a pair - wasn't too bad. But throwing knifes or shuriken had to be pre-positioned.

Pellinore made his own preparations. He was more comfortable with electronics than weapons - Mordred and Lance were to be the fighters in their group - but he knew which end of a gun the bullets came out of. Since Canada has no provision for personal defense weapons at all, there was no incentive to stay with non-military guns. Breaking a law wasn't much of a deterrent to him anyway so Pellinore had obtained a couple of fully-automatic Kalishnikovs for himself and Lance. Mordred wouldn't be using either one.

Mordred came back from his own preparations. "It's Camelot," he reported.

"Why did they come back here?" Pellinore asked out loud.

Mordred didn't know of course, and didn't bother to answer. Then something did come to him. "I don't think Lance or the redhead have enough brains between them to make it through the rapids."

"Good point," Pellinore said. "That bitch has more brains than you and I together, but that doesn't translate to enough common sense to get through the bad water. And Lance is all muscle - even between the ears."

Mordred's face twitched for an instant into an unaccustomed smirk of agreement.

"Wouldn't mind doing that redhead, though," the small man said.

"After we get her to do a few bioweapons for us, you can have her," Pellinore promised. "My goal is $100 million, US. I figure we can do that in six months after we get this lab set up. After that . . ."

"After that, Lancelot du Lunkhead grows a new smile and I get to play with the redhead," Mordred concluded.

Pellinore nodded, but his attention had become focused more on the approaching yacht. "Well, either she was stupid enough to get involved with someone else and she just had to brag about 'her' operation, or they're not in control of Camelot anymore."

Mordred nodded, then stripped out of his clothes. Only a slight distortion revealed his presence and that vanished along with him as soon as he stepped out the door.

An amplified voice boomed from the approaching boat. "Pellinore, Mordred, we know you're out there. Surrender peacefully and no one has to get hurt."

"Well, that pretty much settles that," Pellinore said - talking to himself. It was a habit he'd picked up since he and Mordred had been alone together. The wiry killer didn't talk much and the silence could get oppressive. Besides, half the time Pellinore didn't know if Mordred were within earshot anyway.

Unfortunately, the demand made it pretty likely that Gwenyvere and Lance had been captured. So much for dreams of wealth. On the other hand, with his new EM power he could probably get to her no matter where they kept her, so if they could run off the intruders there was always a way to find success. For that matter, he probably didn't need her anyway though it might take longer to get to his money target.

Since Mordred didn't really go in for ranged weapons, at least, not beyond knife-throwing distance, Pellinore decided just to wait until the intruders came ashore. No sense starting a battle that was out of range of his best weapon. If they were stupid enough to come ashore, Mordred could probably take them all out by himself. And he'd enjoy doing it, too.

The intruders were not that stupid, though. Apparently they knew enough to be careful. While still a couple hundred yards out, they made a fore-and-aft anchorage to hold the boat centered in the channel. Then a dinghy was lowered and two people entered it.

"Well, it looks like Gwenyvere was right. That body can't be natural," Pellinore observed through his binoculars. One of those in the dinghy was a stacked brunette who must have gotten the original Anastasia package somehow. Unfortunately, she was also holding a military-style rifle like she knew how to use it. The other guy in the boat was military, or had been. He had his own rifle and a lot of gear in a military-style load-bearing vest.

The dinghy approached the old tugboat that Pellinore and Mordred had used to bring the supplies to the base. Pellinore's face twisted in a hard little smile as he remembered an argument with Mordred. The knife-specialist had wanted to hire a crew to bring them to the logging camp, but Pellinore had known he only wanted a few people to kill because there was no way they were going to have witnesses to where they had gone. Pellinore had insisted they get something they could handle themselves and he had to give the little man credit, he was pretty good at driving a boat. They made it through the rapids with no problem except a patient wait for the right moment of tide.

The dinghy didn't approach any further than the stern of the workboat, then backed off. A few minutes later there was a dull boom and the tugboat started to settle into the water. That changed the entire situation.

"You son of a bitch," Pellinore growled. He brought up one of the AK's and fired a long burst at the dinghy. Unfortunately, he couldn't hold the sights on the moving boat in full automatic and all but the first few rounds headed into the sky. A piece of wood exploded near his ear just before he heard a snap from the Camelot. Pellinore ducked back behind a doorway and reloaded his gun.

His mind was racing with the possibilities. If he could get those in the dinghy, then Mordred could probably take out whoever was on the Camelot once it got dark. Hell, the camouflaged killer could probably do it in broad daylight, depending on how many there were aboard. If they were so undermanned they sent a girl in the dinghy, there might not be more than one left on the yacht itself.

Pellinore popped out again to fire at the little boat, but as soon as his head cleared the entrance two guns cracked. One was from the dinghy, and it was firing short bursts that were close enough to make him flinch. However, shooting accurately from a little boat was Navy Seal stuff, not something real people could do.

On the other hand, something grabbed his arm and drove it back just before he heard another sharp crack from the Camelot. Pellinore looked down at a bleeding hole and felt his arm start to twitch with shorting electrical impulses that stabbed at him with more pain than the initial wound. Wrapping his other hand around the holes, he yelled, "Wait! Stop. I'm hit. I give up!"

"I hope that stupid Mordred does something about this," Pellinore muttered. He moved out of the shed, holding out the uncontrollably twitching empty hand on his wounded arm while the other tried to stop the blood.

They didn't shoot, but the loud-hailer spoke again. "Mordred, we know you're out there. Surrender if you want. Else you better stay back or we'll lay down enough fire to get you wherever you are."

The man in the dinghy frowned back at the Camelot, but he shrugged and moved the little boat to the end of the dock. The curvy brunette climbed out first and braced herself in a good firing position toward the beach as the older guy tied off. Pellinore managed to get to the boat, but he was getting pretty light-headed and knew it.

"You'll have to help me," he grunted.

The man in the boat nodded. "Give me your arm." He put a couple of wads of cotton in the two holes - apparently the bullet had gone completely through Pellinore's arm - and then wrapped it, jacket and all, with tape. Next, the man put a thick cable-tie around Pelllinore's wrists. Only then did he help the man into the dinghy. As the gang member was being helped down, the girl fired three short bursts from her rifle.

"What is it?" the man asked.

She shrugged. "I thought I saw something. That guy is creepy and I didn't want to take the chance it was only my imagination."

The man nodded and arranged Pellinore on one side of the dinghy, which was one of the ubiquitous rigid-hull inflatable designs. He took another cable tie and used it to link Pellinore's ankle to a part of the rigid hull. "You better hope your friend doesn't stick a knife in this thing or you're going down with the ship."

Once he had Pellinore secured, the man joined the girl on the dock.

"What's next, boss?" she asked.

"Since he hasn't surrendered yet, I'm betting he doesn't. Stay with me and keep a good watch. I'm going to take out the supplies."

From his seat in the boat, Pellinore could see them move carefully around the camp. The girl fired off a few more bursts and there were about half a dozen whipcrack shots from the Camelot, but none of them had any apparent effect. On the other hand, the things that the man took from his vest had plenty of effect on just about everything over six inches high that was standing within a hundred yards of the water. After destroying everything in the camp they returned carefully to the dock. The tugboat had settled to the bottom with water just lapping into the pilothouse but the man was nothing if not thorough. He used more of the explosives from his vest to remove even that bit of possible shelter.

The deeper voice boomed again from the Camelot. "Mordred, we know you're out there. You can't make it without shelter. Don't be stupid. Come down to the beach and we'll pick you up."

There was no response.

*************

I had to give the murderous little bastard credit, he was tough. In the middle of the night I felt more than heard something. Tee was on watch and I was sure he was standing a good watch - alert and moving around - but he didn't notice anything. I was half convinced it was my imagination but I got out of my bunk to look around . . . then was stabbed in the shoulder so deeply that I instantly lost the use of my arm.

"He's on board!" I shouted. Tee hit all the lights there were and it was still hard to see the intruder. Despite it being pitch black outside and after a long swim in frigid water, Mordred was snake quick. He got in a slash to the outside of my right leg and a stab into my right boob - thankfully he missed the nipple - before he just vanished again when Tee leaped down the steps from the pilot house. We knew he was gone only because we heard the splash as he hit the water.

"God I hate this," I groaned, trying to get the blood stopped. Again.

I don't know what Mordred figured would happen after that. Maybe he thought we'd have to leave to get medical attention but I was pretty much healed by daybreak. Pellinore was in worse shape, but the bullet had gone through-and-through so as long as he wasn't actively bleeding he would probably survive. Jim repeated the loud-hailer offer a couple of times during the day, but it wasn't until after another cold night that we heard a response.

"Okay, I surrender," a voice called at dawn from the direction of the beach. We couldn’t see anything though."

"Show yourself," Jim called.

A distortion we didn't even recognize as significant, until it went away, cleared and a small man stood there - naked and shivering.

"Arms out to the side and show that they're empty," Jim ordered.

The man, who had to be Mordred, complied.

"He may fade again," I said quietly. "And I wouldn't put it past him to have some knives close at hand. He could have put them on the beach before daybreak. We don't want to give him a hostage."

Jim nodded in a way that showed he had been thinking the same thing. "Stand in the water so we can see where you are from the waves."

It must have been brutal to stand there in the freezing water, but Mordred had done a lot more in swimming out to us. Jim and Tee took the dinghy in to drop off some sweats, one driving and the other (Tee, of course) keeping a rifle on Mordred. They wouldn't let him approach the clothes until they backed off again.

After that it was pretty straightforward. I didn't like the idea of having someone in a small boat with their hands cuffed behind them, but I didn't like the idea of letting Mordred loose even more so I didn't argue when they brought him back to the Camelot in chains. Despite now having some warm clothes, Mordred was shaking so hard we could have tracked him from the rattle of the handcuff chain after he was on board the Camelot.

He was so grateful for some hot chocolate that I think he'd have transferred his loyalty to us if we'd have asked. Of course the price was that we would have to let him kill people every now and then, and forget the ones that he had already killed. That wasn't going to happen.

Since all of the actual murders had been in the US, we sailed the two boats back to Anacortes without contacting the Canadian authorities. That took two long days. By the end of that time, Gwenyvere had her eyes back and though her vision was cloudy, it was improving steadily and she became a very reasonable prisoner. Perhaps it had something to do with being blind for a while. That would certainly scare me.

Not that we trusted her.

Chapter 13 - "Blessing"

Once we were back in the US, Jim contacted someone who made the rest of the arrangements. We were in the G550 headed back to the complex within four hours of clearing customs in Anacortes. I never found out what happened to the Camelot gang, except that I knew all but Lancelot had survived.

Dr. Mengele - I need to stop doing that because he wasn't really a bad guy - Dr. Hendricks was waiting for us. He had a reasonably good bedside manner but I could tell that he wanted to finish with our after-action physicals and get back to the interesting patient - the one who was growing brand new eyes. Or maybe the one who could change his skin color. He never actually hurried when he examined us, but I could still tell he'd rather be somewhere else. For me, all he did was the normal blood pressure/temperature/bright-light-in-the-eye things, then draw some blood that he still treated like it might be radioactive.

After that, he said he was going to run some lab tests and read through our after-action reports. A day later he reappeared, and called me in again.

"Miss, um, Duchess, I don't see anything in your report about your menstrual cycle."

"I didn't have one," I said in surprise.

"But it's been over a month," he protested. He looked at me and "hmmm'd" a bit. Finally, he asked, "When a healthy young woman has gone over a month without a menstrual period, the most common reason is that she is pregnant . . ."

"Oh, hell, no," I said sharply. "No way."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "This is not the time to try to hide something from your doctor."

"No way, Doc. Not possible."

That got me another bout of frown/hmmm. But when I didn't recant on my claim, he shrugged. "Well, we obviously don't know everything about these nanites but I think I'll have to take a closer look."

He dialed a number and in a few minutes Cinnamon arrived. She held my hand through another bout of total indignity, accented periodically by additional 'hmm' sounds from the doctor while he poked around in places where no other man had ever been.

"When did you say you had that abdomen discomfort?" he asked me.

"The day after Gwenyvere tried to disembowel me," I said. "It must have been part of the accelerated healing."

"Actually, based on your results from the initial shoulder injury, physical repairs like that should have been completed in a few hours, yet you say this discomfort was ten hours after the injury?"

"About that," I confirmed. "Actually, I was uncomfortable all day."

"Well, then, ah, Duchess, I'm happy to report that your body seems to be functioning normally in at least one respect. You have all the internal signs of a menstrual cycle approximately four days ago."

"But . . ," I started.

He waved me to silence, and smiled. "It would appear that your nanites, ah, scavenge the discharge material rather than eliminate it. It is very rich in iron and other materials."

I took that news in silent shock. Cinnamon had a comment, though.

"Oh, god, I hate you more than ever!" she said. I looked at her and I know my eyes showed my hurt.

She smiled to show that 'hate' wasn't exactly what she was feeling. "A day - a single day - of 'squirmy' feeling, and no discharge? That's your period? God, if that's what the nanites do, sign me up!"

Then she had another thought. "Does that mean she can or can't get pregnant?"

[Oh, god, I *ssoo* did not need to think about that!]

"I don't know," Dr. Hendricks said, which didn't help my stress level at all. "It depends on the nanites. They might attack any incoming sperm, or even a fertilized zygote. Or, the Anastasia design might be engineered to be very fertile. I'll have to see what I can find out from, ah, Gwenyvere, but she's been playing it very coy about her basic modifications. I think - despite everything - that she still believes she'll be allowed to continue her research once we recognize her genius. She's holding back on information about some of her . . . enhancements as a lever to get some concessions out of us."

Cinnamon frowned. "That's not going to happen, is it?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Dr. Hendricks declared flatly. "But in the meantime, Duchess, I'd be very, very careful."

"Can we get her some birth control pills?" Cinnamon asked, which was not the solution to that problem that I had in mind. I was glad now that Jim hadn't taken me up on my sort-of offer.

"I doubt that they would help," Dr. Hendricks said. "If she's fertile, then the nanites would probably keep her hormone levels in proper balance regardless of any additional doses we might provide. And if she's not fertile, then of course they wouldn't be necessary."

"It doesn’t matter anyway," I said. "As of now, I'm a nun."

"You don't look like a nun, dear," Cinnamon said. "And if you react to anyone else the way you did to your Ken doll . . ."

"That was just a kiss," I said.

"A kiss with enough megawattage to power all of Vancouver," Cinnamon said, but her eyes were twinkling.

Dr. Hendricks smiled as well. "Actually, Duchess, you do have a very healthy, and apparently very responsive body. It might not be the best strategy to deny that."

"Oh, I'm not denying it," I said. "I'm just not doing anything about it."

He shrugged. "Other women have said that. Some of them are now mothers. Still, we can be reasonably sure that you won't have to worry about any sexually transmitted diseases."

At that he frowned and looked at his notes for a few minutes - that seemed very long to me. Finally he looked up again and shrugged. "I compared the bio-nanites in your most recent blood test with the earliest ones we have. As far as I can tell, there has been no mutation at all."

He said that like it was so portentous that I had to ask, "So, that's a good thing, right?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But it's very unusual. Normal viruses mutate continually. Gwenyvere - or Anna - has done something to keep this from happening."

"That's a good thing, right?" I repeated.

He finally smiled to relieve my obvious concern. "Yes. She is incredibly competent as a bio-engineer, but she's still playing with things that are highly dangerous. Nonetheless, so far her safeguards seem to be working. Your nanites are stable."

"Physically, it appears all your changes are complete. We don't fully understand them yet - hence the caution about sexual relations - but what you see is apparently what you're going to get. However, psychological adaptation is not as easy to measure." He searched through his bag and came up with a business card. "I think you should talk with a therapist. This woman is very good with gender and sexual identity issues. And she's fully qualified to talk about post-traumatic shock as well."

"Hell, Doc, nothing that happened on this trip even measured on the scale of things I've been through before," I said, trying to laugh off his implication.

"What you went through before *is* the problem. Aside from the gender change, of course. Barney told me about your reaction to the threat of disembowelment."

"He did?" I asked, irritated.

Barney, in absentia, was defended by Cinnamon. "Of course. It's our responsibility - each of us for each other - to watch for signs of stress. That's why I told Dr. Hendricks about your Ken doll."

"He's not *my* Ken doll," I said sharply. But I sighed and nodded. As dependent on each other as we all were, secrets were both dangerous and impossible to keep.

With that, Dr. Hendricks was on his way. I had another appointment . . . with Jim.

It turned out not to be as bad as I expected. First off, I was finally getting paid! When I got to Jim's office in the complex, he handed me some checks. One was a 'consultant' fee for the mission to capture Anna Raymond, aka Gwenyvere Pender. The other was a check for all of Duke Chance's financial wealth. A third was a share of the recovery fee for things that had been insured. That was a surprisingly large amount; apparently the jewelry had been pretty valuable.

"The things from your apartment are in storage," Jim added. "Whenever you want, you can go through and select out the mementoes that you would like. We did pick up this for you."

The item he handed to me was a little triptych of photos. Like an icon of the Fates, there was a maiden, a woman, and . . . well, my Cora never looked like a crone, not even the day she died. But the third image was of a 'mature' woman who was even lovelier than the other two - at least to me. And at least as I remembered it, because my eyes weren't focusing well enough to see any of the images right then, but I knew what they were.

"Thank you," I finally managed to whisper. "I wondered if I would ever see this again."

Jim let me have a minute to get myself together, then smiled as I pulled a compact out of my purse to examine the damages. Other than unappealing red eyes, I was okay. I hadn't - quite - let the tears spill down my cheeks. Actually, with my mind turned back to Cora I was forced to recognize that I was more than okay. Whatever Anna Raymond's faults - and they were many - in the end she had done me an unintended favor.

When I looked up again, Jim's gentle eyes warmed me, but then they turned just a bit serious.

"What would you like to do now?"

"You mean, other than fix my face?" I asked, blushing and looking at the compact that I still held in my hand.

"Yes, other than making yourself even more impossibly beautiful," he said.

I shrugged . . . and couldn't help enjoy the fact Jim couldn't keep his eyes on my face when I did that. "I haven't thought about it, I guess. I mean, I was wondering about my things and I don't . . . didn't have any money until, well, now, but I didn't figure you'd kick me out on the street right away."

"No, that wasn't my plan." His eyes were laughing a little, though his mouth was professionally neutral. I didn't know if he would be a good poker player or not. I felt that I could see his moods, but I had no idea whether that was because he was sending me deliberate messages with those little eye twinkles, or whether they were a break in his impassive demeanor.

"Are you familiar with the Great Mutiny?" he asked, surprising me with a comment out of nowhere.

I pouted a little - Cinnamon had trained me to do that instead of frown - and shrugged again. "Which one? The British Navy in Spithead and the Nore, or the British sepoy army in India?"

He smiled more openly and said, "I'm not surprised you knew of both. Actually, either will do. My point is that a good commander never has a mutiny because he understands the motivation of his troops well enough that they never think of questioning his orders."

I was pouting again. "I got that in OCS . . . probably about the time your parents were born."

He laughed out loud. "You are unique. You have an immense store of experience and I have to remind myself of that all the time because you look even younger than Cinnamon."

My pout was beginning to be more real than artifice. Somehow I felt I was being played, but I didn't see the point.

He smiled again and it didn't really matter if I were being played because that smile was just too magical to care. If it made him smile at me like that, then I would be his clown.

"Last night, after you went to your room, a delegation came to my office."

I had never met Jim's superiors so that didn't tell me much but at least it implied he was getting to the point.

"Can't you guess?" he teased. "You've had excellent insights all through this mission."

Pouting again.

"It was the team," he declared. "All of them. Even Dr. Hendricks. They told me that if I didn't invite you to join us permanently, then they were all quitting."

"What?" I asked, the pout vanishing into confusion . . . followed by wonder, and by eyes that were filling again.

"Which actually made things easier for me," Jim said. He pulled another piece of paper out of his desk. "I put in motion the things to make this happen before we even left for Seattle."

The 'this' that he was referring to was a briefing affidavit. I blinked away enough tears that I could see it had the standard, "tell anyone, ever, and we throw you under the jail" sort of warnings. Even with all the threats, it was surprisingly uninformative. It was just a notice that I was aware of an 'action team' with Jim as commander. For all I knew, it was a rogue criminal gang.

Of course, that wasn't true. They were good people. I was willing to stake my life on that.

Jim was pointing at a thick folder that he pointedly did not open. "Your background checks came through just as I knew they would. Well, Duke Chance's background checks. I didn't tell the investigators that you look a little different now. If you'd like to sign your future away, the next piece of paper I'm going to pull out of my desk is your notice of assignment to my team."

"To your team?" I repeated.

"Of course. We, um, we've needed a helicopter pilot for some time."

"A helicopter pilot?" I repeated again, but his eyes were so full of fun that I just started giggling. "Is that all?"

"Well, you do have a few other skills that will probably come in handy," he allowed judiciously.

"Oh, you . . ," I growled, but I was up out of my chair and around to his side of the desk before he could get to his feet. Not that it mattered, because I yanked him up so that I could get a good wrap on him. I squeezed him so tight I heard the breath huff out of his lungs, but I didn't care.

His arms were around me, too, but after a moment they began to push gently on my shoulders. His strained voice said. "Dee, please, I need to breathe."
Just to show him that I wasn't going to be some dutiful little doll, I gave him one last crunch and then stepped back. "So, where do I sign?"

The paperwork took only a few minutes. The only surprise was the pay scale. If nothing else, that made it clear that Jim and his team weren't government agents. I'd even be able to afford the shopping that Cinnamon insisted was critical to life as we know it. Once I had signed everything he put in front of me, he locked it all away in a safe and escorted me to where the rest of the team was waiting. It wasn't much of an insight for them to recognize that I had agreed to join the team. If my happy smile wasn't enough, Jim's smug satisfaction would have been a definite giveaway.

Barney was usually the quiet one but he got in the first comment. "Outstanding! We've needed a Murdoch for a long time."

"A Murdoch?" I asked. "Do I look like a crazy helicopter pilot?"

"Does insanely hot count?" Barney asked. "Besides, all helicopter pilots are crazy anyway. Those things can't really fly."

Tee put an artificial snarl on his face. "I pity da fool dat messes wit' us now!"

"You are *not* gonna be Mister T," Cinnamon said. She moved over to give me a quick hug and only I could see the shine in her eyes. Without looking at the rest of them, she added, "At least, not until Jim agrees to let us call him 'Agent J.'"

"You all just hold your breath waiting for that one, okay?" Jim said, but he was lined up behind Cinnamon for a hug of his own.

That was all the excuse the others needed. Each of them whispered words of welcome to me. Tee had something else to say as well, but that will remain private. Surprisingly Barney had a quick little addition, too. I looked at him a little more sharply after he let me go. [Y'now, bald isn't so bad. Once you get used to it. Oops, did I actually think that?]

After all the congratulations, Jim announced, "Let's go out to dinner. My treat."

The guys started in on a choice of restaurants of the half-a-cow and beer-by-the-pitcher variety, but Cinnamon wasn't having any of it.

"We'll be ready in . . . about an hour," she said. "And I expect to see suits and ties on all of you."

There were grumbles, but she ignored them with regal disdain.

We kept them waiting longer than that, but there weren't any complaints. Cinnamon alone would have made it worth the time, and what she did to me . . . or for me . . . was still just incredible. They were just going to have to get used to delays anyway. Two hot women just cannot be rushed.

Before we headed back to the lounge, I put Cora's triptych on my dresser. Maybe it was just me but it seemed like she was smiling just a little bit brighter. Or maybe I was just seeing a halo. I thought about the old man trudging along in the chilly mist; nothing to live for except to honor the memory of someone who would have been disappointed if he gave up.

"It looks like it will be a while longer, my love," I whispered, touching the images gently in turn.

"Take your time, my love," I heard her voice say, and I swear all three images winked at me. "Take your time. I'll always be here for you."

Finis