Metal glinted coldly under the harsh glare from the overhead floodlights, reflecting the beams into crevices all over the vast, cavernous room. The subdued hum of electronics was everywhere, as several men in workmanlike uniforms bustled around complicated banks of monitors and computer panels. A few of the men crawled around on a large platform that was supported by squat, powerful-looking hydraulic cylinders, ministering to the large, armoured shape that occupied the lift. Here and there one of the technicians passed a scanner over open armour plating, nodding in satisfaction at the readings before closing and sealing the access panel. The chest of the large mech was sitting open, revealing an oblong cavity inside.

Only one figure in the room was not participating in the fevered activity. Tall with straw-blond hair, the grey-suited figure stood quietly in the shadows by a computer console. Arms folded across his chest, Ethan Hollister watched his men work, his icy blue eyes cool and intent, missing nothing. Occasionally, his gaze flicked to the platform, and a faint, self-satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Thick metal doors slid open at the far end of the room, and four men wearing dark blue body armour and white helmets with opaque visors trooped through, dragging somebody with them. The motion and sounds of their approach drew Hollister's attention, and an unpleasant smile cracked the calm facade he usually cultivated. Soon, a plan he'd been working at for a very long time would finally come to completion.

Afterwards, he would have some scores to settle.

The lead guard saluted as the group came up to him. Hollister's eyes traveled to their prisoner, and again an unpleasant smile appeared as he looked at the captive. It had taken a lot of trouble to acquire her, and even more trouble to hold her; she'd already tried to escape twice, and had injured several of his men during the attempts, permanently crippling a couple of them.

The seemingly groggy captive the guards held was a fairly young-looking woman, wearing a grimy, snugly-fitting khaki uniform with short sleeves. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was blindfolded. Her hands had been shackled behind her back, and her arms were bound to her body with metallic-looking straps. She was very attractive-looking, despite the dirt and bruises, and she had a figure most men would kill for the privilege of merely being near. Hollister wasn't most men.

"Put it in," he said tersely, jerking his head towards the mech. At his words, the captive suddenly came alive.

"NO!!" she screamed, surging upright, and wrenching free of their grasp. "Let me go!!!" A well-aimed kick connected with the groin of one of her guards, and the man dropped into a groaning heap. When one of her escorts attempted to grab her, she spun and head-butted him, cracking the bridge of his nose with her forehead. He staggered away clutching at his nose, tears of pain streaming from his eyes as she strained at the bonds holding her; they began to creak ominously.

Her desperate escape attempt ended almost as quickly as it had begun; the guard standing behind her dashed forward and pulled what looked like a short club from his belt, slamming her across the back of the head with it. A loud electrical crackle sizzled through the air, and blue sparks raced all over the young woman's body; she convulsed helplessly before dropping limply to the floor.

At a curt, impatient gesture from Hollister, the remaining guards picked her up again, and started dragging her towards the hydraulic platform. Despite the charge from the stun weapon, she still tried to put up resistance.

"No! Please!" her voice carried to Hollister, sounding choked and desperate. "Please, just let me go!! I haven't..."

"Shut up, bitch." The terse command from one of guards was accented by the flat crack of a slap across her face. "Ow! Shit!!" was heard a moment later as he flipped stinging fingers numbed by the slap, and a couple of snickers came from the other guards.

Hollister remained aloof, the only indication of his interest in the proceedings being the glint of ambition in his eyes. He watched coldly as the guards hauled the crying woman up to the mech, removed her restraints, and then manhandled her into the concave cavity in the chest of the machine.

"No!! NOOOO!!!!" The despairing, agonized wail overrode every other noise in the room for a moment, causing a few technicians elsewhere in the room to exchange uncomfortable, uneasy glances. Loud, metallic snaps and clacks came from the machine, and the guards stepped back. Choked sobbing drifted from the machine.

"The sexaroid is secure, sir," the lead trooper reported. At his boss's curt nod, they descended from the platform, collected their still-groaning and writhing compatriot, and left. A triumphant smile spread across Hollister's face as he turned to a white-faced technician nearby.

"Prepare the sexaroid for the preliminary testing," he instructed, "and inform me when it's complete." The technician nodded, swallowing uneasily, and reached out to key in several commands to his computer.

Hollister turned and strode from the room, leaving behind the heartrending sobs coming from the large mech.

"NO! Absolutely not!" Priss said flatly, her hands on her hips. Her entire face bore a look of grim resolve as she glared down at the current source of her displeasure: someone's body, clad in grease-splotched blue jeans and an equally stained sweater. The majority of the upper half of the person was underneath a large machine, and shielded from the immediate effects of her glower.

"But why not?" Bert's voice replied, reverberating eerily from among the metal parts of the device he was working on. "You did admit that it was fun the last time."

"Motorcycling is safer!" she retorted vehemently. Irritated sparks flashed in her eyes as she looked disgustedly from what she could see of his body, to the machine above him. I should've known. The resigned thought briefly registered in the back of her mind as she looked at the vaguely familiar shape. The colour wasn't the same anymore, but the overall configuration of the large gadget left no doubt as to what she was looking at: the WarHorse.

Now predominantly dark blue trimmed with silver flames, the high-speed jet cycle had undergone a few changes, and not all of them merely cosmetic. It was a bit longer than it had been the last time she'd seen it, and the wings had been spread a little wider for greater lift.

The yawning turbine intake had been replaced by several streamlined air vents, built into the nose of the hull. By far the most noticeable change was the fact that the flying machine now mounted visible weaponry. Six, one-shot torpedo tubes jutted threateningly from its snout, and twin laser cannons were mounted on the top of the front faring, just in front of the vehicle's windshield. Even with the armament, it still looked like a souped-up jet-engine with wings and a seat attached.

"Drag-racing highway patrol cruisers is safer?" came the dry reply. A grunt of effort came from under the bulky flying machine as he started worming his way out from under it. "At least I don't have to worry about losing my license on this thing."

"Nobody in their right mind would give you a license for that thing!" she shot back, nettled. "And at least the ground's a lot closer!" Remembered nausea assailed her as she recalled how she'd been duped into accepting a ride on its maiden flight. It had been an utterly wild experience, frightening and exhilarating in terms of speed, and the cheerfully reckless abandon of its pilot. Normally, she didn't mind speed thrills, but this was a bit different.

The problem was that the somewhat comforting knowledge that the ground was right below her was absent when soaring around on the supercharged jetbike. The high velocity and high altitude the jetbike used meant that the slightest mechanical difficulty, or piloting mistake, had the potential to turn whoever was riding the sky-cycle into something resembling a squashed can of tomato paste; there wouldn't be time to jump off and use hardsuit flight systems to escape if they hit something. She shuddered, and quickly forced her mind away from the subject.

Bert finally succeeded in crawling out from under the WarHorse, and stood up, shaking his head in amusement, smiling wryly. A few oily smudges marred his nose and face, and his hair was a sweaty, tangled mess.

"I can't see much difference between falling from a few hundred feet up, or falling off and skidding on your face along the pavement," he noted mildly. "Both would probably hurt."

"I'm not going up on it, and that's final," Priss declared flatly, slashing her hand through the air in a negative gesture. "I mean it, Bert." She looked levelly into his eyes, and saw regretful acknowledgment appear in them.

"Okay," he sighed, giving up. "It wasn't going to be right away anyway; Sylia wants to discuss some other modifications first."

"Considering the way she reacted when you first built the damn thing, I'm surprised she let you work on it again."

"She suggested it, actually," Bert grinned. "I guess with Sylvie running the store, she's had more time to look at some of the projects she's wanted to do for a while." He patted the slick metal hull of the jetbike. "She even gave me some improvements to try on this baby here; I think if it works out, she's going to allow it to be used on some missions." A sly grin appeared. "In fact, I think Sylia was considering a motoroid-convertible version."

"Oh my God," the attractive singer groaned, slapping a hand over her face as she looked heavenward. "No way. Never. Uh-uh. I'm sticking with my old motoroid and I don't give a damn what's been improved, thank you very much!!"

"You're taking all the fun out of this!" he protested, artfully looking hurt. She didn't buy it, and didn't reply. Seeing he wasn't going to get a rise out of her, he grinned slyly again, and gave up. Glancing at the battered clock hanging on the wall, he snatched up a relatively clean rag and carried it over to the can of hand-cleaner sitting on the cluttered counter by the sink. Scooping up some of the soapy-feeling cleaner, he started scrubbing his hands clean.

As he worked at some of the more persistent stains, he glanced over at Priss out of the corner of his eye. Seeing that he'd given up on baiting her, she'd leaned against the wall and was apparently lost in thought. Her red-brown eyes were gazing absently at nothing, and her lips were pursed slightly as if she was contemplating something not to her liking. His gaze ran appreciatively over her, quietly enjoying the look of her in her usual form-fitting red and black leather bike suit. Flushing slightly, he returned his attention to cleaning his hands; now wasn't the time to start having amorous thoughts.

"Finished?" Priss's voice asked him.

"Yup, that was it for the day," he sighed, stretching and yawning hugely as he turned towards her. He grinned at her and tossed the hand-rag into a nearby bin as she walked up to him. "Feel like going to dinner?"

"Sure," she agreed readily, then grinned herself. "You buying?"

"Looks like it," he replied dryly. "I didn't get fleeced by another speeding ticket." That wisecrack earned him an irritated glance; he'd warned her about the speed trap the THP had set up along the Bayshore highway, but she'd forgotten, and had been nabbed doing well over 60 kilometers per hour over the limit. Since then, he'd been getting in sly digs at her when he could; watching her fume was kind of fun, if risky.

"Just go and get cleaned up," she told him, putting a hand on his chest and shoving him back as he started to lean closer to her. "I'm not going out with someone who looks like they just fell into an oil pit." He chuckled, and bowed slightly.

"Your wish is my command," he proclaimed with a smirk. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes, unless you want to wait in the apartment?" He glanced quizzically at her.

"I'll wait here," she told him. "Go on, go get cleaned up." He nodded and left. "Smartass," she mumbled under her breath as the door closed behind him. After a moment, her irritation crumbled and disintegrated; she just couldn't stay pissed off at him for very long either, not over something that minor. Given how close they'd become, she knew it was just an obscure way of him expressing his feelings for her.

Priss idly strolled around the shop, humming some of her songs to herself as she sorted through some pleasant memories, just letting herself relax. As she wandered around, looking at the scattered clutter, she found herself standing in front of the WarHorse again. She scowled at the jetbike, seriously considering kicking the damn thing; she hadn't told anyone, but she was positive that her ride on it had given her an almost pathological fear of flying at high altitudes in anything other than an airplane. She'd even had a nightmare about falling off of it, and had woken up drenched in sweat.

A sudden thought struck her, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face as she looked at the blue flying machine. Casting a furtive glance at the door to the shop, she quickly hunted around for the can of silver paint he'd used to paint the jetbike's trim. She carefully pried open the can, then found a small brush.

Kneeling next to the big machine, she judiciously applied a few strokes approximately where the machine's gas tank should be, then gazed critically at her work. Nodding in satisfaction, she finished the additions, then quickly touched up the other side of the gas tank as well.

Grinning in smug triumph, she sealed the can again, cleaning the brush and putting it back. After taking a brief glance at herself to make sure there were no telltale paint flecks on her clothes, she gave her handiwork another smirk. Deciding that she did need to get cleaned up a bit now, she left the shop, heading for Bert's apartment; it was the closest, and it would keep him from coming back until after the paint had dried.

As the door closed behind her, the shop lights glistened wetly on the WarHorse's new lettering:

Paper rustled quietly as Hollister shuffled through the file folder on the cluttered desk in front of him. He skimmed over page after page, until his expression turned to one of resigned disgust as the data he sought continued to elude him. He closed the folder, shoving it aside, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

After a moment, he stood and walked over to a small side-cabinet, opening it and pulling out a bottle filled with an amber liquid. Pouring a glassful, and adding some ice, he carried the liquor back to his desk and sat down. Kicking off his shoes, he propped his feet up on the corner of the huge oak desk he was sitting behind, and sat sipping his drink while he stared with a dark brooding look into space.

"I'd heard that rank hath its privileges," a voice remarked dryly from the doorway, "but I didn't realize that you'd taken it quite so much to heart." A cold gaze snapped up to where the voice had come from, then thawed slightly.

"If you've got it, why not use it?" Hollister shrugged, waving the man at the door in. "Care for some brandy?"

"I've my own poison, thanks," the gaunt, elderly man replied as he tiredly shuffled across the carpeted office, sinking with a grateful sigh into the leather armchair across the desk from Hollister. He dug into the capacious pockets of the slightly-rumpled lab coat he wore, and came up with a pipe.

"At least I'll still have my lungs with this," Hollister noted, raising his glass slightly. At the same time, he reached out and pressed the switch on the strategically located air freshener nearby. It began to whir quietly as he leaned back into his chair and took another swig. Doc gave the device a slightly amused smile as he stuck the pipe in his mouth.

"I wouldn't worry about lung cancer, Ethan," he mumbled around the stem of his pipe as he fished tobacco out of another pocket and started packing the pipe with it. "Diseases can't get someone who was born to be hung." Sly mirth flickered in his expression for a moment.

"Pardon?" The ice was back in Hollister's eyes, and Doc sighed to himself. The man had no sense of humour about some things. That was one of the things that made it so difficult trying to deal with him; his emotional armour was tight and nearly impenetrable, making it impossible to get a feel for how he'd react to something. His years in the espionage world also meant that you could never be sure what his personality really was like.

"What I meant," Doc explained carefully as he struck a match, and began stoking his pipe into life, "was that for someone who gets himself involved in as many dangerous business operations as you do, cancer should be the last worry on your mind. Besides, you know they've got excellent treatments for that sort of thing now."

"Humph." The blond man didn't reply, and sat nursing his drink for a few moments in silence as blue clouds of smoke began to fill the airspace around the old scientist.

Puffing contentedly on his baseburner, Doc glanced around at the comfortably furnished office, taking in the rich finish of the wood paneling on the walls, the mahogany bookshelves, the thick, soft carpeting...the entire place reeked of luxury. It was a curious anomaly, since Hollister normally didn't seem to concern himself with creature comforts. Maybe he'd decided to start using some of the vast wealth he'd been accumulating. After a while, Hollister sighed and sat up, dropping his feet back to the floor while setting his empty glass aside.

"Was there anything in particular you needed?" he asked the billowing smoke cloud across the desk from him.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, there was. This came in for you; I picked it up on my way over." Paper crackled and rustled, then a long white envelope appeared in the haze, extending towards the desk. Hollister irritably snatched it out of the proffering hand, and tore it open.

"You're welcome," Doc noted dryly, watching as the grey-suited man extracted some folded pages and began scanning them intently. The slow smile that appeared on Hollister's face made him turn cold with dread for an instant.

"Perfect," the blond man stated, tucking the pages neatly into the file folder he'd been reading earlier.

"Mind if I ask what that was?"

"Just confirmation of a hunch I had," he waved the matter aside with his hand. "I'll be able to follow up on it now without any problems. Now then, how's the synchronization testing going?"

"Slowly," Doc replied with a sigh. "We can't rush this; we've only got the one sexaroid, and replacing her would be a real pain. It has to go perfectly the first time we try for the full linkage, or we'll kill her. Getting back on Genaros in the near future to appropriate another one is out of the question right now."

The old scientist carefully kept his voice and expression neutral as he spoke; normally, his work didn't bother him all that much, but this time it was different. While he didn't think of sexaroids as anything but a different type of boomer, it took a conscious effort to ignore the sobbing coming from the prototype battlemover. Not even gagging her had helped, and it was beginning to wear on his nerves. He must be getting old if the simulacrum of a tearful young woman could get to him.

That, or else it was the fact that his heart really wasn't in this project. Or in the whole operation, for that matter.

"We've got time," Hollister's voice sounded unusually relaxed. "And I've got some other projects to work on in the meantime." He patted the file folder near his elbow almost lovingly.

"Like what?"

"I'm glad you asked," Hollister smirked. "It's like this...."

"He's healed, physically at least," the doctor told Madigan. "Mentally, well... he's still got a few rough spots."

"Explain," Kate Madigan ordered crisply. The striking GENOM executive was wearing her usual dark business suit, her lavender hair hanging neatly, swept back over her shoulders. "What 'rough spots'?"

"Well, he tends to stammer a bit," the doctor shrugged. "And he's developed a nervous twitch. He seems inordinately fearful of something as well; we've never quite been able to determine of what, but he's constantly checking over his shoulder."

"But he is fit to release?" she asked, glancing through the thick observation window. Inside the sealed medical room, a black-haired man lay tossing and turning restlessly on a bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. It had been approximately two months since they'd run Stryker through the Deep Psychology Scanner in an effort to find out who his employer was. They'd finally gotten an answer, but had nearly ruined the man's mind in doing so.

"If you mean in terms of physical condition, yes, he is fit to release," the doctor said guardedly. "His mental condition is still undetermined; I would recommend that he be kept here under observation for a few more days at least."

"Rest assured he will be watched," Madigan assured him, hiding a smirk. "I will send someone around to collect him later. Please see to it that he is properly clothed and discharged. Furthermore, I want all of his medical records sent to me." The physician bowed, hiding his unease at her orders, and she turned and left the medical wing of the Tower, walking briskly.

Several minutes later, she stood outside the massive doors that led to Quincy's lofty office, fuming at the delay as Quincy's secretary went through the formality of notifying him of her arrival. When she got the affirmative, respectful nod from the secretary, Madigan swung open one door slightly and stepped inside, casting a coolly measuring glance around the office, but didn't see anything unusual.

Closing the door behind herself, Madigan strode across the room towards the elderly-seeming Chairman, her high-heeled shoes clicking loudly on the hardwood flooring.

"Yes?" the craggy-faced old man rumbled as she came up to his desk. Icy blue eyes glinted at her from under shaggy white eyebrows. "What did you have to report?"

"Stryker will soon be released," Madigan replied. "I have arranged for him to be given his instructions by his escorts before he leaves the Tower."

"Ah," Quincy leaned back in his chair, leaning his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers in front of him. "And you have made the proper arrangements for when he contacts this Hollister fellow?"

"Yes sir," she nodded. "He will be under surveillance at all times, and a pair of C-55E boomers will be following him to apprehend Hollister when the contact is made."

"You seem positive of success," Quincy noted.

"He will not get away," Madigan stated flatly, unable to keep her expression from souring slightly. "I have assigned some of our best operatives to the case. Hollister will not escape us, and then we will have all the answers we need from him."

"Do not allow personal feelings to influence you on this matter, Madigan," Quincy warned, his expression turning flinty. "What happened between the two of you is in the past; this is the present. If you cannot be objective in your decision making, then I shall assign the operation to someone who can be."

"I won't allow my personal feelings to interfere with the performance of my duties, sir," she replied stiffly, her posture rigid. Quincy's eyes bored into hers for a moment, as if searching her soul for sincerity. After a moment, he relaxed and nodded slightly.

"Very well. Keep me informed."

Madigan turned away from the old man and walked rapidly across the room to the doors, opened them, and left the room, closing them behind her. Once she was safely out of the Chairman's sight, she let the internal fury that had been seething under her calm exterior boil over, distorting her face with a mask of rage for a moment.

Some unidentified, unfortunate clerical worker happened to be passing by when her brief transformation occurred, and he immediately evacuated the area lest her wrath fall on him. Watching the man flee in terror restored her equilibrium, and her expression cleared. Adjusting her jacket and smoothing her blouse out, Madigan headed for her own office.

She had a lot to do, and limited time to accomplish it in.

THE NEXT DAY....

"Hey, has anyone seen the Chief?!" Leon McNichol yelled across the hubbub of activity stewing in the ADP offices. His question went unanswered as everyone else concentrated on trying to complete their workload before quitting time.

Sighing disgustedly, the tall inspector started weaving his way through the desks, deftly avoiding tripping on power cords and the like. You can never find anyone when you really need them, can you?! he fumed to himself. Damn it, the Chief had known that he'd had some things to discuss with her, so why had she disappeared?!

As he stalked along, a familiar blaze of colour in the sea of blue uniforms off to his right drew his attention. Smiling slightly, Leon veered over to where Nene was absently poring over what looked like some old investigative reports. The young red-haired woman was completely absorbed in her task, and didn't even notice as his shadow fell across her reading material. Even clearing his throat didn't alert her to his presence.

Leon watched her for a moment, but she remained oblivious, slowly turning pages with one hand, the other hand lifting a cup of coffee to her lips occasionally. Sighing again, the brown-haired inspector put his hands on the desk and leaned down, until his head was level with hers.

"Nene, have you seen..." he started to say, but didn't get any further, as the young red-head jumped in extreme surprise, giving a small shriek and inadvertently splashing the remainder of her cup of coffee straight into his face.

"Oh God!! I'm sorry Leon!!" Nene blurted, frantically hunting around for something to mop up the mess with. "I didn't see you there!!" Finding some napkins, she quickly blotted up the coffee that was threatening to stain the scattered paperwork on her desk.

For one long moment, Leon stood there listening to the strangled snickers coming from other desks nearby, reflecting on how Fate just seemed to have it in for him at times. He had begun to wipe the back of his hand across his dripping face when he was quietly presented with a napkin by a sheepish-looking Nene.

"Ummm....sorry about that," she apologized quietly. "You startled me."

"I'd noticed," Leon assured her dryly, taking the offered napkin and sponging off his face. "What was so riveting that you didn't hear anything?"

"The Chief gave me some reports to check over," she replied, sighing. "I'm trying to get them done as quickly as possible, and I guess I just lost track of everything."

"Speaking of the Chief, do you know where she is?"

"No idea, Leon. She got a call, then just took off. If she told anyone where she was going, I haven't heard about it. Was there something you needed help with?" Bright green eyes looked at him curiously.

"It's not that important, and I'd better let you get back to your reports; I know how much you enjoy reading them," Leon replied blandly. Nene rolled her eyes as he grinned and moved off, his expression returning to a more serious demeanor as he made for his desk at the other end of the offices. Sitting down, he looked at the pile of reports in his inbox, and sighed disgustedly.

The tall inspector's gaze drifted across the offices again to where Nene was sitting as he leaned back in his chair, trying to nerve himself to tackle the workload. In the back of his mind, he'd noticed that she'd apparently recovered from her problems of a few weeks ago and pulled herself together. The despondent air that had clung to her was gone now, and she looked back to normal again. At the same time, it was as if she'd aged a bit, becoming a bit more serious and not quite as bubbly and cheerful as she had been in the past. No, aged wasn't quite the right term ... matured, that was it.

Surprised, Leon examined that perception more closely, and found it to be true. She seemed more mature and self-assured now; before he'd always thought of her as a kid, but that label didn't seem to fit her anymore. Evidently something positive had come out of her supposed boyfriend troubles.

Leon scowled blackly at his desktop at that thought. Boyfriend troubles...he still hadn't been able to confirm his initial suspicions about her boyfriend. His records appeared spotless, and his current business, a recreational facility of all things, seemed to be a legitimate enterprise. Originally, he'd gotten a membership at the place in order to do some covert snooping around, but now he was finding out that he actually enjoyed dropping by to unwind at the end of a long day.

It was a grudgingly made admission, and even more difficult to make since the real reason for his disgruntlement was that he hadn't found anything even slightly suspicious at the place. His earlier supposition that the tall red-headed man was involved in some kind of shady operation was rapidly withering and dying without proof, and he couldn't escape the feeling that someone was laughing up their sleeve at him.

"Damn it, what are you hiding?!" Leon muttered to himself. He knew something wasn't right about that guy; he could feel it, and he hadn't survived this long on the force by ignoring his hunches. After a moment he gave up in disgust, forcing himself to concentrate on something else. It was better to wait, observe, and see if time brought him anything he could use.

"Taking a rest break already?" Priss taunted, an evil grin on her face. "Boy, you are out of shape!" She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the mirrored wall of the exercise room.

"Why don't you give it a rest?!" Linna snapped peevishly, wiping a hand across her streaming forehead. "I told you already that all the smartass remarks weren't necessary." Sighing, she straightened up from her crouched-over position, wincing as her right leg throbbed a bit below the knee. The black-haired young woman was wearing her usual blue spandex dance outfit with pink leg warmers and a short T-shirt over the top, and an irritated expression.

"Hey, now you know how I felt when you were browbeating me into a recovery," her friend grinned.

"There is one major difference," Linna gritted, going through some warm-up stretches again. "I haven't been bitching about my injury the entire time I've been trying to recondition it!"

"True," Priss admitted easily. "But you didn't think you were going to get off scot-free, did you?"

"Hope springs eternal," Linna retorted dryly. "I'd thought you were improving in that regard." She braced herself with one hand on the railing running the length of the room, and began a second set of limbering-up exercises.

Priss watched, wincing. There was no way she could do some of those stretches; she just wasn't flexible enough. Of course, she hadn't been training most of her life for a career in dance, either. Her physical condition was good enough for her chosen singing career, and she was quite happy with that.

"So how long until you're back dancing?"

"Another couple of days, and I can get back into some easy routines," came the distracted reply. "I don't want to rush it; the bone's healed, but the muscles are still a little shaky."

"I know what that's like," Priss returned wryly. "At least in your case, the muscles weren't the main culprit."

"No, but when you've got to stay flat on your back for nearly three weeks, you lose a lot of conditioning," Linna shrugged. What had originally been a straightforward broken bone had developed complications that had required some minor surgery, and the ultimatum that she could not put weight on her leg for any reason whatsoever for at least two weeks longer than originally estimated. "I think that was the worst part: having to stay bedridden for all that time."

"I know," Priss grinned evilly again. "All of us had to put up with your lousy temper while you were stuck there, remember?"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry." Linna flushed, looking away. "I just can't stand being inactive; I've got to move, or I go nuts." As if verifying her statement, she stepped out onto the mats in the center of the room and started a couple of simple leaps and twirls.

"Got any moves you can do without becoming airborne?" Priss asked pointedly as Linna got set to try another leap. "I'm supposed to make sure you don't bugger yourself up, and you're supposed to be taking it easy and not jumping around yet." Linna shot her a dirty look, but kept her feet on the mat as she worked on a few dance steps. Priss resumed watching from where she was comfortably leaning against the wall, and after about ten minutes, a sweating Linna came to a halt.

"You can join in anytime," she noted between deep breaths. "A little exercise wouldn't kill you."

"No, but trying to do what you're doing might," Priss snorted. "I get enough exercise other times, so don't worry about me."

"Oh, I'll just bet you do," the black-haired dancer's tone was loaded with implication. The sly grin on her face left no doubts as to what she was referring to, either. "How is Bert, by the way?"

"Oh, he's fine," Priss replied offhandedly, feeling her cheeks warm up just a bit. "Why?"

"Except for the days when he's running this place, I don't see him that much. I figured you get to see a lot more of him." Linna's grin widened just a bit, but Priss ignored the bait. By now she'd gotten used to the chaffing, and was able to control herself pretty well with regards to that particular subject. She was a lot more comfortable about things, although she still felt a bit awkward around Nene. Which reminded her....

"How's Nene doing?" The change of subject sobered her friend instantly.

"She's a lot better," Linna reported seriously. "She's still feeling a little hurt, but at least she's going out now. We've been cruising the malls occasionally to do some shopping, sometimes with one of her friends from work."

"Naoko?" Linna nodded in reply. "My condolences," Priss said dryly. She'd heard about how talkative Naoko could be, mostly from Bert. A quick grin sped across Linna's face.

"She's not all that bad," the trim dancer briefly defended the ADP officer. "At least she was concerned enough about Nene to privately ask me if I knew whether everything was okay or not."

"So she could report back to the gossip-mongers most likely," Priss snorted, then smiled ruefully. "Sorry. I'm glad Nene's feeling better, I felt ... feel kinda ... uncomfortable around her at the moment, so I haven't seen her much."

"Afraid she hates you?"

"It's not a question of fear," Priss shot back defensively. "I'm going out with the guy she dated for nearly three years...how would you feel in that situation?! Damn it, she's still a friend, I hope, and I don't want to ... to seem like I'm rubbing it in or something. She's been through enough as it is."

"Well you can't avoid her forever," Linna sighed. "Especially not when we're working. Maybe you should try talking to her a bit more often; that might thaw some of the ice."

"I can't think of a way to do it that won't sound contrived," the brown-haired singer replied glumly, kicking at the mat as she stared down at it. "We never really hung out together that often, not outside the Sabers anyway, and it's going to look phony if I start trying now."

"I've got an idea," Linna stated, a slow smile spreading across her face. "It'll get everyone together actually, and it won't sound contrived in the slightest."

"Tell me," Sylia sighed, glancing up from the blueprints displayed on the LCD screen her desktop contained; silvery schematics glowed brightly on the black screen. "Do you know what the term 'over-design' means?"

"Yeah," Bert replied, puzzled. "Usually it means taking the worst-case scenario into account, and designing enough extra capacity into a system to be able to handle something worse than the worst case. Why?" He picked up his mug from where it was perched on the corner of the desk and took a swig of coffee.

"Because you've taken that concept and liberally applied it to your hardsuit," Sylia informed him. "Almost excessively so in some cases." She glanced down at the schematics again, shaking her head. "For example, you've got enough sensor packages in here to nearly rival Nene's hardsuit. Is that really necessary?"

"I like being able to see things," he retorted defensively. "What is this, an audit?!"

"Of sorts," she nodded, brushing some stray hair out of her eyes. "Up until recently, I haven't had the time to pay attention to the suit designs as much as I would have liked to." That, and the fact that until her injured shoulder had completely healed from their last mission, her uncle had flatly refused to let her work at all. Overprotective hadn't even begun to describe the way he'd fussed over her ever since that last outing. She quickly shook off the mild irritation that nudged at her at the memory; she wasn't a child anymore, and she wished he'd remember that occasionally.

"Now that I've got the time," she continued, "I've been working on some redesign concepts. However," she shook her head again, "I suppose I should have kept a closer eye on what you were up to, regardless of how busy I was."

"I'd like to point out that you did say I was free to modify my suit when improvements came along."

"Yes, but I didn't expect you to turn your suit into that much of a weapons platform," she pointed out. "Defensive upgrades are all well and good, but is it really necessary to be carrying quite so much ordnance?"

"GENOM certainly thinks so," he replied stiffly. "Those new A-12s are easily equal or superior to me in firepower, especially because of those Gatling cannons they're carrying."

"But we're not GENOM, and we're not trying to match them one-on-one," she parried. "We're a team. And mobility can count for a lot more than raw firepower."

"You're not seriously suggesting I take some of my stuff out of my suit, are you?!" Bert stared at her incredulously.

"Not all of it, no," she sighed. "But scaling back some things wouldn't kill you. You're not supposed to be a one-man army, you know. You're fast approaching the point where your suit just will not be able to handle the energy demands from all of the weaponry systems you're trying to mount."

"But..." his voice trailed off as his mind fought to come up with logical arguments for leaving his suit the way it was. Most of the reasons he could come up with weren't based on any fact other than the one that he felt unarmed at the idea of trimming his weapons down.

"There's also a practical reason for downsizing your hardware," Sylia informed him. Pausing, she took a sip from her own glass of orange juice nearby. "What are you going to do if you have a power failure?"

"Panic."

"That's one option, I suppose," Sylia's lips quirked in a faint smile. "I meant more that in your case in particular, if your motive systems lose power, you're going to be a sitting duck. Our suits can still move fairly easily if they have power problems. You, on the other hand, will find yourself carrying almost two-hundred pounds of bulky armour. You may be in good shape, but not that good, my friend. Your suit needs to lose some weight."

"I'm trying to find some lighter alloys and other materials," he told her, "but I'm having problems finding ones that can take the pounding . And I haven't had a power failure except after getting really chewed up in a fight," he pointed out.

"Your hardsuit is a linked set of complex mechanical, electrical, and electronic systems; failures will happen at some point in time," Sylia said sternly. "I'm sorry if it offends your engineering ego for someone to say that about one of your creations, but it's the plain truth."

"I'm not totally blind to the possibility of system failure due to normal, non-combat functioning," Bert gritted, his teeth clenched and fires flashing in his eyes. "And this isn't about my 'engineering ego'. I've gotten used to that suit, and the way I fight in it. My combat style uses the fact that it's bulky and armed to the bloody teeth; if I have to change styles now, I'm going to run into problems in a fight. It takes time to adapt to different equipment, time we can't afford right now, especially not with our recent job offers and the increased number of boomer incidents lately."

Sylia sat back in her chair, reluctantly conceding his point. He did indeed tailor his fighting style to his hardsuit construction; despite Linna's sometimes intense tutelage, his combat technique was still basically armoured, no-holds-barred brawling. By and large his offensive strategy was based on over-powering whatever he encountered with weapons or raw strength. In a way, it was an ironic situation to find herself in: arguing the need for less weaponry with someone who originally had been worried that he was carrying too much firepower

He was also right about the time factor; with boomer rampages maintaining a steady flow, they couldn't afford the time it would take for someone to relearn how to fight in a different suit. And with several recent lucrative job offers under consideration, she was reluctant to have anyone at less than their best.

"All right," she sighed. "We don't have to strip everything out, but I do have some suggestions I'd like you to at least consider."

"Okay," he grumbled, his mouth twitching irritably into a grimace. "I'll take a look at them. Don't expect miracles though."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied dryly. She considered him thoughtfully for a moment. His gaze lifted to meet hers, and trepidation filled his face as she continued to silently study him.

"Uh, Sylia? Why are you looking at me like that?" he finally asked, fidgeting nervously.

"I'm trying to decide if you can take more bad news."

"Why not?" He threw up his hands in resignation. "Give it to me now; that way I can stew about it and get it over with."

"I think it's time we also called a stop to your constant upgrading of the suits," she informed him quietly. "Piecemeal upgrading of the armour whenever the latest innovation comes along is just asking for something to malfunction when we can't afford it." She held up a hand, forestalling him before he could protest. "I know you're doing it because you think it's your responsibility to make sure we have the best protection possible, but it isn't. The final responsibility for the suit designs is mine, not yours."

"But..."

"I appreciate the concern," she told him, trying to soften the blow a bit with a smile. "Really I do, but you're also unintentionally complicating things for me when I try working on the suits myself." She sighed, and shifted around a bit in her chair. "I was doing a systems check the other day on Linna's suit, for example, and I found some circuits I couldn't identify at first. It wasn't until I checked in your sets of blueprints that I found out you'd modified the controls on her knuckle-bomber systems. I shouldn't have to double-check everything to make sure I know what's been done to the systems, and I particularly shouldn't have to look for changes outside the master documentation records."

A slightly injured silence fell over the office as Sylia picked up her glass and took another sip of juice. She watched Bert over the rim of her glass for a moment, noting his expression. He was trying to maintain an expressionless mask, but there were vague traces of confused hurt flickering in his eyes, and one hand was tightly clamped on the armrest of his chair.

"It's not that you've done anything wrong," she gently assured him, setting her glass down. "I suppose I'm partly to blame myself; I was too busy at other things to give my full attention to the suits. I don't want you to stop inventing things when you get ideas, I just need to have the final say in what gets added to the hardsuits." She sighed again. "And besides, we literally can't afford constant upgrades; we don't have unlimited capital at our disposal, no matter what it might seem like. All right?"

"Fine," he ground out reluctantly after several long moments. "I'll stop with the upgrades." Sylia could hear his disgruntlement despite his effort to mask it, but let it pass without comment. She knew how much he genuinely enjoyed puttering with the suits, but it was time to start exercising some of her command authority in order to bring the technology race back under control. At least that way, she'd have a better idea of what was going on.

"I will still want your input on some new suit designs I'm considering," she told him. "But they won't need to be built for some time yet." She noted that his expression thawed a bit at her words; no matter what his current mood might be, the mention of new designs was enough to get his mind off of whatever was annoying him. The technophile in him wouldn't let him stay grouchy for long.

"Okay, okay," Bert sighed. His hardheaded practicality wouldn't let him entertain a grudge, especially not when he could see the sense in her arguments. Well, if she didn't want him upgrading the suits, maybe he could play with the motoroids...

Reaching out, Sylia tapped a finger on the viewscreen in front of her, startling him from his reverie and drawing his attention to the new schematics that had flashed onto the screen.

"Now about these motoroid systems here...."

Then again, he sighed to himself as he looked at the plans and listened to his boss, maybe not.

THREE DAYS LATER ....

"I want results," Madigan icily informed the person at the other end of the line. "Not excuses. You led us to believe that you could contact Hollister again. That is the only reason you are still breathing. Don't force us to re-evaluate what there is of your position."

"But I told you already," Stryker's voice whined in her ear, "I can't force him to respond to messages left at the contact points. Even if he does become interested, there's no guarantee it'll be him personally."

"Think of a way to persuade him to check it out himself," she ordered tersely, her grip tightening angrily on the telephone receiver. "You claimed to know something of his business dealings; use that knowledge to flush him out. And I suggest you do it soon...our patience is wearing thin."

Madigan slammed the receiver down disgustedly, cutting off the fixer's sniveling reply. The doctor had been right about his mental condition; the man had turned into a groveling coward. Of course, if she'd been patient, they could have waited until Stryker had recovered a bit more first...

Kate irritably sloughed that thought off with an irritated toss of her head, the motion sending a wave rippling through her long lavender hair. They couldn't afford to wait; Hollister was a serious threat, one that had to be stomped on at the earliest possible opportunity. She knew only too well what the arrogant bastard was capable of. The Chairman might know the facts of what had happened, but he'd never met Hollister, never had to deal with the smug, condescending...

The loud crack of something snapping jerked her from the haze of churning fury she'd been unconsciously sinking into. Glancing down at her hands, she found that they, as well as her desktop, were covered in dark blue ink. Luckily, no reports had been underneath the luckless fountain pen she'd been holding, or else they'd have been ruined.

Growling at herself for her loss of control, she grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on her desk and tried to wipe off her hands, pitching the ruined pen into the wastebasket. Reaching over to the phone, she tabbed the intercom button and ordered her executive assistant to get somebody into her office to clean up the mess, and to forward a memo to the procurement department about buying cheap pens.

Rising slowly from her seat, careful not to touch her clothes or anything else, she walked across her office to the small private washroom adjoining it, and spent several minutes cleaning herself up. Her normally calm features looking like a thundercloud, she stalked back to her desk and sat down behind it, noting that the mess had disappeared and a fresh pen had been placed in the center of the desk.

After a few more moments, she managed to restore her composure somewhat. Such a loss of control was unforgivable, and she resolved to prevent it from happening again. In the privacy of her office it could at least be concealed; if it happened when she was in the Chairman's office, such a serious loss of face would undermine her position with him. So far, he hadn't indicated that he was displeased with her, but he very rarely let even his closest subordinates know the entire truth of their position...until it was too late.

The coldly beautiful exec leaned back in her chair, brooding. She was positive that her position was secure; she'd proven beyond any doubt that she was loyal to the company, and Quincy in particular. But there was still enough flexibility for someone in the command hierarchy to supersede her, or at least equal her. And the last thing she wanted was a rival.

The surest way to make certain of her future was to show Quincy some quick results on the Hollister affair. Although she literally saw red whenever she thought of the blond creep, if she could deal with it with something like her old efficiency, the Chairman's misgivings might be silenced.

With a grim smile, she reached out and picked up the phone again.

"Watch the power feed to the linkages," Doc directed, checking some of the figures jotted down on the notepad he held in one hand. "If the fluctuation goes over 2%, shut the damn thing down immediately; we can't risk burned circuits."

"Understood," the youthful technician replied, nodding. Doc divided one last glance between his notepad and the control readouts, then moved down the walkway, giving some last-minute instructions to the rest of the scattered techs at their posts. With the preparations finished, he carefully climbed down the short metal ladder to the ground level of the room; his agility wasn't the greatest anymore, and his bones ached enough some days without having to add broken ones to the effects of old age.

With a weary sigh, he stuffed his notebook into a voluminous front pocket on his rumpled lab coat, and began walking towards the central focus of the two-tiered room: the large hydraulic platform supporting the recumbent form of their new battlemover model. His mouth tightened slightly in distaste as he drew closer to the vast heap of wiring, actuators, and red-grey armour plating. As he approached, a muffled and choked sobbing noise slowly became audible.

Damn, but I hate this project. The thought briefly surfaced in his mind before he could stuff it back into hiding. He couldn't afford regrets, not now. He'd gone too far to ever hope there was a way out.

His face wooden, the elderly scientist climbed the steps leading up to the platform, and walked around the perimeter, coming to the cavity in the chest of the war machine. Armour plating and internal mechanisms jutted towards the ceiling, poised to snap closed over the hole in the machine's body. The muffled sobbing came intermittently from the interior of the large machine, where the body of a young woman being held down by metallic straps could be seen.

Doc stared soberly into the interior of the battlemover, watching wordlessly as the young woman strained periodically at her bonds, trying to escape the inevitable. Ever since she'd been captured, she hadn't ceased her attempts to escape, and they had become even more frantic since she'd learned what was planned for her. It hadn't done her any good.

The old man sighed and pulled his pipe out of a pocket, stuffing it full of tobacco and lighting it. Hollister didn't like him smoking around his pet projects, but Hollister be damned; he needed something to try and soothe what was feeling more and more like second thoughts. A bit of smoke wouldn't melt any circuits.

Leaning against the railing, Doc puffed quietly away as he stared at the sexaroid imprisoned inside the battlemover. It certainly looked human, although maybe just a little too perfect in terms of fullness of figure. There was no outward sign that it was anything but what it looked like: a very attractive young woman.

He knew from his own work however that underneath its skin was a lightweight composite skeleton, myomer musculature, and several biotechnological systems that very closely approximated the operations of the analogous organs in the human body. In fact, the systems incorporated into a sexaroid probably represented the future of prosthetics for human patients with diseases or damaged major organs. They were, after all, organic in nature. The 33-S series in particular required human blood for general operation, and repair of serious injuries to their systems. It shouldn't be a great extension to design similar ....

Doc irritably yanked his mind off that line of inquiry; there was very little chance he'd ever be able to return to his old life of cybernetic and biotechnological research, no matter how much the possibilities excited him. Dwelling on it would only depress him further with lost opportunities.

All right, so it was a machine. Then why the hell was hearing some machine sobbing in a pretty good approximation of utter despair unsettling him so much?! He chewed contemplatively on his pipestem as his eyes roved unseeingly over the open mechanism in front of him.

The problem was that the emotional responses he'd seen from the 33-S boomers he'd encountered lately had thrown doubt on the idea that they were 'just a machine'. Well ... in his mind anyway. His associate didn't appear to have any doubts on the subject. To him, the 33-S was an expensive wind-up toy with some useful features.

Doc had run into some pretty sophisticated AI technology in his time, but none of it had ever come close to approximating the reactions he'd seen from the sexaroids. They responded exactly the way a normal human woman might respond if thrust into the same situations, even down to the point of having hysterics. One that he'd encountered had even showed the symptoms of the severe trauma normally exhibited by rape victims, and no emotional emulation software he'd ever seen had been that good. The old scientist suddenly found himself wondering uneasily if there was perhaps more to the equation than had first appeared.

There were personality overlays of course; GENOM had perfected a process for scanning someone's brain patterns and duplicating them in a boomer's AI and body. Although that particular little innovation was kept under tight secrecy, it was common knowledge to some people, and guessed at by others. Could that be how the sexaroids were made to be more human-like than standard boomers? And what had happened to the original subjects that had been scanned?

The old scientist re-packed and re-lit his pipe, adding to the blue-grey haze that was slowly expanding out from where he was leaning. Whoever the original subjects had been, it was doubtful that any 33-S using such a template was still the same as the original person, mentally speaking; they'd have been exposed to a much different environment, and it was a person's experiences that shaped their personality. The sexaroids were self-aware, and were undoubtedly affected the same way by whatever they'd endured.

There was the possibility that they weren't merely personality templates. Doc uneasily recalled some vague reference he'd come across once, indicating that there was a biotechnological method for duplicating the human brain and nervous system, with all memories and experiences intact. The only drawbacks were that when the process was completed, the original human body was dead, and there were no guarantees that the new boomer wouldn't be insane as a result of the process. A highly illegal field of endeavor, it had been abandoned early on...supposedly. 33-S series boomers did have a mostly organic brain, supplemented by microchips and circuitry. It wasn't impossible then that ...

Doc snorted to himself, chiding his imagination for getting carried away. Considering the rather carnal reasons that the sexaroids had originally been created, he doubted that anybody would utilize a process that expensive just for the purpose of producing some cheap thrills. He sighed, causing a large plume of blue smoke to roll forth. All that thought and analysis, and he still couldn't say why he was unsettled.

"Doesn't really matter," he muttered aloud, partly to himself, and partly to the helpless occupant of the battlemover a few feet away. "We're both trapped by circumstances."

"You always talk to yourself, Doc?" Hollister's voice inquired coolly from somewhere outside the smoke cloud around the old scientist. Only long practice kept him from jumping in startlement.

"It's the best way to get an agreeable opinion," Doc replied calmly, smirking around his pipestem as Hollister came into view, pipesmoke curling around him. The old scientist's mind raced as he studied the cold visage of the blond man. Had he really overheard what he'd said? Did he suspect anything? Damn it, he was getting old if he was going to start musing out loud!

"True, I suppose." Hollister's chuckle had a slight edge to it. "So what are you doing up here?"

"Monitoring the system checks," Doc shrugged. "Somebody has to nursemaid the techs if they get in over their heads." For the thousandth time, he wished Hollister wasn't so damn hard to read. "No problems so far."

"Good," the blue-suited man replied with unmistakable satisfaction. "How about the GD-45? Will it be ready on time?"

"Yep." Doc nodded, sucking on his pipe and finding that it had gone out. "By the end of next week you should be able to go on your little hunting expedition."

Priss pulled away from him slightly, breathing heavily. Looking up into his face, she brushed a gloved hand across his forehead, sweeping his hair back out of his eyes.

"That was some kiss," she noted breathily. "Your day go that well?" With her free hand, she reached up and pulled off the blond wig she was still wearing, tossing it in the general direction of the table and stand where it normally sat; a soft thump, followed by the sounds of various bottles and other paraphernalia falling over indicated success of a sort. The attractive singer was still clad in her revealing leather stage costume, having just completed another concert set; the cheering and applause from the enthusiastic audience had finally died off, allowing relative quiet to return to the backstage rooms. She placed her arms around her lover again, holding him close as she waited for a reply.

"It wasn't the greatest day I've had," Bert admitted with a sigh, his gaze briefly flicking around her dressing room before coming back to her. It had become something of a ritual for them since they'd started going out together: after a performance, they'd meet backstage and go into her dressing room for a quick - or not so quick in some cases - kiss. "I had to spend all morning fixing one of the floor tracks for the archery targets; some inept jackass put an arrow into the track itself and buggered up the retraction mechanism. How the hell could someone miss the target that badly?!" he fumed.

"You poor baby," Priss commiserated, hugging him a bit tighter and kissing him in consolation. His arms tightened around her in return as he responded in kind, and the room was silent for a few moments. "Not everyone has your exalted skill at archery, you know," she reminded him when they parted finally. "And accidents happen. Do you know who did it?"

"No," he growled disgustedly. "If I had, I'd have made them help me fix the damn thing."

"That's probably why they didn't tell you when it happened." A wry smile quirked at one corner of her mouth. "You should see the look on your face right now; 'pissed-off' doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Sorry." He tried to smooth his expression out, and achieved moderate success.

"That's a little better," she approved, reaching up and patting his cheek gently. "You've only mentioned the morning; what happened this afternoon?"

"I had to spend several hours dismantling parts of my suit," he replied sourly.

"But I thought you liked working on your suit?" Priss asked, frowning.

"Not when I have to strip stuff off of the damn thing."

"Strip off?" she repeated. "As in 'take out'?"

"And the lady wins the prize," he sighed. "Yup, I had to take a few things out and scale back a bit on my weapons. Sylia doesn't think I need all the hardware I've been carrying."

"What the hell?! Since when did Sylia start thinking we have too much hardware?!"

"Since she's had the time to check over the designs. I'm also supposed to stop upgrading everyone's suit whenever I feel like it, so she can keep track of what's been added and when." He grimaced sourly. "I suppose I can see her point, but I still hate taking stuff out of my suit; now I feel like I'm undressed or something."

"Undressed, huh?" she murmured with a lazy smile, raising an eyebrow suggestively as she trailed her fingers lightly down the side of his face and neck. He flushed and pulled away slightly, not seeing Priss's grin.

"So what did you have to take out?" she asked.

"Nothing too major, I guess. Some sensor packages I really didn't need, and my solid fuel boosters mainly. The armour plating needed to be trimmed down a bit; I guess I'd gone a bit overboard with the thickness in some places, and I had more than I needed."

"If it wasn't anything major, then why are you standing there looking like you've been robbed?" she queried him, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"Because I didn't need to do it," he snapped peevishly. "I've never had anything malfunction yet, and I prefer to be equipped for every possibility. So what if my armour is heavier than everyone else's?! I..." He caught himself before he could start ranting, and sighed deeply again. "Sorry; didn't mean to snap."

"That's okay," the brown-haired singer assured him, recognizing the traces of a bruised ego when she saw one. "I understand." Somewhat, her mind added silently. She didn't understand the more esoteric suit workings herself, and didn't really want to. She knew enough to keep her suit systems up and running during a fight, and as long as they worked perfectly while she pounded on boomers, she was happy. Her lover, on the other hand, wasn't as carefree; he put a lot of effort into the suits, especially his own. It had become an extension of himself rather than a piece of equipment, and in some convoluted and obscure way she could tell that he felt that the order to revamp his suit equated with a personal criticism of some kind.

She sighed to herself as she looked at him; holding him the way she was, she could feel the slightly angry tension that was still riding him. If he was going to be any kind of bearable company tonight she needed to get his mind off his supposed problems. Well, there was one way that had worked in the past...

Priss slid one hand up his back to the back of his neck, and pulled him down towards her as she stretched up and kissed him. Her lips melted into his as his arms pulled her a bit closer. As she held him in a passionate embrace, she slowly felt the tension leak out of him. A faint, triumphant smile tugged at the corners of her lips for a moment before she devoted her full attention to him again. After a few long, very enjoyable moments, she pulled back to catch her breath.

"That...was...fantastic," he rasped. She noted with satisfaction that he looked a little glassy-eyed as he tried to get his own breath back. After a moment he succeeded, and smiled down at her. "You really are beautiful."

"I know," she admitted deadpan. "It's one of my many charms." She grinned impishly at him as he laughed.

"Modest, too," he noted lightly, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I think you've been spending too much time around me."

"That's a possibility," she conceded blandly. "Want me to stay away?"

"Never!" She found herself seized in a tight hug again as she was soundly kissed.

"I'd better get changed," she told him, glancing at the wall clock. "We're not going to have a chance to get dinner if we don't get out of here soon."

"Okay, okay," he sighed, reluctantly releasing her and stepping back. "I'll wait outside."

"Lipstick first," she reminded him with a grin. He flushed, and irritably wiped off his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. "We'll have to see if we can't find a colour that looks good on you," she teased him. "That way you won't have to worry about wiping it off when ..."

"Just never mind," he warned her. She chuckled and patted his cheek roguishly before turning towards her makeup table.

"You know," Priss glanced slyly over her shoulder at him as she pulled off her gloves. "I can't understand why you've never taken me up on my suggestion that you help me change." She smirked as he blushed uncomfortably; in some ways he hadn't changed, and she hoped he never did. He wouldn't be nearly as much fun to tease if that happened.

"There's a time and a place for everything," he told her, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her. As she tilted her head back to look at him, he kissed her softly on the lips. "And this definitely isn't the place for something like that. I'll meet you outside." Giving her one last light, lingering kiss, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Spoilsport," she muttered, then smiled to herself and started changing her clothes.

Nene sighed in relief as she shambled wearily through the door to her apartment, pitching her purse carelessly across the small foyer of her cubbyhole to land on the couch. Closing the door behind her, she shrugged off her uniform jacket while trying to step out of her boots at the same time, nearly ending up in a heap on the floor as her balance wavered. Grabbing at the wall to remain upright, she finally got her jacket off and hung it up. Sighing again, she padded towards the couch, flopping on it lengthwise as she loosened her uniform tie.

She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting the silence of her surroundings soak into her and replace the tension from the long shift she'd just completed. There were days she genuinely enjoyed her job, and then there were days when she could quite cheerfully shoot half of her co-workers, today being a prime example. She was positive that she'd gone through several reams of paper just to complete reports that others hadn't seen fit to finish off. Given her own neat-and-tidy tendencies, having to clean up someone else's mess grated on her, especially when it was due to laziness on their part. The fact that it had done nothing but add to her own workload had stretched her normally cheerful demeanor to the breaking point; if she hadn't gotten off work when she had, she was positive that she'd have snapped.

Nene stretched luxuriantly on the couch for a moment, weighing her options for the night. First on the list was a nice long, hot bath. She'd worry about keeping busy after that. Standing up, she walked over to her bathroom, closing the door behind her.

An hour or so later found her comfortably snuggled on her couch in her favourite fuzzy bathrobe with a mug of hot chocolate keeping her company as she drowsily watched TV. Her mind wasn't really on the newscast that was showing though, instead just aimlessly wandering from thought to unrelated thought. The notion briefly surfaced that maybe she should do something other than just sit there, but she couldn't even summon up the ambition to move right now.

Part of the problem was lingering depression. Even though it had been a little more than two months now that she'd broken up with Bert, she still found herself longing for some way to patch things back together with him. It wasn't until they'd stopped seeing each other that she'd realized just how lonely she was. Linna and Naoko's efforts to keep her active and entertained had certainly helped keep her from totally collapsing emotionally, but it couldn't replace the sudden hole that had been left by nearly three years of being together. She felt it more at night than any other time.

Nene took a gulp of her hot chocolate, trying to alleviate the sudden soreness of her throat as tears stung the edges of her eyes. The ache was still there, even though she tried not to think about it, the dull pain from what felt like a portion of herself being ripped away. She couldn't really blame it on anyone other than herself, no matter how much she might have wanted to; the root causes of their breakup had been born out of misunderstanding and hurt.

She flushed guiltily as she remembered some of her thoughts and actions at the time, and spent a moment or so mentally lashing herself for acting so irresponsibly. The damage had already been done however, so it was a pointless exercise. If she wanted to move on, she was going to have to put it behind her, and at least try and forgive herself.

With a sigh the red-haired young woman stood up from the couch, hitting the switch on the remote control to turn off her TV. Silence fell over the small apartment as she shuffled into the kitchenette and rinsed out her mug, leaving it sitting in the sink. Flicking off the lights, she yawned and went off to bed.

FOUR DAYS LATER ....

A knock on the door distracted Bert's attention from the novel he'd been intently reading, and he closed the book with a slightly irritated sigh. Setting it aside, he pulled off his reading glasses, tossing them on top of the book as he stood up. Massaging the bridge of his nose, he walked across the room to his apartment door, opening it as another knock sounded.

"Hi!" Linna greeted him brightly, dropping her hand as the door swung inwards. "Got a minute?"

"Sure, come on in," he replied, smiling. "Want a cup of coffee or something?" he asked as he stepped back.

"That'd be fantastic." She gave him a grateful smile as she shut the door. "It was a long day today, and I could sure use a boost from something hot." He noted that she was wearing a track suit over her spandex exercise outfit, and had a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. As always, her hair was tucked neatly under a brightly coloured headband.

"Make yourself comfortable then, and I'll get the coffee," he told her, turning and walking over to his kitchen area. A few minutes later, he set a steaming mug in front of her on the coffee table, placing the sugar and cream within easy reach. Taking a swig from his own mug, he carefully sat back down in his chair.

"Oh, this is heavenly!" Linna sighed blissfully, taking a slow, appreciative draught of her drink. "We were so busy today, I didn't even have time for lunch."

"Another show coming up?"

"No, half the people at work are down with the flu or something," Linna made a face. "That means everybody's got to fill in here and there for someone else; I got shanghaied into helping move props around all morning, and then in the afternoon I had to grind everyone through the practice routines."

"You look like you survived," Bert commented mildly, stifling a grin. Linna snorted.

"I wasn't doing the full routines myself," she informed him. "They're too complicated for my leg to take yet, and the doctor threatened to break my other leg for me if I tried anything even remotely like that yet...."

"Sounds familiar," he muttered to himself.

"...so I basically spent all afternoon watching everyone else," she finished, sighing and taking another drink.

"Isn't that what choreographers are supposed to do though?" he asked. "I mean, I thought you had to watch everyone to make sure they're in the right spots and so forth."

"That is a large part of what I do," Linna admitted. "But I still like to go through the routines with the rest of the dancers at least once; if I can do them, then they can't say that I don't know what I'm asking them to do." She gave him an impish grin, then sighed and looked sour. "But until the doctor says it's okay, I can't do anything except simple warm-up routines."

"I still don't see why you're complaining," he noted with a sly grin. "At least you got some fun out of barking commands at your trainees." Linna shot him a glance that spoke volumes about her tolerance for smart remarks at the moment, and his grin widened.

"So what brings you down to the catacombs?" he queried, deciding a subject change might be the wiser course. "If you're looking for Priss, she's not due back from her rehearsal for a while yet."

"No, I saw her yesterday," Linna shook her head. "I had a favour to ask of you."

"Shoot." He took another slurp from his mug, watching her over the rim.

"Can we borrow your kitchen next week?"

"My kitchen?!" Bert echoed, his eyebrows hitting his hairline in surprise. "What for?!"

"Well..." Linna hesitated. "Will you swear to keep absolutely quiet about this?"

"Linna!" Bert looked wounded. "You should know by now that I can keep my mouth shut about some things. What's going on that's got to be so secret?"

"We're giving Sylia a surprise birthday party next week," Linna told him. "And it won't be a surprise if you walk around until then with that idiot grin plastered all over your face," she added crossly.

"Sorry," Bert pulled his face straight. "So you want to make a cake down here and then take it up?"

"We're going to make the whole dinner down here," Linna corrected him. "Your apartment is out of the way, so Sylia shouldn't see any of our comings and goings while we're getting everything ready. We'll pick up the ingredients ourselves, and then whip everything together."

"Just a second...who's 'we'?" Bert asked, a sudden alarm bell ringing in the back of his mind as visions of something exploding in his apartment flared up.

"Priss, myself, Nene, and maybe Anri and Sylvie," Linna told him, unknowingly confirming a part of the suspicions that his sudden dread had been based on. "Why?"

Bert floundered in a mental quandary for a few seconds as he tried to frame a reply. Of the group of people she'd just mentioned, the inclusion of one person in particular worried him the most: Priss. Since they'd started their relationship, he'd learned at least one thing about her that he'd never really considered before: her skills in the kitchen weren't the greatest.

He supposed it was partly that she'd never had the opportunity to really learn how to do more than simple cooking. During his stint at university, he'd had ample opportunity to test his culinary skills, learned from watching his mom, and had achieved moderate success. Maybe it hadn't always been picture-perfect, but it had been edible at least. Priss hadn't had those kinds of opportunities, and as a result was limited to easily prepared foods. If it came from a can or was microwaveable, she could handle it.

A slight wave of guilt went through him at that thought; it wasn't Priss's fault, after all, and she did try hard....but it was the occasional results of the trying that gave him the jitters. He knew now a part of the reason why she ate out at fast food joints so often: less of a mess to clean up afterwards, and no risk of something exploding while heating. Of course, to be fair, her trailer really didn't have enough space for a real kitchen....

"Hello? Earth to Bert?" Linna's voice intruded on his thoughts. "Are you still with me?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," he shook his head slightly, mildly irritated at himself for letting his mind wander.

"So why did you want to know who's going to be in on this?" Linna asked again. "Afraid something might happen?"

"Well...yes, frankly," he said uncomfortably, squirming in his chair. "I'm not really worried about you or Nene, but I don't even know if Anri or Sylvie has been near a kitchen before, and Priss sometimes has a few...difficulties... with cooking."

"I promise I'll keep an eye on them," Linna assured him. "If they make a mess, I'll make sure that it gets cleaned up."

"Well..." he hesitated for a long moment, then heaved a deep sigh. "All right, I guess you can use the kitchen," he told her. "Just don't blow anything up, okay?"

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," she told him with an angelic smile, then collapsed into helpless giggling.

Somehow, that didn't exactly reassure him.

The late night hum of activity in the ADP offices was muted as everyone quietly worked on their assignments. For some of the officers, it provided a welcome break from the hectic daytime grind; boomer incidents never seemed to happen at three o'clock in the morning, and the paperwork somehow didn't seem quite as pressing.

Nene stifled a yawn as she saved the file she was working on, then logged out of the ADP database. She stretched wearily as she glanced at the wall clock, heaving a sigh as it told her she still had another three hours to go before her shift ended. Three hours...and she'd already completed her assigned workload. She could ask around and see if anyone needed help with anything, but she didn't really feel like it at the moment.

The slender red head looked around the office, stifling another yawn. She really hated shift changes; while she could adjust to working night shifts after a couple of days, the transition period always made her feel tired and worn out. However, there wasn't much she could do about it; she didn't have the luxury of being able to pick when she could work.

After a few minutes of contemplative staring at her patiently waiting terminal, Nene decided to do some poking around in the records databases. One of her Knight Saber duties was to keep Sylia appraised of any interesting tidbits of information that might pass through the ADP's hands, but lately she hadn't had the time or the opportunity to fulfill those particular duties.

The youthful hacker cast a furtive glance around the office again; it was quiet enough at the moment that nobody would likely notice what databases she was accessing. The last thing she needed right now was to answer awkward questions about why she was in data files that she really didn't have the proper clearance to access.

Satisfied that nobody was about to come over to her desk, she quickly accessed the occurrences files, skimming through them and looking for anything that might be either interesting, or out of the ordinary. All of the boomer incident reports were unremarkable, and there didn't appear to be any GENOM-related investigations going on. All in all, an utterly fruitless effort.

Nene sighed disgustedly, irritably blowing a forelock of hair out of her eyes as she stared at her computer screen. What else was there to search? She'd covered the usual databases she investigated for Sylia, and she hadn't been given any other instructions.

She hummed tunelessly to herself for a moment as she considered her options. Her file-sifting hadn't taken nearly as long as she'd have liked it to, and she still had almost two hours before quitting time. Reaching up, she loosened her tie a bit, and then hunched over her keyboard. A minute or two of clattering keys later, and she'd accessed yet another database.

Nene flipped through file after file in rapid succession, checking for anything curious. She didn't normally check the MegaTokyo Spaceport Authority files, but there was the chance that GENOM might be routing some of their 'research material' out to Genaros, where they could experiment without fear of intervention. Genaros was pretty much owned by the corporate conglomerate after all...

A file flicked past her view, and she stopped, her curiosity piqued as she saw the word 'kidnapping' go flashing past. Scrolling back in the list, she found the file again and started reading it. The details were extremely sketchy, but it appeared that a group of armed men had grabbed a female station worker and escaped with her in a stolen cargo shuttle. That was it; no identity on the armed men, and no identity on the kidnap victim.

Nene frowned as she stared at the file, her every investigative instinct telling her that something was wrong with that report. Stolen space vehicles were big news, but not even a whisper of a theft from the space station had hit the local networks. The only way that could happen was if somebody very powerful was squelching any evidence that anything had happened. The question was, why? Why would someone want to conceal the theft?

The frown creasing the young woman's brow deepened as green eyes stared intently at the file, as if trying to will an answer to appear. The last time a space vehicle incident had occurred on Genaros, it had turned out to be a shuttle carrying illegal armaments, the D.D. Battlemover in particular. There were no indications in the file that the shuttle had been anything but empty, however.

Nene chewed contemplatively on her lower lip as she again slowly scanned through the file. She found it very odd that the kidnapping victim wasn't identified in the report beyond a physical description; it was almost like whoever was writing the report didn't care about one woman being snatched from her duties. Nene's eyes widened as she abruptly remembered the other after-effects of the Orca's crash landing: the spate of 'vampire murders' that had stirred the city into a near panic. What if the woman who'd been snatched wasn't a normal human?

Mind racing, Nene looked furtively around the office again. Nobody appeared to be about to come over to her area, so she turned back to her terminal, and carefully started accessing the personnel files for the space facility. There was the chance that the woman who'd been kidnapped was a sexaroid, and if that was the case, then there were several reasons for keeping it quiet. The first and likely foremost reason would be that GENOM wouldn't want the word out that there still were sexaroids around and that they were, ahem, utilizing them in some of their operations. The second reason would be to prevent a city-wide panic at the news of a renegade boomer being loose, especially one that might require human blood to stay alive.

The third possibility was that if the kidnapped woman was a sexaroid, she might possess the necessary hardware for superweapon linkage. There was only one organization she could think of that had revealed open interest in exploiting that aspect of their physiology: Hollister's shadowy group.

Nene shivered slightly as she worked at sidling unnoticed into the Genaros databases, her mind flitting back briefly to the research data Sylia had shown the rest of them before they'd gone out after Hollister. The inhumanity of the re-created battlemover was appalling, and the threat it posed even more so. If they'd managed to acquire a 'pilot', then it was likely that they had a working prototype ready for testing.

The red-haired hacker quickly wiped some sweat from where it was trickling down her forehead as she soothed a watchdog program into believing that she had perfect right to be accessing the files she was opening. The sentinel became quiescent again, and then she was in.

Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, Nene called up the shift duty rosters for the massive space station as she glanced at the clock on the wall: forty-five minutes until she was off-shift. With luck, nothing that required her attention would happen in that time. Mentally crossing her fingers, she began skimming the long lists of names, concentrating on the dates surrounding the kidnapping.

However, even with such a narrow scope, the list remained huge. The young ADP officer could feel time sliding through her fingers like sand as she tried to identify anyone who might have suddenly dropped out of the duty rotation. It was just too much data to try and analyze in a hurry, and she reluctantly conceded defeat...for the moment.

Nene cast a quick glance around as she swiftly downloaded a copy of the files she was interested in; once she'd figured out who the person was that had been kidnapped, it would be relatively easy to get back into Genaros's personnel files and get a copy of her file. Hopefully, the victim's background file would explain why someone had taken an interest in her.

The disk containing her copy of the data files popped briskly from her terminal's drive bay, and she scooped it up and pocketed it. After another rapid check to make sure her file tampering hadn't been detected, the red-haired hacker eased her way out of the systems she'd infiltrated, and then severed her connection to the network.

Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Nene mopped a sleeve across her forehead, leaning back in her chair. She rubbed at her eyes as a wave of weariness swept over her. Despite what many people claimed about hacking, it required some real hard work in order to accomplish, especially to get into the databases she'd just cracked into. The effort and the lateness of her shift almost guaranteed that she was going to sleep like a log when she got home....

"Hey, Nene, going to work a double shift or something?" Naoko's voice intruded on her yawning and stretching. Surprised, she looked up at her brown haired friend, who held out her jacket for her with a grin. "The shift ended about six minutes ago," Naoko added.

"I'm coming!! Just a second!!" The lassitude that had been settling over her quickly evaporated as she jumped up and fished her handbag out from the depths of her desk drawers. Tucking it between her knees, she shrugged into her jacket, at the same time shutting down and turning off her computer. The screen flicked off as the two young women left the office area.

Sylia strolled slowly down the line of storefronts of the massive shopping mall, feigning interest in the window displays of jewelry and the latest fashions. Her own clothing was impeccable, easily equal to or better than some of the so-called 'latest fashions', but her mind was far from such trivial concerns as she walked along, her handbag tucked under one arm.

Annoyance flickered across her face as she glanced around the teeming throng of people crowding the mall. She'd been checking out shops for nearly forty minutes now, and if he didn't show up soon....

"Looking for anything in particular?" A man's voice inquired from behind her, the tone low and confidential. Sylia didn't look behind her, and managed to keep from starting in surprise.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," she replied coolly, adding, "And you're late."

"Sorry, couldn't be helped," he replied, moving up into step beside her. "I had to make sure I wasn't being tailed." She accepted that; one of the reasons he kept changing their meeting places around was his fear of being watched or tailed. Her gaze slanted sideways to take a quick look at him as they walked.

The man was fairly tall and well-built, with blue eyes set in a square-jawed face under messy blond hair. An aura of tough capability seemed to surround him, and he was watching the crowd around them with unceasing vigilance. Sylia was faintly surprised to note that Fargo had actually worn a clean, unwrinkled suit for once, and didn't seem to have a miasma of cigarette smoke and beer odours following him around. He didn't look entirely out of place walking along with her, and she realized that was partly why he'd cleaned up; to remain inconspicuous.

"So," Sylia finally said, again glancing sideways at him as they walked. "Any news?"

"Not really," Fargo replied, his gaze flicking over to someone a few yards away who was reading a newspaper. After a moment, his roving eyes moved on, evaluating everything. Sylia could tell he was wary of something, and wondered if he wasn't becoming a little too paranoid; in his line of work, suspecting everyone kept one cautious, but too much suspicion could cause paralysis. "Still no indications that anyone has taken an undue interest in your friend. My people haven't picked up on anyone tailing him, and they've been watching him around the clock whenever he's not in your building."

"They are keeping out of sight, correct?" Sylia asked, a trifle sharply. "He's edgy enough now that he'd shoot first and talk later."

"They're professionals, Sylia," Fargo said patiently. "They don't make those kind of mistakes." He paused. "Why, has he said anything?"

"No, and I don't think he would now," Sylia answered quietly. "If he thought, even for an instant, that someone following him worked for Hollister, I think he'd likely go hunting them with a gun."

"Just what is his interest in this friend of yours?" Fargo inquired. "Hollister doesn't normally concern himself with civilians, only those in positions of corporate or scientific importance." There was cool curiosity in his eyes as he glanced at her. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"That's really none of your concern. We both have our secrets."

"But if it's something that might get my people killed, I have a right to know, Sylia," Fargo insisted. Inwardly, Sylia sighed; he'd found the only argument that he really could use with her in justifying why he should know more about what was going on. After weighing her options, she decided on an edited version of the truth.

"Hollister captured and interrogated him a while back," she said, lowering her voice to where he could just barely hear her. "He managed to escape before he cracked, and destroyed one of Hollister's bases in the process." Fargo whistled silently at her synopsis.

"I can see why you've wanted surveillance on your friend then," he noted soberly. "Hollister doesn't take any setback well; he's likely still livid over losing a base." Sylia nodded slightly.

"That was my assessment as well," she replied. "And there was an attempt to recapture him a few weeks ago, so you can see why I'm being cautious."

"I take it then that you haven't told him you're having him watched."

"I can't," Sylia replied simply. "He was a while recovering from the torture Hollister put him through, and I'm still not fully certain that he is over it. I don't want to add possible paranoia to his mental hang-ups." Fargo was silent for a moment or two as they strolled along, brooding.

"Your 'friend' is a member of your team then." He said it as a calm statement of fact, rather than a question.

"What makes you say that?" Sylia's voice turned a trifle cooler at his observation. An almost-smile twitched at Fargo's mouth at the tone of her voice.

"I'm not stupid, Sylia," he told her quietly. "The fact that 'SkyKnight' wasn't acting like himself a few weeks ago coupled with this mysterious friend of yours who managed to survive a torture session with a sadistic manipulator leads to a fairly secure conclusion that they're one and the same person. People don't change that much overnight, unless something drastic has happened to them."

"You're entitled to your own opinions," she replied neutrally.

"I'm not about to tell anyone," Fargo sounded a trifle hurt, but she ignored it.

"Let me know when something else comes up," she told him, glancing at him one last time. "See you later." With that, she turned and walked off into the crowd.

Fargo watched her graceful, elegantly-dressed figure vanish into the crowd and sighed wistfully to himself before vanishing into the press of people himself.

The heavy, wood-paneled door swung open, admitting Madigan to her apartment in the GENOM executive complex. She swung the door closed behind herself, locking it, and then allowed herself a slow sigh of relief. For once, a long day had come to a relatively uneventful close.

The lavender-haired executive slipped off her shoes, and then padded across the foyer of her apartment to the main living area, luxuriating in the feel of the plush carpeting against her aching feet. Whoever had invented high-heeled shoes had obviously never had to wear them for extended periods of time, she mused idly. With all the operations she had to oversee during the regular course of her duties, her feet were usually killing her by the end of the day.

She supposed she didn't really have to personally check on some of the matters requiring her attention, but she'd found it easier. When she was confronting someone in person, she'd found that they were less likely to try lying or concealing things from her. If they were attempting a deception of some kind, they were nervous enough when talking to her that she was almost always able to find them out. A useful trait for someone involved in corporate internal security.

Kate set her slim briefcase down on the coffee table situated next to one of the overstuffed couches scattered around the spacious room . Opening it, she extracted a small cellular phone. Flipping it open and hitting a few keys, she programmed it to forward all except critically important calls to her electronic voice mail before placing the small handset over in its charging receptacle on a side table. She didn't really want to be bothered tonight by some of the incompetent twits under her. It was amazing how minor inconsequentialities could suddenly become huge disasters in the eyes of some managers...disasters that, naturally, she was expected to solve.

With an effort, Kate forced the accumulated annoyances of the day from her mind, and walked over to the large bay window of the apartment that overlooked the southeastern portion of the city. Gazing out at the panoramic view, the lavender-haired woman tried to relax. Inevitably though, her mind turned restlessly to considering one of the most pressing problems that had been dogging her lately: how to locate and shut down Ethan Hollister.

All of her pieces were in place; unfortunately, she couldn't seem to locate her adversary. She'd known he was well-connected, but it had never really occurred to her just how well-connected he was. He seemed to have invisible strings to almost all of the interests she'd investigated, and some of those interests were becoming obstructions in her search. She needed leverage, but didn't have any.

That left pinning most of her hopes of locating Hollister on the former fixer, Stryker. An involuntary sneer pulled at the corner of her lips at that thought; the man was a sniveling cur. All of his claims of being able to find her nemesis hadn't produced results. According to his 'guardians', he was spending a lot of time skulking around bars, and knowing what she did of Hollister, Madigan highly doubted that any of his operatives would be frequenting seedy watering holes.

A mental image of a smirking blond man flashed in her mind's eye, and her eyes narrowed angrily as memory took over...

The door to her office swung open as she sat carefully going over the report on the day's test results. Scowling in irritation at the interruption, Kate looked up at the intruder. Her scowl deepened at the sight of the blond-haired man lounging insolently in her doorway. Tall, and wearing a light blue-grey suit, he directed an appraising glance around her office. Finally his gaze came to rest on her, and the faintest trace of a sly smile pulled at his face.

"Ms. Madigan," Ethan Hollister greeted her cordially. "And how are you this afternoon?"

"I'm busy," came the wintry reply. "And I don't appreciate people barging into my office whenever they feel like it, especially independent 'contractors'. What is it?"

"I had something I wanted to discuss with you," he shrugged carelessly, stepping into her office and closing the door behind himself after taking a quick glance down the hallway. "And it's not like you've been easy to get hold of."

"Make it quick then," Madigan closed the report folder in front of her. "I've got a lot to do."

"Still trying to impress the bigshots, huh?" Shaking his head disbelievingly, he strolled across her office and stood gazing out at the buildings across the street. "Hoping to get promoted back to Japan?"

"What I want is none of your business," she told him flatly. Standing up, she smoothed out her skirt and turned to face him, her face hard. "You said you had something to discuss. State it, or get the hell out."

"Or you'll do what?" His face suddenly had a taunting grin on it as he glanced at her. "A junior executive, and a woman at that, complaining about me? They'd laugh you out of the boardroom." Kate glared stonily at him but didn't reply. Even though it thoroughly galled her to admit it, the smug bastard was right; he'd ingratiated himself too well with the board of directors to be threatened by her. He grinned mockingly again, as if divining her thoughts, then turned back to the window, becoming sober again.

"Europe has many opportunities at the moment," he said after a minute, gesturing at the street. "And it's opportunity that I wanted to talk to you about."

"I'm listening," she replied shortly.

"It's been interesting to see this particular aspect of boomer technology develop," he observed, almost idly. "But it's unfortunate that your company can't develop some of the more promising applications."

"I can't discuss classified information with you," she said frostily. "Please leave." He chuckled.

"Your determination is admirable," he complimented her, a crooked smile appearing. "It's almost on a par with your beauty."

"Pardon?!" The utter incongruity of the compliment caught her flat-footed. "I.what did you.what's that supposed to mean?" She retreated a step as Hollister stepped closer, uncomfortably close. His ice-blue eyes bored intently into hers.

"It means exactly what it says," he replied, his voice smooth. "You're attractive and you're no fool, either." Madigan was unable to look away as he continued speaking. "You're extremely thorough, and you've got the knack for isolating and identifying problems. You've got a keen intellect, and when you combine those with your looks, you've got great potential. My organization can use someone like you; you've got ability that's never going to get used here." Fear of something nameless surged through her at the look in his eyes; even though his mouth was smiling, his eyes were as cold as ice fields. She found that she couldn't look away as he stepped right up to her.

"Come with me," his voice was low and hypnotic. "I need you."

"I ... I can't ." she started to deny him, when he leaned forward the last few inches separating them and kissed her on the mouth. A moment later, and she felt his hands on her body. Her hands clenched into fists as she tried shoving him away from her, a muffled noise of protest escaping her.

One of his hands slid from her waist, moving upwards, and she felt him touch her breasts as his other hand started sliding around her back, pulling her closer to him. Anger exploded amidst the confusion and fear in her mind, clearing the paralysis that had gripped her. A sudden surge of strength allowed her to shove him backwards, and for good measure, she rammed a knee at his groin. Hollister swore, staggering backwards and allowing Kate the opportunity to sprint for her desk. Jerking open the top drawer, she grabbed at the gun she kept there. Hollister straightened up as she leveled the slim automatic at him.

"Going to shoot me, Kate?" he asked conversationally. His demeanor was unruffled, and except for a slight wince when he started walking towards her, he didn't appear to have been hurt by her attack. Another taunting grin flashed across his face. "Go ahead then; pull the trigger."

"Just who the hell do you think you are?!" she spat, her voice thick with rage, her hands shaking as she pointed the gun at him. "How DARE you touch me like that!! I don't care who you are, NOBODY uses me like that!!!"

"Oh please, spare me the speech." Hollister's tone was bored as he continued to walk towards her. If you're so offended, just shoot me." Madigan's teeth clenched, and her eyes narrowed in fury as her finger began to squeeze the trigger.

She wasn't entirely sure what happened next, but there was a numbing impact of some kind on her body. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers as fire seemed to race through her, but she couldn't even scream because somehow Hollister had one of his hands clamped around her throat. She could barely move as numbing pain washed through her, and dimly she wondered what he'd hit her with; out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slip some kind of weapon into his pocket.

"That wasn't very nice, Kate." The grin on Hollister's face seemed more like a snarl baring his fangs. He shoved her back against her desk, his hand still tightly gripping her neck; sparks began to flash in front of her eyes as she struggled to draw adequate breath. "It's a pity you didn't take me up on my offer; I could've offered you a lot more than you'll ever get out of GENOM's pissy little operations." His grin slid back into insolence as he reached up with his free hand and caressed the face of the terrified executive. "And you'll never know what you missed." He jerked her close, and kissed her on the mouth again before roughly shoving her away.

The shove collapsed Kate into her office chair, where she sat gasping hoarsely for breath as her strength slowly returned. Bitter fury burned in her eyes as she watched Hollister calmly straighten his tie, and start walking across the room towards the door.

"You ... you son of a bitch!!" she rasped, forcing herself to her feet. She wasn't entirely recovered however, and stood swaying, her hands braced on her desktop. He flashed her an amused smile.

"I'd wait another five minutes or so before I'd try walking," he advised her as he opened the door and tipped her a derisive salute. "See you around, Katie."

"BASTARD!!!" The door closed behind him, neatly stopping the paperweight she'd hurled at him. It banged loudly on the door, then dropped to the carpeting. Madigan took a step, intending to pursue him, but her legs folded, pitching her to the floor. She pounded a fist impotently against the carpet as angry tears began leaking out of her eyes.

Madigan's teeth clenched as she stared out the window, memory relentlessly replaying the humiliating events of several years ago. The lavender haired woman turned sharply away from the massive glass pane, stalking over to the ornate liquor cabinet by the wall; maybe a drink would help her relax and forget the past for a while. Nothing else was, that was for damn sure.

Opening the cabinet, she pulled out a crystalline decanter and a glass. She poured the glass half full of an amber liquid, hesitated, then topped it off to three-quarters before adding some ice cubes and placing the decanter back in its usual place. Taking a measured sip from her glass, she walked over to one of the large couches scattered around the spacious apartment and slowly sat down, sinking into the soft cushions with a weary sigh.

Kate glanced around at her surroundings again as she slowly sipped her drink. GENOM maintained a wing of very lavish luxury living suites for most of its higher executives within the Tower compound.

The official reason the suites were provided was that it was to provide a measure of convenience for the company's executives, offering them a place close to their work. While somewhat true, the real reason for the apartment complex being provided was security; the execs could enjoy a measure of safety from anyone who might have a grudge against them or the corporation, and the corporation found it easier to monitor its employees by keeping them close.

A cynical smile twisted Madigan's face at that thought; as the director of GENOM's internal affairs and security, she knew better than anyone what the corporation did to maintain its affairs. If someone proved to be a security risk, it was much easier and quieter to remove them while they were on GENOM property than off of it.

Sighing, Madigan drained her glass, setting it over on a nearby endtable. She glanced moodily around at the apartment again. It was sumptuously furnished of course, but all the apartments were. A few knick-knacks and such that she'd acquired here and there were the only things to indicate ownership of the residence, and she suddenly found herself confronted with a strange thought: was this all there was to her life?

It was a strange, unsettling thought, and one she'd never entertained before. Her devotion to GENOM, Quincy in particular, had always been absolute. But despite all those years of loyalty, all she really had was a few personal belongings that could easily be packed up. If something happened to her, there wouldn't be much to clean up for whoever got the apartment next. It was strange to suddenly find herself questioning her career; she'd never had any doubts before, about anything she'd done.

Madigan growled irritably at herself, putting the melancholy mood that had descended on her down to her frustration over the Hollister affair. Once she'd proven to Quincy that she could efficiently eliminate that problem, she'd feel like her old self again. She entertained herself with ideas on how she was going to kill the smug bastard as the sun slowly set over the city beyond her apartment window, casting orange-gold rays over the city.

"Doc, there ought to be pollution bylaws against that bloody thing," Hollister informed the old scientist, his expression sour. Across the desk from him, the shaggy grey-haired old man continued to puff contentedly on his pipe, shifting around in his chair to a more comfortable position. "Can't you find something to put in it that doesn't stink so bloody much?"

"We all have our vices," Doc's voice replied from the grey-blue haze surrounding the old scientist. "Besides, we've had this discussion before; I'm too old to change now, and I've got no intention of trying."

"You won't go into withdrawal if you douse it for half-an-hour," Hollister groused, shifting the whirring air freshener on his desk around, and positioning it so that it was more in the center of the desk. He wasn't sure if it helped to shield him from the unpleasant smoke and its accompanying aroma, but it made him feel a bit better.

"Well, if you'd tell me why I'm here, you could get me out of your office a lot quicker," Doc noted dryly. "Especially since you want me nursemaiding that project of yours so damn closely all the time."

"I need to know when is the earliest you could have the D.D. ready," came the reply. "Not for full operation," Hollister added, raising a placating hand to forestall the protest Doc opened his mouth to make. "What I need is a quick test run of some sort; one of our clients has been very vocal lately." The blond man's expression soured a bit further. "He's demanding some kind of proof that we can actually deliver what we say we're going to." There was a long contemplative silence as the gaunt scientist across the desk from him knocked the ash from his pipe bowl into a nearby ashtray, and re-packed it with fresh tobacco.

"I suppose we could try a limited duration activation," Doc said dubiously, sticking the pipestem between his teeth as he fumbled for a match in one of his pockets. Finding it, he struck it alight and pressed the flame to the bowl of his pipe. "Nothing elaborate, mind you," he added, stoking his meerschaum into pungent life again. "Just some basic walking around, maybe some limited weapons fire. The control interface is still acting flaky for some reason, but we're working on it."

"That should be sufficient," the blond man replied, cocking his head with a coldly curious glance. "What's the problem though? I thought you said the hardware linkage was perfect?"

"We haven't gone for the full fusion between the sexaroid and the combat systems yet," Doc replied, exhaling a cloud of bluish smoke. "At the moment, I can't guarantee that it will work. The 'soft' contacts we're using right now for testing are sufficient for our purposes, but I think the biggest problem is that she's fighting the computer control."

"She's fighting it?" Hollister's eyebrow twitched up in mild annoyance and surprise. "How?"

"I don't know exactly how," Doc replied irritably. "We may have her body imprisoned, but I'll wager that her mind isn't; she hasn't given up on attempting to get loose even now. I'd hazard the guess that her independence of thought is what's allowing her to resist the outside control."

"It's a machine, Doc, not a person," Hollister returned, his lips thinning in annoyance. "It's got a sophisticated program, not a mind. Find a way to circumvent the program, and you don't have a problem anymore."

"Well we can't do it until we directly link her to the D.D.," Doc shrugged, again managing to successfully hide his own inner revulsion; he couldn't wait until this project was finished so he could get the hell away from it. The doubts nagging at him lately over his work weren't getting any easier to live with. "And that won't happen for a few more weeks yet. If you really think you need to have that thing up and running, we can manage it for a short time period, but there's no guarantee that the sexaroid can't gain control of the systems if we can't control her."

"Understood," Hollister nodded crisply. "Have it ready for a test run in about two days."

"If by 'test run', you mean that you intend to take that contraption into the field, forget it," Doc told the blond man flatly. "I won't be a party to it. That thing is an accident waiting to explode at this point, and taking it into an uncontrolled environment is only going to make it worse."

"Your objections have been noted," Hollister replied equally flatly. "However, we've got some production schedules to keep here as far as that battlemover is concerned, and time is running out. I don't give a goddamn if you've got to hot-wire the damn thing with a car battery and jumper cables, but I'm taking it out into the field in two days." Hollister smiled thinly, cocking an eyebrow. "Of course, if you don't like my decisions, you can always resign."

"I'll choose when I want to get shot in the back on my own, thanks," Doc snapped angrily, rising from the chair, his eyebrows drawing together in a scowl. "Don't say I didn't warn you when the time comes." With that, the old scientist spun around and stalked out of the office, jamming his pipestem between clenched teeth.

TWO DAYS LATER.....

Pale fluorescent lights threw a soft glow over the pale blue walls and white tiled floor of the small room, humming in a quiet counterpoint to the whirring of the air conditioning coming from recessed ceiling vents. Comfortably padded furniture was stuffed into the room, making it seem even smaller than it actually was. The only clear path through the furniture was the open stretch of flooring between the doors at opposite ends of the room.

"I hate this," Bert grumbled, slouching down on a padded bench, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. "I really, really hate this." His long legs stuck almost halfway across the small waiting room as he glowered resentfully at the floor.

"You say that every time we have to do this," Priss observed. The brown-haired singer was sprawled indolently on the bench across the room from him, both sock feet propped up on the armrest. Her arms were folded behind her head, and she was staring at the ceiling to pass the time. Her head turned slightly to regard him. "It's not all that bad."

"And given the number of times you've racked yourself up, I'd say you probably need a checkup once in a while," Linna added, an innocent smile on her face. She was seated in the chair in the corner, thumbing through a magazine from the stack on the nearby table.

"I have never liked checkups or going to the doctor..." Bert started to reply.

"Sounds familiar," Linna interjected, giving Priss a sly glance. Priss ignored the remark.

"...and I like the idea of a regular physical exam even less," the tall red-head finished, scowling. "I know why it's necessary, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Besides, I hate having to get stuck with all those damn needles; what the hell does he need so many blood samples for?" He shivered slightly; he'd always hated needles of any description.

"The intrepid SkyKnight," Priss grinned evilly. "Fights boomers at the drop of a hat, but runs from a doctor with a needle." Her grin widened at the dirty look he shot her, but he resumed scowling at the floor and didn't reply to her jibe. Priss grinned again, but the grin slipped a bit when the door at the far end of the room opened, and Anri stuck her head around the doorjamb.

"You're next, Priss," the young woman announced with a smile. She was wearing a light blue nurse's uniform, and her dark green hair was neatly swept back over her shoulders. A sly smile flickered across her face as Priss gave a deep sigh, and hauled herself to her feet with a martyred expression; Anri giggled a bit at her expression, putting a hand over her mouth.

"Oh come on; it's not all that bad," Bert remarked mildly, smiling innocently as the brown-haired singer gave him a warning glance before sighing again and shuffling reluctantly through the door Anri was holding open. After she'd entered the room beyond, the door swung closed with a click. Silence dropped over the waiting room for a moment.

"I hate waiting," Bert muttered. Shifting around, he flopped lengthwise on the padded bench with a loud thud.

"Gee, I'd never have guessed," Linna remarked dryly. He decided not to dignify her observation with a response, and settled himself more comfortably on the bench. A companionable quiet settled over the room for a few minutes, broken occasionally by the whisper of a page turning in the magazine Linna was reading through.

The sound of running footsteps echoing in the hallway outside the waiting room interrupted the silence. The tall red-head sat up as the rapidly approaching footsteps turned into the sounds of shoes skidding on floor tiles outside the door. The doorknob rattled, and then the door burst open, admitting a breathless Nene. The slender red-head's hair was in total disarray, and her jacket was askew, as if she'd thrown it on while running out the door or something.

"I'msosorryI'mlate!" she blurted, gasping for air as she banged the door shut and sagged against it. "Butmyscooter hadproblemsandIcouldn't..." Linna blinked as she looked up, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to interpret what the young woman's rapid and nearly unintelligible words were trying to say.

"Whoa! Nene, slow down!!" Bert stood up, raising his hands in a placating manner. "I can't understand a word you're saying; now have a seat over here and take a deep breath or two." He waited while she did exactly that, then sat down opposite her. "Now then: slowly."

"I said I'm sorry I'm late," the young ADP officer began, still gulping a bit as she tried to catch her breath. "I would've been here sooner, but my scooter was having problems, and I had to get a cab over here. Then it got stuck in traffic about three blocks away, and I had to run the rest of the way."

"You're not really late," Bert reassured her. "Everyone's been going in one at a time, so you haven't missed anything."

"That's a relief," Nene sighed, slumping against the backrest of the bench she was on and letting her head droop back as she closed her eyes.

"Hey, at least you got some exercise out of it," Linna remarked impishly, grinning when Nene opened her eyes and sat up long enough to stick out her tongue at her friend. It was at that point that the door leading deeper into the medical facility opened, and Anri again stepped into the doorway.

"Next!" she said cheerily. "It's your turn, Linna!"

The trim dancer tensed a bit, then gave a quick shake of her head and stood, tossing her magazine onto the table as she sighed. Part of her apprehension, despite the fact that she knew she was in perfect health, stemmed from anxiety over her leg; the doctor was going to be giving her the verdict on whether or not she could resume her usual athletic activities. She marched resolutely towards Anri, who stepped back with an encouraging smile as Linna stepped into the next room.

The door swung shut behind the two women, leaving Nene and Bert alone in a suddenly awkward-seeming silence.

Tendrils of clammy fog wrapped murky grey tentacles around the waterfront warehouse district, shrouding everything in chilly gloom. The thick mist seemed to muffle everything, from the pale light being emitted by the battered lamp posts, to the sounds of footfalls on the asphalt. The darkness of early evening didn't help the slightly menacing feel to the air of the seedy district.

A shadowy form took shape in the fog as it approached one of the apparently derelict warehouses, gradually resolving into a slightly stocky-looking man of average height with short black hair. The collar of his black jacket was pulled up around his neck in an obvious attempt to ward off the chill of the night air, and nervous hazel-coloured eyes roved constantly, vainly trying to see through the mist. Both hands were rammed deep into his coat pockets, and his entire posture was tense.

The lone figure slowed as the bulk of the building that was his destination loomed abruptly out of the fog like a ghostly apparition. He glanced furtively around again, a muscle spasming agitatedly in his cheek, then shivered and began walking towards the door of the warehouse. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he reached out and then paused, one hand on the doorlatch, as some sixth sense warned him he wasn't alone.

"You're late, Stryker," a disembodied voice floated from the mist behind him. "I don't like to be kept waiting." The black-haired fixer whirled sharply towards where the voice had apparently originated from, one hand half-reaching for the shoulder holster inside his jacket.

"Pull a weapon on me, and you won't live long enough to be able to regret it," the voice promised icily. The fog seemed to swirl ominously around the tall figure that appeared a few feet away from Stryker. Steely blue eyes glinted with dire promise as the dark figure stepped closer, turning into a tall blond man wearing a trenchcoat. Stryker swallowed nervously, and dropped his hands to his sides. The nervous twitch in his cheek intensified.

"You said you had some information I needed," Hollister said flatly. "Well? I'm waiting, and I've never been accused of having patience."

"Contact has been confirmed." The woman's voice came over the shielded communications link, echoing through the control room. Madigan leaned over the shoulder of the male technician at the console, her expression neutral. Two of the screens in front of her showed identical displays of two men, dimly seen in the shrouding fog. "The target has arrived."

"Have the boomers detected anything else out there?" she asked, glancing again at the visual transmission that Stryker's 'escorts' of the last two weeks were relaying to the Tower.

"Negative," came the reply, as the console operator looked up at her. "It looks like he came by himself. The scans picked up a handgun of some kind, but that is all they detected."

Fierce elation swept through the lavender-haired woman. I've got you now, you bastard! She carefully kept her expression neutral as she stared at the monitors, her gaze focused on Hollister.

"Shall I order the boomers to attack?" the young man at the console asked hesitantly, glancing up at her.

"They are to apprehend him only," Madigan replied crisply, squaring her shoulders and standing a bit straighter. "We don't want him hurt...not permanently anyway." He nodded, and reached over to the console, tabbing some switches and issuing the order.

Madigan watched the view on the monitors began to shift as the boomers began to advance on their quarry, a feeling of intense anticipation and satisfaction spreading through her.

"Three energy signatures detected," a white lab-coated technician reported, his face eerily lit by the computer console he was monitoring. Next to him, three other similarly attired young men monitored other console boards, occasionally adjusting a dial, or typing a command into a keypad. "Tentative ID: Two C-55 class combat boomers, and one 33-C class, probably coordinating the combat models." The technician who had spoken looked over at a shadowed corner, where a faint smoky haze was drifting through the dimly lit chamber. "Shall I deploy, sir?"

"Not yet," Doc's voice replied amidst another rolling plume of smoke. "Hollister will signal when he wants intervention. Until then, we wait." The tech nodded and returned to monitoring his station as the red glow of embers in a pipe bowl briefly lit the old scientist's lined and wrinkled face.

Doc exhaled yet another cloud of smoke as he looked around the cramped and dark operations room. Built into the back of a modified tractor trailer transport, it was the perfect nerve center for directing a small field operation...but Doc was heartily wishing that he wasn't involved in this particular one.

The gaunt old man drew deeply on his pipe again, but the tobacco smoke didn't help to choke off the uneasy feeling creeping through his mind. No matter how much Hollister thought was at stake, taking their revamped Battlemover out into the field like this for a 'test' was like lighting the fuse on wet dynamite; you knew it was going to go off, but didn't have a clue as to when that would happen. It was bad enough he couldn't silence the nagging voice of conscience over his actions in creating the war machine, but if that thing went ballistic in the middle of the city...

"Control efficiency at eighty-seven percent," one of the other technicians reported, breaking into his rather morbid thoughts of out-of-control rampages through the city. "Status still green; no fluctuations."

Sighing to himself, Doc stepped forward and began watching the data readouts more closely, over the shoulders of the technicians.

"So, umm....how've you been lately?" Bert finally asked as the silence in the small waiting room seemed to become smothering. Even though it had only been a few minutes since Linna had entered the exam room, the sudden gap of utter quiet between Nene and himself had made it seem like several hours.

It was the first time they'd been alone in the same room since that night in the doughnut shop, when he'd had to tell her he was going out with Priss. Oh sure, they'd talked since then, but other people had acted as a buffer, and with that defense gone, he suddenly felt awkward. Judging from the faintly uncomfortable expression on Nene's face, and the way she wasn't quite meeting his gaze, she was having similar a similar problem.

After what seemed like an eternity, the slender, green-eyed young woman stirred and looked at him.

"Okay, I guess," she replied, giving him a wan smile. "Just tired; work's been piling up lately, and it's hard keeping up to it all some days." Bert nodded sympathetically, noting for the first time the faint smudges under her eyes, signs of inadequate sleep.

"Paperwork, and more paperwork, huh?" he asked. At her tired nod, a faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he sighed, chuckling a little.

"What's so funny?" Nene demanded with a hint of indignation, her eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't be chuckling if you had to sift through all the reports I do!"

"I wasn't laughing at you, honest," he quickly replied contritely. "I was just reflecting on how wrong we were about the future, that's all." He chuckled again, the wry smile reappearing.

"Pardon?" Nene promptly looked confused. "What do you mean by wrong about the future?"

"You've always had computers around, right?" At her confused nod, he grinned. "Nene, I grew up in an era that didn't have everything computerized to the extent that things are now. I got to see the first personal computers appear, and got to watch as they evolved." He sighed nostalgically. "The Commodore PET, the Vic-20, the Commodore 64...all hideously obsolete now, but for their time, they were fantastic machines, and most people couldn't wait to get one." Another wry grin appeared. "I never had one myself, but I was always using them at school, mostly for games, I'm embarrassed to admit. Anyhow, then the computers became faster and had more storage capacity and so forth...."

"What does all that have to do with all the paperwork I have to do?" the red-haired young woman across from him demanded impatiently, although part of her was very interested in what he was saying. She'd always taken computers for granted; she wouldn't be able to function without one. Bert grinned again as he explained.

"The point is that at that time, one of the predictions made was that we'd see actual 'paperwork' disappear from the office. The development of the word processor was a godsend; everything was going to be put into the computer, and you'd never have a cluttered desktop again!" He made a grandiose sweeping gesture, as if clearing off a desk, and then snorted derisively. "It never happened back then, and it sure hasn't happened yet from what I can see," he summarized. "If anything, there's even more paperwork to fill out and shuffle around from department to department...something I think you could readily attest to."

"Oh yes," Nene agreed ruefully. "I only wish all the reports were on the computer...it would be so much simpler!"

"You're not alone in that wish," he grinned whimsically. "I think it's a plot to stay in business by all the pulp and paper companies myself." Nene giggled a bit, then leaned forward, her expression becoming interested.

"So what were those computers like?" she queried.

"Slow," he replied his gaze going nostalgic for a moment. "Although I never really realized it until years later. At the time, they were great machines, but when you look at what we use now, and what kept us happy back then, it's hard to believe that we got by with only a cassette tapedeck for data storage and maybe 64 kilobytes of memory..."

Hollister turned as two hulking shapes flanking a third, smaller one loomed out of the mist-shrouded night behind him. Glowing red eyes stared balefully at him as the two combat boomers came to a halt mere feet away from him at a gesture from the third figure. The apparent leader of the group was a woman with long hair; he couldn't really note any other details partly because she was standing in the shadow from one of her cohorts.

"Ethan Hollister," a melodious voice came from the third figure, "I must ask that you accompany us; there is someone who wishes to discuss certain business matters with you."

"I suppose this explains why you had to meet me in person," the blond man remarked in a casual-seeming manner, but the icy glance he gave Stryker over his shoulder was much more eloquent, promising dire retribution.

"I d-didn't have a choice," the fixer whined, cringing back against the warehouse behind him. "You d-don't know what they did t-to me..."

"Ethan Hollister," the mechanical rumble of one of the boomer's voices interrupted Stryker's faltering voice, repeating its leader's order. "You will come with us now."

"Or else what?" Hollister's voice was calm and matter-of-fact as he folded his arms across his chest. He sounded like he was discussing the weather, not standing a few feet away from an armed biomechanoid. "Given the trouble Stryker went through to get me out in the open, I highly doubt you did it just to kill me if I refuse to cooperate." His head cocked sideways as he looked at the trio of boomers with cold curiosity.

"You will come with us willingly, or you will be forced to accompany us," the female boomer replied glacially, giving an impatient shake of its head, causing a flash of auburn hair to glint in the dim light. Its comrades took a menacing step closer.

"I don't think so," Hollister replied coolly. "Doc? NOW."

"Power source detected!" the man at the console in front of Madigan reported, alarm surging through his voice. "Range, one hundred meters from target and closing."

"Identify it," Madigan snapped, her grip on the back of the technician's chair becoming white-knuckled as the tension level in the room rose drastically. "Why didn't we pick it up sooner?"

"Unable to identify at this time, combat machine not in the databanks," came the terse reply. "Humanoid robot type, estimated mass of ten to twenty tons. Further readings impossible because of the target's ECM. Searching alternat