IndigoIndigo
Christine Morgan



      Author's Note: the characters of Gargoyles are the property of Disney and 
are used here 
without their creators' knowledge or consent; all other characters belong to the 
author and 
should not be used elsewhere without permission. Mature readers only due to 
sexual content 
and language. 



February 3rd, 2000 
Thursday, 11:25 AM 
     *Download File? Yes No* 
     Sabra Indrani closed her eyes, crossed her fingers, and then pecked out 
YES. 
     *Processing ... Processing ... Processing ...* 
     “Hah!” she crowed, and began to laugh. 
     The sound of her laughter, like a seal barking in her cubicle, a seal that 
happened 
to also be half underwater and strangling on a fish, shut her up instantly. 
     Had there been a mirror amid the clutter, the sight of half her mouth drawn 
up in a 
manic smile while the other half remained as frozen and emotionless as the 
Phantom’s 
mask might have killed her joy altogether, but if there was one thing Sabra 
avoided, it was 
mirrors. 
     *Processing ... ... ... ...* 
     She hunched closer to the screen, eyes widening in alarm. Was this it? Was 
she 
caught? 
     *Transfer Complete* 
     “Yes,” she breathed, and slapped one palm against her desk. 
     *Next Command?* 
     “Don’t get cocky,” Sabra murmured. She typed EXIT SYSTEM / NEVERWAS 
     Something clicked deep in her computer, and the image on the screen 
reverted to 
her customary operating menu. 
     “Now to see if it really worked.” She popped a disk out and held it lightly 

between her teeth as she used her good hand to maneuver her motorized wheelchair 
to 
the other side of the double-wide cubicle, where a separate computer was 
waiting. 
     In with the disk, and on with the headset. The microphone pressed firmly 
against 
her skull so the bone-conduction voice recognition program could pick up her 
words 
without the distortion of her slurred speech. 
     “Read disk,” she commanded. 
     The green light came on, the computer hummed in consideration ... 
     Sabra held her breath. 
     A logo appeared dead-center on the screen. A stylized red XE. Then it 
vanished, 
and a box came up. 
     XANACRYPT 1.0, PROTOTYPE VERSION 
     She scanned quickly through, saw that she’d gotten it all and it was 
working just 
dandy, and then the irony struck her. This time, she didn’t stifle her laughter, 
though it 
still was the strangled-drowning-seal noise. 
     “Success, Ms. Indrani?” 
     “Success, Mr. Vogel. The encryption program is ours.” 
     The severe, dark-haired man stepped into her cubicle and peered at the 
monitor. 
“Well done, Ms. Indrani. Mr. Renard will be very pleased.” 
     She rolled away from the computer, and Preston Vogel moved out of her way 
with the absent-minded instinct of a man who has spent most of his life 
anticipating where 
the chair would end up. “Is there anything else you want me to do as long as 
those 
passwords are still good?” 
     “Not presently.” He tapped on the keyboard, fingers flying on both hands, 
leaning over effortlessly, and for one bright shining moment, Sabra hated his 
guts. 
     The moment passed, as they always did, and she went back to feeling low and 

empty. 
     “I could try to get into their RDRD files,” she offered. 
     “I don't think that’ll be necessary just now.” 
     “Their DefNet development specs?” 
     Holding the disks he’d copied, several high-speed backups of the Xanacrypt 
files, he turned to her with an expression of faint exasperation. “No, Ms. 
Indrani. 
Currently, this is all that Mr. Renard is interested in obtaining. You may now 
return to 
your regular work.” 
     “Mr. Vogel, anyone in this corporation can position and monitor those 
satellites. 
It’s a waste of my skills.” 
     “But it is what you’re paid for.” His tight little smile was one that she 
would have 
dearly loved to kick into the stratosphere, but that was a functional 
impossibility. “Good 
day, Ms. Indrani.” 
     He left, and Sabra turned back to her computer with a sigh. Minute course 
corrections here, re-routing transmissions there. Seventy-five CySkyEye 
satellites were 
under her direct control, not to mention the two hundred plus that she could 
access at 
any time, belonging to everyone from NASA to Takami International. 
     “Waste of my skills,” she muttered. 
     Punching in a command that would alert her headset if any of her satellites 

needed attention and putting the rest on a basic maintenance setting, Sabra 
maneuvered 
out of her cubicle and down the hall to the elevators. 
     The first one to stop was already more than half full of her fellow 
employees, so 
Sabra waited. The next only had two occupants, but she clipped one of them in 
the elbow 
with the handbars that jutted uselessly from the back of her chair -- no one 
ever, _ever_ 
was allowed to push her. 
     The man shifted into the corner and grumbled something. Sabra couldn’t make 

out the words, didn’t need to. 
     “Sorry,” she said, not looking at him, more mouthing the word than meaning 
it. 
     At each successive floor, people got on and off, cramming in, jostling each 
other, 
a dense forest of waists and crotches and asses all at Sabra’s eye level. A 
charcoal-suited 
pudge-ball banged her in the head with his briefcase as he pushed to the front, 
knocking 
her wig askew. 
     She pawed it back into place. Finally, the elevator reached the top floor 
and she 
rolled out into the antechamber. 
     It was a room of sharp angles, the ceiling rising like the hollow inside of 
a cluster 
of crystals, all of glass. Sabra always thought of Superman’s Fortress of 
Solitude when 
she came in here. Glass walls, glass ceiling -- a literal one in this company, 
instead of the 
figurative ones in so many others -- polished grey granite floor speckled with 
black and 
silver, and a collection of statues. Roman and Greek, all generals and senators 
and 
centurions instead of gods or goddesses. All original, many of them chipped or 
broken. 
     Sabra’s wheels squeaked on the granite, then whispered across a gold-edged 
royal blue carpet. Why not emperor-red? she wondered sourly. Why not Vatican 
purple? 
     At the far end of this room was a shiny black desk twenty feet long and 
curved 
in a near-complete circle, with three computers, ten phones, and six intercom 
boxes lined 
up on it like soldiers. 
     Vickie Spears was five feet nothing, wire-thin, and quivered with the 
energy of a 
cheetah on speed. She was the only employee allowed to wear running shoes on the 
job, 
and when she wasn’t actually running, she was zipping her chair on its 
well-oiled casters 
from one side of the desk to the other, fast as a greased cobra. 
     A good thing, too, because Sabra had never seen Vickie’s desk without at 
least 
three phones and two intercoms going all at the same time. 
     Still, Vickie waved briskly and beckoned Sabra over, not missing a word in 
her 
conversation. She talked like the man from the FedEx commercials, was always 
twiddling a 
pen or pencil in her free hand (if she had one), and as she concluded that call, 
she brought 
both legs up, braced her feet on the edge of the desk, and shoved so that she 
cruised 
clear across the circle and seized, without looking, the next ringing phone as 
she came to a 
halt. 
     Sabra loathed her. 
     When she got a breather, Vickie turned her flashbulb smile -- dazzling then 
gone 
-- on Sabra. “Help you?” 
     “I’d like to see Mr. --” 
     “Renard?” Vickie finished for her impatiently. 
     “If he’s --” 
     “Available? Let me check.” Zoom! Across to the red intercom, as if it led 
to the 
President or NORAD instead of into the boss’ sanctum sanctorum. “Mr. Renard? 
Sabra 
Indrani from SatCon is here, if you have a minute ... sure, will do!” Again with 
the 
flashbulb smile. “You can go right in.” 
     “Thank you.” Sabra rolled toward the doors, wondering how many other lowly 
peons could come up without an appointment and have a word with the great man. 
Not 
many, she suspected. 
     Professional courtesy, cripple to cripple, she thought bitterly. 
     The doors had a motion sensor like at the supermarket. They were as shiny 
black 
as Vickie’s desk, trimmed in silver with the Cyberbiotics crest in the middle. 
The crest split 
as the doors opened, and Sabra entered. 
     In here, the glass/glossy/shiny look had been abandoned in favor of teak so 

heavy you could hear it groan. The ceiling was done in Italian frescos. Bronze 
shields, 
shortswords, and helmets with arched bristle-brush plumes hung behind the desk. 
One 
entire wall was given over to monitors, so that Halcyon Renard could keep watch 
over 
every corner of his kingdom. 
     He was in front of them now, in his state-of-the-art chair that was so much 
nicer 
than her own ... why, it did everything but knit him a sweater and give him a 
pedicure, and 
as she couldn’t really see his feet inside the bullet-shaped enclosed front end, 
she wasn’t 
that sure about the pedicure. 
     A shrunken, wizened scarecrow of a figure. Lank ivory-yellow hair in 
patches on 
his liverspotted scalp. Bony claw-hands. Skin like ancient parchment. He didn’t 
seem so 
much aged as mummified. 
     And if not for her wig, people could have confused the two of them from the 
rear. 
Even from the front, in poor lighting. 
     “Miss Indrani,” he said, his voice at once strong and cracked, old and 
powerful. 
    “Always a delight. Congratulations on successfully ... acquiring that 
program. It will give 
Cyberbiotics a substantial edge in the market, and a correspondingly substantial 
bonus 
for you.” 
     “Mr. Renard, I’m sorry to bother you, but I don't think my skills are being 
used to 
their fullest capacity,” she said. 
     “No? Miss Indrani, you just penetrated one of the most labyrinthine 
security 
systems on the face of the planet. You don't find that enough of a challenge to 
your 
skill?” 
     “I do, but now it’s done.” 
     “Ah, I see.” The skin of his hands rasped together as he steepled his 
fingers. 
“You’re not satisfied with your current work.” 
     “It’s not that --” was he going to fire her? “-- it’s just that I feel I 
could be doing 
so much more. For the benefit of the company.” 
     Renard looked at her for a long time, his eyes diamond hard. Sabra was sure 

she’d blown it, he was going to tell her to turn in her keycard and good-bye. 
     “I don’t think it’s your job you’re unsatisfied with,” he said instead, 
after that 
long scrutiny was done. “Isn’t it?” 
     “I enjoy working here,” she affirmed. 
     “It’s yourself. Your health, your physical condition.” 
     She blanched, but coming from him, it was more all right than it might have 
been 
coming from someone else. A little bit. 
     “Believe me, Miss Indrani, I know the feeling. I once thought that I would 
do 
 anything, anything, mind you, to be free of this chair. Of this weak, old, 
dying body.” 
     Sabra nodded as fervently as she could. 
     “But let me tell you something. For a time, I got that wish. Not in the way 
you 
might think; I’ve gone flatline more than once and there is nothing to report, 
no tunnel 
rushing toward a grand loving light, no dear ancestors calling in welcome, no 
pearly 
gates, not even --” here he chuckled dryly, “-- not even the flicker of fire and 
brimstone. 
No, I’m talking about something else.” 
     “Mr. Renard, I don’t think I understand.” 
     He steered closer, and patted her arm with one clawlike, reptilian hand. 
“I’ll tell 
you about a time I had a new chance at life and strength, and how I came to see 
that it was 
better to be myself, be true to myself, and not let my honor and dignity be 
corrupted by 
mere physical power.” 
  *  * 
June 6th, 2000 
Tuesday, 9:30 AM 
     “Do you mean to tell me,” David Xanatos said in a tone of carefully 
controlled 
fury, “that six weeks before we were due to release it, Cyberbiotics came out 
with their 
own version?” 
     “It’s nearly identical to ours!” The gravely mis-named Don Vaughn, Head of 
Product Design, threw a software box on the table. CYBERCRYPT, the box read. 
     “It is ours,” Owen Burnett informed Xanatos. “In all but the most minor and 

insignificant details. Our product, stolen, changed slightly, and marketed.” 
     “That wily old son of a bitch!” Xanatos exclaimed, not without a bit of 
admiration. He fixed Vaughn with a heated glare. “Someone on your team --” 
     “No!” Vaughn protested. “No one on the team would violate their contract 
oath; 
I’d stake my life on it! The system must have been infiltrated from the 
outside.” 
     “Impossible,” Xanatos said flatly. He looked back at Owen. “Have we had any 

staff turnover in that area in the past six months?” 
     Owen shook his head. 
     “Investigate it,” Xanatos told him. “If it’s not an ex-employee, it must be 
a 
current one. I want to know how, who, and what kind of incentive plan they were 
offered 
that made it worth risking pissing me off.” 
     “Yes, Mr. Xanatos sir.” 
     “I’m telling you --” Vaughn began, then shut up. 
     “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Xanatos said. “You can go back to your 
office, 
Don; Owen will be in contact with you if he needs anything.” Once Vaughn had 
left, he 
added, “Start with him.” 
     “Of course.” 
     “Before you go, any other bad news from my competitors to further wreck my 
day?” 
     “Nightstone Unlimited announced yesterday that they expect to have their 
energy-bending stealth body armor ready to release within a year.” 
     “Spiffy. How close are we?” 
     “Not close at all.” 
     “Well, Owen, I tell you what. If Mr. Vaughn turns out to be right and it 
_was_ a 
case of outside infiltration, I want you to find out who did it --” 
     “And implement the usual strategy, sir?” 
     “Exactly.” 
  *  * 
June 30th, 2000 
Friday, 7:10 PM 
     “Sabra! I’m so glad you could make it!” Robyn Canmore opened the door 
wearing a teal-blue silk blouse over snug white pants that showed off her figure 
to 
excellent advantage. “Most everyone else from the P.T. group is here already.” 
     Sabra smiled noncommittally and wheeled herself into the apartment. “Nice 
place.” 
     “We’re very happy. It’s smaller than the old house, and there’s no pool, 
but the 
morning light is perfect for Jason’s studio.” 
     “He’s still painting?” 
     “A gallery over on 54th Street is going to do a show of some of his pieces 
next 
month. Isn’t that exciting?” 
     Sabra put on her brakes and indicated one of the compartments on the side 
of 
her chair. “There’s a bottle of wine in there ... a housewarming gift.” 
     “Thank you!” Robyn crouched with supple ease and found it. 
     The penthouse apartment was of the style in which one large space was 
divided 
into rooms more by arrangement of furniture than by walls. The only closed doors 
were 
those leading into the bathroom and bedrooms. Robyn was right, it was a lot 
smaller, and 
with half a dozen wheelchairs crammed into the living area, it was crowded as 
well. 
     Nice of Jason to invite the cripples, Sabra thought. Shows he’s not 
thinking he’s 
better than us now that he can walk again. Or does he feel obligated, guilty, 
because he 
can and we can’t? 
     She wove through traffic, greeting the people she knew (mostly her fellow 
physical therapy sufferers, gathered in a clump over by the windows and looking 
as self- 
conscious and out of place as Sabra felt; them, and Preston Vogel, who stuck so 
close to 
Robyn’s side they might as well have been handcuffed together). 
     Small world. 
     Where was Jason, anyway? 
     Oh. There. 
     Damn. 
     Why’d he have to be so gorgeous? 
     He’d joined the group four years ago, already well-built, and his arms and 
shoulders and chest and back had only gotten more impressive from propelling his 

wheelchair, from swimming, from hauling the deadweight of his lower body. Once 
he got 
back the use of his legs, sheathing them with slabs of muscle again, he was 
amazing. 
     Too young for her, anyway. Too young by about fifteen years. Even if she 
could walk and move, even if she still had her looks, she’d be too old for him. 
     But still ... damn. 
     That dark hair, those riveting turquoise eyes, that smile ... 
     Would it have killed him to stay in his chair? To stay a paraplegic? To 
stay, in 
a word, accessible? 
     Pointless dreaming. What good would it do her if they were both in their 
chairs? 
She would still be too old for him, and her age would be the least of her 
problems. The 
man wasn’t blind. 
     The doorbell rang again, and Jason went to answer it himself this time. He 
came 
back with a striking toffee-skinned brunette, and just by the way they stood 
together, 
Sabra knew there had been a time when they’d been involved. Not anymore; their 
faces 
both wore that could-have-been look that she was sure they were unaware of. 
     Still, whether it had been or not, whether it was over or not, it sent a 
stab of bitter 
jealousy into Sabra. Totally unjustified, stupid jealousy. 
     There was no dancing. Diplomatic Robyn Canmore would have made sure of 
that. Let’s not torture the cripples. Like waving food in front of a starving 
person. So no 
dancing ... but Sabra could see how feet tapped in time with the music, how they 

wanted to dance but sublimated their irritation at the guests who made it 
impossible. 
As soon as the last wheelchair had gone out the door, Sabra was sure the 
furniture would 
be pushed back, and the music would be cranked. 
     Oh, damn, was it so much to ask? 
     She recalled what Mr. Renard had told her last February. While most of her 
mind 
dismissed it as utter bushwah -- golems, please, did he really expect her to 
believe that? -- 
she kept coming back to the moral of the story. 
     Be yourself, be true to yourself, honor and dignity ... 
     Easy for Renard to say. He’d had a life before ending up in his chair. A 
wife, a 
family, the luxury of walking and dancing and making love. 
     He hadn’t had his life begin and end on the same terrible night ... 
  *  * 
May 16th, 1978 
Saturday, 8:15 PM 
     “Oh, Sabra, we are so proud!” Her mother hugged her, then stepped back and 
smoothed Sabra’s hair, which was waist-length and the color of coffee without 
cream. 
     Her father smiled and nodded. “You will go to college, to medical school, 
become 
a great doctor, join my practice --” 
     “Dad!” Sabra laughed. “I just graduated! I will do all those things --” 
     “Get married to a good young man, have beautiful babies,” Gayle Indrani put 
in. 
     “Mom! That too, that too, but tonight is my night, and if I don’t get out 
there, 
Danny’s going to think I changed my mind! The party starts at eight-thirty.” 
     “Have fun,” her mother said. 
     “Be careful,” her father added. “I don’t know if I like you going to a bar. 
You’re 
only eighteen.” 
     “The bar’s closed tonight, Dad.” She checked her lipstick in the mirror. 
“We’re 
just going to dance and drink soda, I swear.” 
     “If anyone sneaks alcohol in --” 
     “I won’t drink any,” she promised. “And if Danny does, I won’t let him 
drive me 
home. I’ll get LeAnne to give me a ride, or I’ll call you.” She smiled 
playfully. “If you’d 
given me a car for graduation ...” 
     Halim Indrani laughed. “Maybe when you graduate from college.” 
     She hugged them both, kissed her mother on the cheek, and hurried out as 
Danny honked for the third time. Her hair swung against the back of her short 
white dress, 
the skirt swishing around her lean thighs -- she still couldn’t believe Dad let 
her out of the 
house wearing it; he must have realized after seeing her in her cap and gown 
that she 
wasn’t a baby anymore -- her platform shoes glittered silver in the headlights 
as she ran 
around Danny’s car and slid into the passenger seat. 
     Danny leaned over and kissed her. “Hey, Sabra, want to skip the party?” 
     “What? But everybody’ll be there!” 
     “That’s why!” he said with a wink. “Everybody’d be there, so we’d have the 
Lookout all to ourselves!” 
     “Danny Clark, I am not going to spend my graduation night parked at the end 
of 
Swamp Creek Road watching out for alligators and mosquitoes.” 
     “Aw, come on, Sabra, the only thing you’d have to worry about biting you is 

me!” 
     “Maybe later. Right now, I want to dance!” She turned on the radio and 
found 
the Bee Gees just ending, followed by her all-time favorite song (this month at 
least), ‘Oh 
What a Night.’ Sabra sang along, rocking her hips and shoulders. 
     “Have you told your dad you want to become a dancer instead of a doctor?” 
     “No ... I’m still trying to figure out if I can be both.” 
     Danny roared with laughter. “Surgeon by day, disco-mama by night!” 
     “Danny, a dog!” Sabra shrieked, pointing. 
     “Shit!” He swerved, and then things happened very fast. 
     She heard herself screaming and babbling in the dizzy, spinning confusion. 
    “Danny what was that bang did a tire blow slow down stop the car I’m going 
to be sick 
look out for the truckthetruckthetruck!” 
  *  * 
September 11th, 2000 
Monday, 1:30 PM 
     “Coffee, Ms. Indrani?” 
     “No, thank you,” she said to the man who looked uncannily like a blond 
Preston 
Vogel. 
     “Mr. Xanatos will be along shortly. He’s very interested in meeting you.” 
     Sometimes she was almost grateful for the paralysis in the right side of 
her face; 
it prevented her from revealing her emotions. Interested in meeting her? Yes, 
Sabra just 
bet he was ... he couldn’t have proof or he would be formally pressing charges, 
wouldn’t he, but he had to be up to something, men like him always were. 
     “I’m interested in meeting him, too.” 
     “Have you been with Cyberbiotics long?” 
     “Don’t you know?” she countered. 
     The corners of Owen Burnett’s eyes crinkled in faint amusement. “As a 
matter of 
fact, I do ... you’ve been with Mr. Renard for ten years and four months. Prior 
to that, you 
were at Futuretech in Sacramento, California. Three years and two months. Before 
that, 
Stanford and postgraduate work at MIT.” 
     “And before that?” Sabra challenged him with her gaze. 
     He remained unfazed. “The Deschutes Rehabilitation Center in New Orleans, 
Louisiana; the Villejeune Community Hospital in Villejeune, Florida; DeLeon 
Junior/Senior 
High School in Fontagna, Florida ... need we go on?” 
     “No. What’s this about, Mr. Burnett?” 
     “As I said, Mr. Xanatos is interested in meeting you.” 
     “Very true. Thank you, Owen.” David Xanatos said. 
     Sabra’s throat clenched as Xanatos came in. Trying to put him on the 
defensive, 
she exerted the effort to heft the twisted thing that was her right arm. 
     He clasped the gnarled lump of flesh at the end of it with no outward 
reaction. 
“A pleasure, Ms. Indrani. A lovely name ... Indian, I believe?” 
     Sabra dropped her arm back into her lap, not really sure what had just 
happened. 
“Yes. It means ... goddess of the sky.” 
     “How ...” he glanced at Burnett as if they shared some private joke. 
“Fitting.” 
     “Pardon me if this is a rude question, Mr. Xanatos, but what’s this all 
about?” 
     He sat down, and Burnett withdrew to a discreet corner. Like Vogel, he 
seemed 
 part administrative assistant, part butler. 
     “Ms. Indrani, you might assume that I’ve asked you here to discuss the 
XANACRYPT files.” He shrugged, a devilish gleam lighting his brown eyes. 
“Spilled milk. 
I will admit to some curiosity about how you got through our security programs, 
but 
that’s also neither here nor there. The main reason I wanted to speak with you 
was to let 
you know that a position has recently opened up in our Investigative Planning 
Department --” 
     Sabra’s strangled-seal laugh barked forth unexpectedly. “You ... you have a 

department dedicated to stealing from your competitors?” 
     He smiled. “Just one more area in which Xanatos Enterprises is still 
leading the 
field.” 
     “And ... correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re offering me a job?” 
     “I’ve reviewed your personnel file and it is plain to me that Mr. Renard is 
not 
utilizing your abilities to their full potential. Further, while his salary plan 
is in the upper 
range for the industry, I think you’ll find that ours is at the very top.” 
     The left side of her mouth worked silently. When he named a figure, it fell 
open 
altogether, and she was oblivious to the twinge as scar tissue stretched in an 
unaccustomed manner. 
     “In addition,” Xanatos went on, as if he hadn’t boggled her enough, “while 
Cyberbiotics is one of the top companies developing robotics and computer 
sciences, 
here at Xanatos Enterprises, we have a much wider range.” He paused enticingly. 
“Such 
as cybernetics, genetic engineering, and some of the most advanced medical 
technologies 
on the planet.” 
     Sabra still couldn’t answer, torn between wanting to call him a bastard for 
what 
he was doing and wanting to grab the offer before he changed his mind. 
     He leaned back and waited. 
     Finally, she found her voice. “If you have these ... medical technologies, 
why 
haven’t I heard of them?” 
     “They’re still very much in the experimental stages.” He rolled his eyes in 
a ye- 
gods-how-I-must-suffer manner, though not directed at her. “You know how slow 
they 
are to approve anything these days. My scientists could invent a cure for cancer 

tomorrow, but the FDA would still dawdle and drag its feet and let every petty 
bureaucrat 
and lobbyist have their say, while people kept dying. But within our own 
company, we 
tend to be a little more flexible. Our employees have access to all manner of 
advances long 
before they’re made available to the general public.” 
     “What about your family?” She knew it was risky, poking him when he could 
get 
mad and snatch away the brass ring he was dangling before her, but she wanted to 
see if 
she even could poke this supremely confident man. “Like ... say ... your 
father-in-law?” 
     Xanatos’ laugh was rich and warm. “Believe me, Ms. Indrani, I would gladly 
put 
the resources of my medical team at my father-in-law’s disposal ... but his 
pride interferes. 
Halcyon is a brilliant man and a resourceful man, but a stubborn one.” He 
smirked. “I 
guess it’s true; women choose husbands who remind them of their fathers.” 
     Sabra, who only understood that Mr. Renard would die of starvation rather 
than 
take a peanut-butter sandwich from his arrogant son-in-law, hitched her left 
shoulder in 
the closest she could come to a shrug. “That could be. I appreciate the offer, 
Mr. Xanatos, 
but you have to realize that this isn’t something I can decide right now.” 
     “Of course not. If you’d like a tour, Mr. Burnett would be happy to 
oblige.” He 
grinned. “You’re already familiar with our computer network, so you may as well 
get a 
look at the rest of the place.” 
     “Yes, I’d like that.” 
     “Very good. Owen?” 
     “Right away, Mr. Xanatos.” 
     Five minutes later, she found herself driving her humming chair down a long 
hall 
which was tinted glass (and heart-stopping view straight down on Manhattan) on 
one 
side and textured black wallboard on the other. The wallboard was decorated with 
abstract 
paintings in bold colors; to Sabra, they looked like the sort of thing a 
talented but hurried 
child might do, but she realized they were probably worth millions and she was 
too 
ignorant to know it. 
     Owen Burnett walked beside her, never seeming to need to alter his pace or 
giving the impression that she was going too slow or too fast to suit him. 
     “You worked for Cyberbiotics,” she said. 
     “Yes, though I left Mr. Renard’s employ in 1987,” he replied evenly. 
     “Does your boss make a habit of taking things away from Mr. Renard?” 
     “I wouldn’t call it a habit.” 
     “What would you call it?” 
     He pressed the elevator button, then turned to her with a small quirky 
smile. “A 
hobby.” 
  *  * 
November 15th, 2000 
Wednesday, 10:20 PM 
     “No!” Aiden gasped. “You’re kidding!” 
     “Would I kid about that?” Lexington swiveled his stool in a fast circle. 
“It’s so 
great, we’ve got to see them! Ultimate coolness! Tell her, T.J.!” 
     Aiden looked dubiously to the sandy-haired young man rooting through the 
fridge in the clans’ suite. He’d probably never be comfortable around most of 
the 
gargoyles, she thought, but at least when it was her, or Lex, or Brooklyn, he 
did okay. 
Especially with Lex, after they’d teamed up to solve the Ventura riddle last 
month. 
     T.J. straightened up with a couple of sodas and tossed one to Lex. “Aiden? 
You 
want?” 
     “I’ll pass on the soda, I want to know if Lex is pulling my tail.” 
     “I’ll do that later,” Lex promised, skittering his fingers down her back. 
     She eeked and smacked at him. “Well, T.J.? This better not be just a tired 
old 
Internet rumor!” 
     “No, swear.” He tried to make the scout’s honor gesture, botched it into a 
heavy 
metal sign, and ended up with a half-assed ‘live long and prosper’ before giving 
up and 
shoving his hand in his pocket. “I saw it myself. She really did, that creepy 
troll-woman --” 
     “T.J.! That’s mean!” Aiden cried. 
     “Sorry, but she is. Half her head one big scar ... like the Phantom of the 
fuckin’ Opera or something. Anyway, yeah, she got into the ILM computer and 
downloaded designs for all the ships in the next movie. She’s working on getting 
the 
aliens now.” 
     Aiden tipped her head doubtfully. “Really?” 
     “Really! I told you! Sheesh, you won’t believe your own mate --” Lex began. 

     “My own mate was convinced Gillian Anderson was going to play a female 
Jedi,” she said archly. “That one died on the vine, didn’t it?” 
     “Well, okay, maybe I was impulsive. But this came right from their own 
computers!” 
     “Why’d she do it, anyway?” Aiden asked. “I can’t imagine that’s going to 
help 
Mr. Xanatos’ company any.” 
     “Shake the gravel out of your brain, lovebunny!” Lex cried, grinning like a 
prime 
doofus. 
     “Lexington!” She blushed nearly Angela-colored. “Don’t call me lovebunny! 
I’m 
warning you!” 
     T.J. smothered a laugh when she snapped her crested head around to look at 
him. 
     “Sorry,” Lex said, sounding anything but. “Anyway, try this on for size -- 
Xantasia IV!” 
     “Oh! Oh, that wouldn’t be nice at all! Steal the designs and put them into 
a video 
game before the movie even comes out? That’s terrible?” 
     “I hate to break it to you,” T.J. said, “but we work for a terrible dude, 
remember?” 
     “Though they’d sue his butt off,” Lex said. “Or try, anyway. That’d be a 
showdown, wouldn’t it?” 
     “But she didn’t do it for Mr. X.,” T.J. went on. “She did it because Jimmy 
Pransky bet her she couldn’t.” 
     “Pransky? The guy with the Sith Lords tattooed on his back?” 
     “That’s the guy,” Lex said. “Hey, have you seen his tattoo?” 
     “Yes.” Aiden made a face. “They look anorexic. I thought we were obsessed, 
but he makes us look tame.” 
     “This coming from the female with an Obi-Wan Is Hot website,” Lex 
commented. 
     “You know that’s really Birdie’s!” Aiden protested. “It’s just on my site 
because 
she doesn’t have one!” 
     “That story on there is disgusting,” T.J. said. 
     “So disgusting he read it like five times,” Lex said in a theatrical aside. 

     “There’s something not right about fictional characters doing it,” T.J. 
continued. 
“That woman who wrote it must be sick in the head.” 
     Aiden cleared her throat and, blushing anew, tried to turn the conversation 
back 
to more suitable paths. “Anyway, why’d Jimmy make that bet? Besides because he’s 
a 
slobbering rabid fanpuppy?” 
     “Because he was the hot hacker stud around here until she showed up,” Lex 
said. “He wanted to see the new girl try and fail, so he could hang onto his 
title.” 
     “I thought you were the hot hacker stud,” T.J. said. 
     “You know how Jimmy got hired here?” Lex asked. 
     “No, how?” 
     “Went into the Human Resources computers and added himself to the payroll, 
then just showed up for work one day and said he’d lost his keycard. They 
scanned his 
thumbprint, found it was already in there, and issued him a new one. He was here 
two 
weeks before Xanatos figured it out.” 
     “Pretty slick,” T.J. admitted. 
 “But even he couldn’t get into ILM. It took Sabra, what, six days? Doing it on 
her lunch breaks and after work?” 
     “Something like that.” 
     “Is it just me, or is that a little scary?” Aiden wondered. 
     “Everything about her is a little scary,” T.J. said. “And no, don’t jump 
down my 
throat about it, it’s not just because she looks like Quasimodo’s bastard 
half-sister. I just 
don’t ... hell, I don’t know. I’ve got --” 
     “-- a bad feeling about this!” Lex and Aiden joined in. 
     “Trust your feelings,” Aiden added in a ghostly voice. 
     “Quit, you guys. I get that ‘follow your instincts / trust your feelings / 
use the 
Force’ crapola from Puck and Alex ten days out of the week; I don’t need it from 
you 
too!” 
  *  * 
December 26th, 2000 
Tuesday, 5:30 PM 
     “Hey, Sabra!” 
     She looked up. “Hi, Jimmy.” 
     “Whatcha doing?” 
     “Going over my first-quarter review.” 
     “So, they going to keep you on?” 
     “Seems like.” 
     He grinned. “Good. I like the competition. Hey, are you braving the snow or 

crashing in the dorm with the rest of us?” 
     “My ride called to cancel. They’re snowed in.” 
     “Them and half the city. So you’re staying?” 
     Sabra gestured to her chair. “How far do you think I’d get on my own?” 
     “Oh, yeah.” Jimmy Pransky scuffed his feet self-consciously. “Well, anyway, 

we’re going to make a party of it. Kayla from Accounts Payable is making chili, 
Walt 
Traynor from RDRD is making margaritas, and we’re going to have a classic-Trek 
film 
festival. Wanna come?” 
     Sabra’s innards coiled at the very idea. “Thanks, Jimmy, but I’ll pass. 
Spicy food 
and alcohol are no-nos. I’ve got some things I want to catch up on here.” 
     “Why are you still working? It’s after five, all the management people have 
the 
week off for the holidays, and the big boss is out of town. Relax a little!” 
     “I’ve got to stay sharp if you want that competition,” she said. “Remember, 
I’m 
still trying to get a handle on the computer system.” 
     “Shyah, right!” he scoffed. “Like you don’t know everything already. Okay, 
but 
if you change your mind, we’ll be in the dorm lounge.” 
     “Okay.” 
     He left, and Sabra turned back to her desk with a sigh of relief. Why did 
all the 
cutting-edge companies have to be staffed by overgrown kids whose biggest 
concerns 
(barring the poor social skills that tended to go hand-in-hand with a career in 
the tech 
industry) were when the next version of Quake was going to come out and where 
they 
could find nude pictures of Lucy Lawless on the Internet? 
     Her quarterly review was on top of a thick manila folder. Now that she’d 
been 
with Xanatos Enterprises for three months, she was eligible for the advanced 
health plan. 
She opened the manila folder and began reading over the options that the 
considerate Mr. 
Burnett had carefully highlighted for her. 
     This couldn’t be right! 
     Damn it, what was this, some sort of a joke? There was nothing on here that 

hadn’t been on her previous plan. Up to and including acupuncture, hypnosis, and 
drug 
therapy. 
     “Where’s the rest of it?” she murmured. 
     Acupuncture wasn’t going to fix her legs. Hypnosis wasn’t going to let her 
get 
rid of the catheter that fed into a concealed tank in the base of the chair. 
Drug therapy, 
okay, fine and well, she’d made sure to refill her painkiller prescriptions 
before leaving 
Cyberbiotics but was starting to run low; it was good to know she’d still be 
covered. But 
this was not what she’d been led to expect! 
     Where were all the things they’d told her about? Nerve replacement 
treatment? 
Regenerative tissue compounds? Genetic reconstruction? Cybernetic enhancements? 
Exoskeleton brace-frames with neural interfaces? 
     At the bottom of the last page was an asterisked footnote in very small 
type. 
Sabra couldn’t decipher it even when she leaned close, so she slapped it on her 
scanner, 
enlarged the image, and read it aloud. 
     “Employees who have been with the company for a year or more are eligible 
for 
the Deluxe Care Plan ...” 
     A year or more! 
     She snatched the paper off of the scanner glass and crunched it in her 
clumsy 
fist. A year or more! And what might the Deluxe Plan offer? Suppose it only 
covered 
marijuana for medical purposes, and had a footnote about how those who’d been 
here 
five years or more could get the Ultimate Care Plan? 
     “Don’t you people care I’m dying here?” she moaned to the ceiling tiles. 
     Either the scent of chili had gotten into the ventilation ducts or she was 
hallucinating it. So damn good, but she knew the agony she’d be in if she ate 
even a few 
bites. 
     No caffeine. No spicy foods. No alcohol. No citrus. No carbonated 
beverages. 
No grease. Minimal sugar. Minimal seasonings. 
     With a miserable cry, she slammed her left fist against her thigh. The 
pain, which 
had been at its usual low-key drone, woke and began snarling. Like an animal. 
Like a bear. 
Like a bunch of bears, disturbed in their caves. Only in this case, their caves 
were her 
bones. Pelvis, femurs, the crookedly-stacked disks of her spine. 
     She relaxed her fist and let the crumpled paper fall to the floor. Closing 
her eyes, 
feeling the hot trickle of tears down her left cheek, she concentrated on her 
breathing and 
tried to will those bears back into hibernation. 
     Eventually, it worked as well as it ever did, and she was able to steer her 
chair 
into the attached bathroom and dab cold water on her face. She paused by the 
door, 
listening to the hush of the hall now that everyone had either gone home or 
taken the 
elevator down to the ninety-eighth floor, where the dorm and lounge were 
located. 
     The last thing she wanted right now was company. Instead of seeking out her 

co-workers, she went back to her computer and did just what she’d told Jimmy she 
was 
going to do, delving deeper into the complicated web of Xanatos Enterprises. 
     Every now and then, she ran into a strange blockage or dead end. Intrigued, 
she 
began working at one of them, puzzling around the edges. Interesting that there 
would be 
things Xanatos would keep so well-guarded, even from his own Investigative 
Planning 
Department. 
     Some of the first things she uncovered were related to the gargoyles, and 
Sabra 
nearly yawned. Gargoyles. Big deal. Really, who cared? Not her, that was for 
certain. She 
figured she got more appalled looks from the citizens of Manhattan than even the 
most 
hideous of gargoyles. 
     Ah, but this stuff about cloning ... that was a little more interesting. 
Especially 
the part on brain-taping. No help to her, but interesting all the same. 
     Next, she learned about the mutates and the upgraded Pack. She got into the 

video record library and found each step in the proceedings captured for 
posterity in 
gruesome detail. 
     Why would those people, perfectly healthy and exceedingly fit even before, 
need or want that done to them? 
     Same reason, probably, that perfectly healthy and fit people wanted plastic 

surgery, hair weaves, and liposuction. They were too damn stupid to realize how 
good 
they already had it. 
     She watched the videos again, shivering at the expressions of the subjects 
as 
they put themselves through sheer hell for no reason. 
     Oh, she was tired, she ached, but she couldn’t face going down to the 
ninety- 
eighth floor. Couldn’t face dealing with the pitying-but-trying-not-to-show-it 
attitudes of 
the other snowbound staff. Preferable to put it off and stay here. Even if she 
fell asleep in 
her chair. She’d done it before, and the soreness that would clutch her spine 
after a night 
spent sleeping upright would be better than the grueling task of trying to get 
her chair 
into one of those little rooms, get herself into a narrow bed, and the rest of 
it. 
     “Hello, what have we here?” She’d clicked by mistake. 
     The video showed a room set up like a small private theater, full of 
gargoyles and 
people (and one mutate, she noticed). Including Xanatos himself, and ... was 
that Owen 
Burnett with his tie bound around his head? 
     They looked half-drunk and jovial. A light came up onstage, sensual music 
spilled from the speakers on either side of her monitor, and Sabra’s jaw dropped 
as she 
found herself watching a female gargoyle doing a striptease. Indigo skin and 
miles of 
golden hair and a body like a work of art, reveling in her own sexuality and the 
power she 
wielded over the thunderstruck audience. 
     Sabra groaned harshly and lashed out at the monitor. She struck the on/off 
switch, plunging the screen into blackness, but the music kept winding its way 
into her 
ears, so erotic and compelling, the kind of music that demanded the body sway to 
its 
primal rhythm. Yet when her own body tried to do so, the pain snarled up her 
back again. 
     She turned off the speakers, waited ten minutes, and turned them back on. 
Now 
there was only silence. When she reactivated the monitor, the video clip had 
come to an 
end and she was looking at the menu again. 
     Ah, there ... she’d clicked on something named godiva_bachparty. 
     Godiva. That made sense. All she needed was the white horse and the peeping 
Tom. 
     Wait ... 
     She went back to the stuff she’d found about the gargoyles. They were all 
listed 
alphabetically in the security protocols, the sensors that were supposed to 
compare any 
incoming gargoyle with the ones already registered to prevent unauthorized 
guests. 
Hudson ... Gabriel ... Goliath ... but no Godiva. 
     Not one of the clan, then ... and she thought she remembered seeing that 
name 
elsewhere in her electronic wanderings. She did a quick search, and found it in 
the RDRD 
section. 
     RDRD? 
     That didn’t make sense ... what would a gargoyle stripper have to do with 
Robotics Division Research and Design? 
     Uh-oh, that one wouldn’t open without a password. 
     Sabra thought for a moment, typed COVENTRY, and chuckled bitterly to 
herself 
as it opened up nice as you please. Her chuckle died on her lips as she began to 
read what 
was on the screen. 
  *  * 
January 8th, 2001 
Monday, 9:45 AM 
     “I’ve reviewed the phone records, Mr. Xanatos, and she did not call in 
sick,” 
Owen said. 
     Xanatos rested his elbows on his desk and curled his hands in front of his 
chin. 
    “It’s not like her to be late.” 
     “No, her attendance and punctuality have been exemplary.” 
     “Did you contact the CareVan people?” 
     “I’ll do so immediately.” He flipped up the top of his Rolodex. 
     While Owen did that, Xanatos skimmed the log entries for the past few days 
to 
see if there was anything needing his attention. 
     He and Fox had spent the weekend in San Diego, a much-needed mini-vacation 
of their own after spending the holidays at Dad’s place in Maine. Three days of 
mild 
seventy-degree temperatures and sunshine had taken away the winter blahs. 
     But from the moment he’d set foot in the building late last night, he’d had 
the 
disquieting feeling that something strange had happened while he’d been away. 
     Nothing in the logs supported it. Except for one missed entry, 7:00 
Saturday 
evening, all of the log notes were made right on schedule and contained nothing 
remarkable. 
     Owen hung up, looking mildly perturbed. “The woman I spoke to said that Ms. 

Indrani wasn’t waiting for the van this morning, and didn’t respond when the 
driver 
buzzed her apartment. They put her down as a no-show, though they mean to bill 
her 
anyway.” 
     “Of course they do. No pity in the naked city. Call her, Owen. If you don’t 
get an 
answer, send someone over to check in.” 
     “She has seemed distracted lately,” Owen said as he dialed. “Perhaps she’s 
feeling unwell.” 
     “I’ve been thinking about that ... we should bend the rules and offer her 
complete access to the full range of the company’s ... benefit plan. The sooner 
the 
better. It would be a shame if something were to happen to her, when she has 
such a 
brilliant mind.” 
     “And it wouldn’t hurt to have that brilliant mind forever in your debt,” 
Owen 
added. “There’s no ... ah, the answering machine ... Ms. Indrani, this is Owen 
Burnett; I 
apologize for the imposition, but in accordance with our policy of employer 
concern, 
someone will be coming by your house later this morning to check in with you.” 
He hung 
up. 
     Xanatos kept poring over the weekend’s log. No sick calls at all. No 
problems. 
No nothing. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was rotten in the 
state of 
Denmark. 
     “Did the gargoyles have any excitement while I was gone?” he asked. 
     “No, everything was nicely peaceable. For a change.” 
     Xanatos grinned ruefully, knowing that Owen was referring to Goliath’s 
reaction 
a month ago, upon waking to the news that his cherished Amber had spent the day 
touring Manhattan in the company of such notables as Harry the Hammer, an 
anonymous 
‘tart in a fur coat,’ and Tony Dracon. 
     “I’m glad he’s finally done. I thought Dr. Masters was going to poison 
himself, 
just to make sure he went out quick and easy before Goliath took him apart and 
put him 
back together in interesting ways.” 
     “On a related note, sir, it might be wise to reconsider the childcare 
arrangements. 
With all due respect, I volunteered to look after Alexander. I had no idea that 
my duties 
would extend to include all the clan’s offspring.” 
     “Understood, Owen. Good point. Who’s with Amber now?” 
     “No one; blessedly, she’s sleeping through more now that all of her baby 
teeth 
have come in.” He held out his wrist, showed Xanatos on his watch-monitor the 
image of 
a child sitting by the window in Alex’s nursery. 
     “She never sits still that long unless she’s stone, so you must be right. 
I’ll talk to 
Elisa about it.” He scrolled through the attendance records, then paused. “Hmm 
...” 
     “Trouble, Mr. Xanatos?” 
     “This is odd ... Sabra Indrani clocked out Friday night, but the security 
log 
doesn’t record anyone seeing her leave.” 
     An hour later, as Xanatos was sitting thoughtfully at one of Sabra 
Indrani’s 
computer workstations, Owen came in with more news. 
     “The plot thickens,” he said. “I sent someone over to the apartment as you 
ordered. Our man found a woman from Life Assist talking to the police. They were 
about 
to call us.” 
     “Life Assist -- one of those in-home nursing services?” 
     “Yes. This woman, Tanya Ellersby, said she comes over early Mondays, 
Wednesdays and Fridays to help Ms. Indrani with housekeeping, cooking, and more 
personal matters. When she arrived, no one answered the knock. Mrs. Ellersby 
used her 
spare key to get in. The apartment was just as she’d last seen it, Friday 
morning. The 
meals they’d prepared for the weekend were untouched, the bed hadn’t been slept 
in.” 
     “So she hasn’t been home all weekend.” 
     “That’s how it appears, sir.” 
     Xanatos knocked his knuckles thoughtfully on the edge of the desk. “And 
she’s 
not here, either ... but no one actually saw her leave. Speculations, Owen?” 
     He raised one finger. “Security was lax Friday evening and her departure 
either 
wasn’t seen or wasn’t noted in the log.” He raised the second. “She left by some 
other 
route than the front doors or the parking garage.” He raised the third. “She’s 
still in the 
building.” 
     “Did the CareVan pick her up?” 
     “According to their dispatcher, she called Friday afternoon and canceled, 
claiming to have made other arrangements.” 
     “Other arrangements,” Xanatos mused. “We could be jumping to dire 
conclusions, when she’s done what Fox and I did and gone off for a romantic 
weekend.” 
     Owen just looked at him. 
     “All right, maybe not. But who would have picked her up? She has no family 
in 
the city.” 
     “If I might hazard a guess, Mr. Xanatos?” 
     “Be my guest, Owen.” 
     “Cyberbiotics.” 
     “I see where you’re going with that. She spent the past three and a half 
months 
learning everything she can about Xanatos Enterprises. Then, Friday, with copies 
of all 
our most valuable data in her briefcase, she hopped a ride with an undercover 
Cyberbiotics operative and went back to Renard.” 
     “It’s a possibility.” 
     “I know ... but I don’t think that’s what’s going on here. For one thing, 
she’s 
hard to miss. I can’t imagine her leaving without being seen. Unless your theory 
includes 
a corrupt security guard.” 
     “Always an option.” 
     “For another ... call it a hunch, Owen, but I think your third speculation 
was the 
best. I think she didn’t leave the building Friday night. She could have gotten 
hurt in one 
of the ladies’ rooms, trapped in a supply closet, something like that. I want a 
complete 
search.” 
     “Right away.” Owen pursed his lips. “Though if an injured employee has been 

laying in one of the restrooms all weekend, we’ll want to have a discussion with 
the 
janitorial staff.” 
     “See to it. In the meantime, I’m going to see what files she’s been working 
on 
lately. Just in case there’s something I’m overlooking.” 
  *  * 
     “David, you’re not going to believe what’s happened!” Fox said without 
preamble. 
     He gave her a distracted kiss on the cheek -- actually, he missed, it was 
on the 
ear -- as he and Owen hurried by. “That’s nice, dear.” 
     “David? Where are you going?” 
     “Just checking up on something.” To Owen, he said, “I don’t know how much 
of 
it she might have been able to put together, but if she lets him out, you know 
he isn’t 
going to be happy with us.” 
     Fox followed, still trying. “Someone broke into my window display at 
Devon’s 
Saturday night. The FoxFire Fantasies collection. They stole four of my gowns! 
The ones 
I made for Angela! David, are you listening to me? Who would want -- ” 
     “Lexington and T.J. took every precaution,” Owen said. 
     “Yes, but she’s the best in the business. If she’s decided he can help her, 
none 
of Lex’s passwords are going to keep her out.” 
     “Who?” Fox increased her pace to keep up. “David, Owen, what’s going on? 
Are 
we going to the dungeon? What have you been up to now?” 
     “I’ll explain later,” David said, which was an improvement, at least he was 

answering instead of ignoring. Then he opened a door, he and Owen promptly 
filled the 
doorway, both of them groaned in dismay, and Fox couldn’t see what made them so 
aghast. 
     “I hate it when I’m right.” David slammed a fist on the doorjamb. “But I 
hate it 
more when I’m almost right.” 
     Fox shoved between them. “Will one of you clowns tell me what is ... oh, my 

God, David, who’s that woman, what’s wrong with her?” 
     “Her name’s Sabra Indrani,” David said, moving further into the room. 
“She’s 
with my Investigative Planning Department. Or was.” 
     “Is she dead?” 
     “No,” Owen said, having regained his composure. “She’s alive. Barely, and 
for 
how long, I don’t know ... not that it matters.” 
     “Oh, hell.” David waved his hand in front of the woman’s open, staring 
eyes. 
then he straightened up and looked at Owen. “Indrani. Goddess of the sky. And 
what did 
I say?” 
     “If memory serves, you said ‘how fitting,’” Owen replied. 
     “Remind me to kick myself later.” 
     “Noted.” 
  *  * 
January 6th, 2001 
Saturday, 6:30 PM 
     Sabra opened her eyes and blinked until her vision cleared. 
     What time was it? she wondered. 
     Instantly, she knew. 6:32 P.M., on the evening of January 6th, 2001. 
Eastern 
Standard Time. Saturday. 
     She inhaled deeply, the bottom of her peripheral vision catching a deep 
blue and 
gold coverlet rising and falling with her breath. For once, she didn’t awaken to 
cramps 
anywhere in her body, and she was content to lie here not hurting for as long as 
she 
could. 
     In fact, she actually felt good for a change. She’d had days where no part 
of 
her was giving her particular misery, but this was different. This was how she 
remembered 
waking up on summer mornings when she was a kid. 
     She yawned and stretched ... 
     ... and froze. 
     Stretched with both arms? 
     Slowly, she raised her right arm. It moved easily and painlessly into her 
line of 
sight. 
     Now she had a cramp, but it was a cramp in her brain as she saw the 
shapely blue-skinned limb. 
     She brought her left hand to rub her eyes, but halted it inches away to 
stare at 
the four fingers tipped in shiny gold polish. Then, ever-so-carefully, she 
touched her face. 
     Her forehead rose into a row of thin quills that swept back like a tiara. 
Instead of 
eyebrows, she had thick ridges. Her nose was pert, her cheekbones high, she 
could _feel_ 
on both sides of her face instead of just on the left, the legacy of the nerve 
damage 
erased. 
     “What’s happened to me?” she said, feeling the full pouty lips move beneath 
her 
fingertips, expelling the words as if she were blowing kisses rather than 
speaking. 
     It flooded into her mind, the knowledge of what she’d done. 
     Claiming she had extra work to catch up on, staying late Friday night until 
the 
janitorial crews were done and the security guards were engrossed in the 
late-late-late 
shows. 
     Re-routing their cameras just in case, so they couldn’t follow her 
progress. 
     Using a password she wasn’t supposed to have to make the elevator take her 
to 
the castle level. 
     Finding the workroom secreted away where the dungeons used to be. 
     And then ... 
     She sat up, every muscle working smoothly and in concert, spine flexing 
easily. 
She swung her long, lovely legs over the side of the slab and extended her feet, 
taking in 
the promising curves of calf and thigh, the ballerina-arched talons with gold 
tips, the 
spurs rising from her knees. All of it in deepest indigo. 
     Oh, yes, mustn’t forget the tail that draped off the slab like a tropical 
serpent 
lounging on a branch. 
     She tried to curl it and did, bringing the spade-shaped tip off of the 
floor. 
     Her delighted laugh was Mae West noting that when she was bad, she was 
better. No fish-choking seal, not anymore. 
     Shifting her shoulders, she heard and felt wings moving against her back. 
First 
left, then right, she extended them in midnight blue fans, then brought them 
around her 
body like a cloak. 
     She hopped down from the slab and stood upright, looking amazedly around 
the 
room from the perspective of more than six feet in height. 
     Nearby was a computer with a VR helmet hooked up to it, and a small box 
that 
looked like a tape drive (with the GENERAL logo on the side, she saw, and 
remembered 
buying it on the black market a week ago along with the other equipment). 
     And sitting in front of the computer ... 
     Sabra moaned in horror and backed away until her tail bumped into 
something. 
Oh, she’d avoided her reflection for years, always sure that the reality was as 
bad as she 
imagined it to be, but now, seeing it from the outside, the reality was worse 
than she’d 
imagined, a million times worse! Even what few unavoidable mirrors she’d passed 
hadn’t 
shown her the full extent! 
     Then again, maybe it was because mirrors and imaginings had never shown her 

catatonic, with a slack mouth and blankly staring eyes. It was like looking at 
an exhumed 
corpse. If not for the shallow movements of the chest, the figure in the 
wheelchair could 
have been dead. 
     She turned away, but not before seeing the threads of blood that had dried 
on 
the old Sabra’s temple, crusted around a metal ring the size of a half-dollar. 
     Yes, she remembered that, too. The brain tape implant, which she’d pressed 
against the side of her head with her thumb until it clicked and the sharp 
spiderlike rays 
around its outer edge had snapped over to dig into her skin ... the squeal of 
the needle- 
drill concealed within the device burrowing through her skull ... the way her 
eye on that 
side had squeezed helplessly shut as the probe sank into her brain ... the 
subaudible 
vibration as the recording process began ... 
     She had no recollection of removing the tape and putting it into the drive. 
Which 
made a certain amount of sense. She knew she must have done it, though. Must 
have 
made all the right connections, then transferred the data on the brain tape into 
the memory 
of the Godiva robot. 
     Robot? Unfair word. Robots couldn’t feel, and she did. As if every nerve in 

her synthetic (but so lifelike!) skin was alive and humming, every muscle in her 
artificial 
(but so perfect!) body was operating at peak performance. Robots couldn’t think, 

either, could only do what they were programmed to do. 
     “It worked!” She wanted to shout, spoke softly instead. “It worked, I’m 
alive, I 
can walk, I can move, I’m whole!” 
     She hugged herself, then ran her palms over her torso. She was nude, the 
harem- 
girl outfit from the video nowhere in sight. Her breasts were huge but upright 
and gravity- 
defiant (when she stroked them, she felt the tingle as her blue-black nipples 
drew erect; 
was it a function of her mind or had the engineers somehow managed to simulate 
even 
that?), her waist narrow, her hips flaring, her buttocks high and taut, with 
that tail 
sprouting from the base of her spine and those wings from her shoulderblades. 
     Oh, alive and whole, able to touch, able to react to a touch, wonderfully 
vibrant 
and fresh and full of sensation! 
  *  * 
     Breckenridge liked the day shifts the best. 
     He worked a rotating schedule, four ten-hour shifts Friday through Monday. 
    One week it would be days, 6:00 AM to 4:00 PM. The next week, swings, 2:00 
PM to 
midnight. The third week, graveyard shift, 10:00 PM to 8:00 AM. 
     Played hell with his sleep schedule, and played hell with his marriage too; 
Mary 
Ann had left him two years after he’d come to work for Xanatos Enterprises and 
was now 
married to a nine-to-fiver up in New Jersey someplace. But the pay was good, the 
perks 
were good, and the occasional dash of weirdness kept things interesting. 
     Still, he liked the day shifts best. Even on the weekends, there were 
people 
coming and going, some willing to stop and chat for a few minutes. 
     The swing shift, though, especially on the weekends, was mind-numbingly 
dull. 
     That was the thought that was going through his head at quarter to seven 
that 
Saturday evening, when the elevator doors slid open and _she_ stepped out. 
     He’d been eating a Mars bar and dropped it into his VIP Magazine, smearing 
chocolate and nougat across Drew Barrymore’s cleavage -- something that many men 

might have liked to do in real life, but Drew had nothing on the indigo goddess 
crossing 
the lobby toward him. 
     “Fell asleep at your post, Breck,” he told himself. “Fell asleep and you’re 

dreaming. Dreaming like a sex-starved teenager. Good God, man, it hasn’t been 
that 
long since you got laid!” 
     “How long has it been?” the indigo goddess asked huskily. There was a half- 

taunting, half-inviting smile on her lips. 
     “Uh ... uhhurrr ...” he said, her voice playing his nerves like a harp. 
     “You’re looking at me,” she crooned. “Do you enjoy what you see?” 
     He bobbled the approximation of a nod. 
     “What else do you enjoy?” She unfurled the wings that had been caped around 

her shoulders and swung her head so that her ankle-length curtain of golden hair 
rippled 
like sun on a waterfall. 
     He couldn’t say a word, though he was thinking plenty. 
     “Do you know what I enjoy?” 
     “What?” he blurted. 
     “Dancing,” she sighed, and rolled her hips in a slow circle. “It’s been so 
long 
since I went dancing. So that’s what I’m going to do. But it’ll be our secret, 
won’t it?” 
     He bobbled again. 
     “I could even dance for you, if you want.” 
     “Oh-kaay,” he exhaled gustily. 
     Music came from somewhere; he had no idea where. The radio in his console 
was set to the game, the building didn’t have a Muzak system, and his visitor 
sure had 
noplace to conceal a Walkman. Yet there was music. Of the sort that called to 
mind snake- 
charmers, flying carpets, and dark eyes over sheer veils. 
     The breathtaking creature in front of him began to undulate to the rhythm, 
her 
flawless Helen of Troy face set in an expression of pure rapture. She didn’t 
have any 
clothes to start with -- buckytail nekkid! a voice in Breckenridge’s head 
warbled crazily -- 
yet she still gave the impression of revealing more and more of herself in 
tantalizing 
glimpses. 
     Long after she’d danced her way out the front doors, Breckenridge was still 

seeing her before him. He didn’t snap out of it until almost an hour later, and 
by the time 
he remembered that he’d neglected to make his seven o’clock log entry, he was 
past 
caring. 
  *  * 
     The CareVan took her past Ground Zero ten times a week, but it was always 
closed and dark and silent. An old marquee out front that suggested the place 
might have 
been a movie theater before it was converted into a nightclub. And on the 
marquee, week 
in and week out, were the words that had drawn her here. 
     DISCO FEVER EVERY SATURDAY 7 TO 2 LADIES NIGHT 
     Now, at eight o’clock at night, the place was no longer closed, no longer 
dark, 
and certainly no longer silent. Music pounded through the walls, intensifying 
briefly each 
time the front door opened. The crowd was an amiable mix of retro and Goth, with 
a 
sprinkling of punk thrown in. 
     Sabra crouched on the roof of a grocery across the street, bathed in neon 
that 
turned her strapless white dress to a rainbow of colors and made the gold mesh 
belt glint 
like fire. 
     The cold didn’t bother her, though the city was still piled with drifts 
that had 
been plowed, half-melted, re-frozen, and turned into sooty ice sculptures. 
      She wasn’t sure if she dared trust these wings to flight, but her claws 
and strong 
limbs were excellent for climbing. She hadn’t even needed to try and escape 
anyone; the 
men that saw her could only gape like she was a mirage, and the women either 
pointedly 
ignored her (those who were with the men), or glared and said, “Slut!” (those 
who were in 
the company of their fellow women). 
     Strange, how it didn’t seem to matter that she had indigo skin, wings, and 
a tail. 
Didn’t matter to them, didn’t matter to her. Because what did matter was that 
she had 
the most fantastic body in New York, was the best dancer anywhere, and the time 
had 
come to show it off. 
     The current song was 'Love Machine,' which made Sabra laugh as she leaped 
from the grocer’s roof into the street. Her wings spread automatically, and she 
glided to a 
graceful touchdown, settling that question and attracting a lot of attention. 
     Everyone gathered outside the club, ignoring the sharp bite of the clear 
winter’s 
night in hopes of getting inside, left off their lively conversations to look at 
her. She fixed 
her smoking gaze on the man at the door. 
     He was shorter than her but burly, the sleeves of his black T-shirt torn 
away to 
expose tattoos, with a shaved head and a single gold tooth in the front of his 
mouth. The 
sort of man that would have terrified and intimidated her only yesterday, but 
when she 
got close and saw how he was transfixed by the jiggle and sway, she just smiled. 

     “I’m Godiva,” she said. 
     “Go on ahead,” he said, shaking his head in awe, and opened the door for 
her. 
     She crossed into smoky laser-shot darkness and headed for the neon-edged 
dance floor where a hundred couples were packed into the small space, spangled 
with 
fleeting light from the glittering ball that hung and revolved overhead. 
     Sabra ... no, Godiva ... strode to the center, a path clearing before her 
as if by 
magic as awed dancers turned to watch her passage. “Love Machine” ended, but the 

deejay made no move to put on another tune, staring out through his wired-glass 
cage. 
     A silence fell across Ground Zero, like the silence in a Western when a 
desperado pushes through the saloon doors and gets ready to raise some hell. 
     Instead of slapping leather, Godiva stretched out one arm and moved her 
fingers 
as if to caress the deejay’s face long-distance. “I’ve waited over twenty years 
to dance to 
‘Oh What a Night.’ Please.” 
     He scrambled among his records -- actual vinyl, even! -- and triumphantly 
held 
one up. Moments later, the song was playing, and Godiva began to dance. 
     They watched, and she basked in it. She basked in the lustful eyes of the 
men, 
the venomous eyes of the women. 
     Hypnotizing, mesmerizing ... 
     What a lady, what a night ... 
     Want me! Envy me! her soul screamed as her body gave itself over to the 
music. 
     When the song ended, she was swarmed by men, their partners left behind 
like 
wads of chewed gum, and rather than pick one, she danced with them all. 
     The next number was ‘Twilight Zone’ by Golden Earring, not really disco but 
she 
didn’t care; maybe the deejay had chosen it as a commentary on the weirdness of 
having 
a gargoyle on the dance floor; didn’t matter, because it had the sexiest driving 
beat that 
let her do the most outrageous things with her hips and tail. 
     Oh, and they did want her, she could feel the evidence of it whenever one 
of 
them pulled her into his arms, she writhed so well against a tall tanned blond 
during a 
slow song that he nearly came in his pants right there in front of everyone, and 
she loved 
it, reveled in it, the sweet delicious power! 
     She could have drawn him down and taken him right there, taken them all one 

after another, left them drained yet begging for more ... but she didn’t want 
her first lover 
to be a group of anonymous strangers. 
     No, she had already decided who her first lover was going to be. 
  *  * 
January 7th, 2001 
Sunday, 6:10 PM 
     She’d spent the day on a rooftop, in a sort of semi-aware downtime that 
approximated the gargoyle habit of turning to stone at dawn. As long as she was 
emulating one of those creatures, she figured she might as well play by the 
rules. 
     It made sense, too ... the streets were much more crowded by day, and she 
would 
attract too much attention. By night, her deep blue shade blended well with the 
sky and 
she was more free to move about unnoticed. 
     During that downtime, she turned her thoughts inward. Not to what she had 
done and what she was doing, but feeling her way through the systems that 
powered her 
new body. Exploring the rudimentary memory banks. 
     There was a lot of information about gargoyles in there. Physical details, 
behaviors, things of that sort. All she had to do was think a question, and the 
answer 
would spring full-blown into her conscious mind. It was almost like her head was 
a lecture 
hall, where a professor with a sardonic, rather witty way of talking and a 
vaguely 
European accent was always willing to discourse on the topic of gargoyles. 
     Sabra ... no. 
    Godiva. 
     Godiva didn’t bother dwelling on the psychological makeup of gargoyles. 
Protecting? Who cared? A clan? Who needs one? 
     All she wanted was just what she now had. Freedom. Freedom from the hateful 

prison where she’d rotted alive for over two decades. 
     When the sun went down, she’d roused herself from her state of near-torpor 
and 
stretched from head to tail. A thin rime of frost that had formed over her skin 
crackled and 
fell away. Not stone, but not bad, she thought amusedly. 
     Another cold night was settling over Manhattan. The cold didn’t affect 
Godiva. 
Nor was she troubled by hunger or thirst. She supposed eventually she might need 
to 
figure out what powered her body and recharge it, but in the meantime, she was 
free of 
those basic concerns. 
     She shook out her wings, petting their velvety texture. 
     Time to give those babies a test-drive. 
     Godiva went to the edge of the roof and looked down at the cars moving in 
the 
intersection below. Fear tried to grip her, but she jumped before it could get a 
good hold. 
     She plunged, and then her instincts (programming? whatever) kicked in. She 
laughed aloud and joyously as she soared between the buildings, skimmed past her 

beautiful reflection in banks of mirrored windows. Twisted and turned and 
sky-pirouetted 
and looped and twirled and dove and rolled, a concert of movement, every limb 
responding perfectly, her hair a garland of gold streaming through the night. 
     Better than walking! 
     Better than dancing! 
     Better than sex? 
     Only one way to find out. 
     Purposeful now, she left off with her aerobatics and glided through the 
city. It 
was a lot harder to figure out where she was going from up here, but she 
supposed she 
would get the hang of it soon enough. This certainly beat hunching in the back 
of the 
CareVan as it crawled through the crowded streets! 
     She didn’t find her destination until nearly midnight, and all the windows 
were 
dark. No, not quite; there was a single small light, perhaps a reading lamp, in 
one of the 
bedrooms. 
     Godiva descended to the wide ledge and folded her wings into a cloak. She 
cleared a circle on the icy glass and peered in. 
     Oh, oh yes. 
     There he was. 
     He’d fallen asleep reading, with a lamp on the nightstand casting a pale 
gold 
glow across the bed. Several pillows were propped up behind him, and the crisp 
white 
sheet was drawn to his waist. A book rested on his bare chest, and his head was 
tipped to 
the side, his cheek resting against his shoulder. 
     A tingle pulsed in Godiva’s belly and rippled outward, increasing instead 
of 
diminishing so that by the time it reached her head, it left her swimming in 
pleasant 
dizziness. 
     “Jason.” 
     He didn’t stir, couldn’t hear. That was okay. 
     “Oh, Jason.” 
     She wedged her gold-enameled nails into the window frame and broke it open 
with an effortless strength. The wintry air swirled into the room, making Jason 
Canmore 
shiver in his sleep and pull the sheet up to his neck. 
     Godiva hopped lightly to the carpeted floor and shut the window behind her. 
She 
took two steps and stopped in her tracks, staring at the image of a gargoyle. 
     His bedroom also served as his studio, and several of his paintings hung on 
the 
wall. Many were the detailed cityscapes that had begun to earn him such acclaim 
in the 
local galleries, but interspersed among them were darker, more frightening 
scenes. 
     The same figure featured in all of them. A female gargoyle, scarlet over 
azure, 
beautiful face contorted in a terrifying sneer. In the most unsettling of the 
paintings, she 
was standing over the crumpled body of a man in a red and black mask, hands on 
her 
hips, head thrown back, her expression one of cruel mirth. 
     Godiva touched one of the canvases, part of her marveling at the sensors 
that let 
her detect the individual bumps and brushstrokes, the rest of her torn between 
admiration 
and concern. 
     Giving herself a little shake, she turned away from the paintings and 
approached 
the bed. Jason had turned onto his side, and from this angle she could see the 
defined 
muscles of his back even through the sheet. His book had fallen to the floor, 
and she 
considerately picked it up. 
     “On the Evils of the Daemon,” the title read. And beneath it, the author’s 
name, 
Donald Canmore. 
     Frowning, Godiva put the book on the desk, beside an opened envelope with 
the 
Anvil Corporation logo in the corner. She looked at Jason, and her frown melted 
away. 
     “Jason,” she said again, throaty contralto. 
     He mumbled unintelligibly and rolled onto his back. The sheet outlined him 
from 
breastbone to knee, and again Godiva felt that rippling tingle. 
     She touched his dark hair, trailed her three fingers down the plane of his 
cheek to 
the strong shelf of his jaw. 
     His hand flashed up and clamped around her wrist. His turquoise eyes 
snapped 
open, instantly alert, warrior reflexes ... then flew wide in shock at the sight 
of her. 
     Godiva gasped and tried to pull away but he held on tightly as he sat up. 
     “Who are you?” he demanded harshly. “What are you doing here?” 
     Didn’t he recognize ... no, of course not! 
     “Who sent you?” he went on when she couldn’t reply. “The Demon?” 
     She shook her head and found her voice. “No one sent me, Jason. I came to 
you 
on my own.” 
     “Who are you?” he asked again, crushing her wrist until a flesh and blood 
creature would have winced from the pain. “What do you want?” 
     She covered his hand with her other, not to pry it away but in a gentle 
caress. “I’m 
Godiva. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. All I want ... all I want ... is to 
make love 
to you.” 
     He jerked as if she’d slapped him. “To what?!” 
     “Jason,” she purred, savoring his name. “Let me touch you. Let me kiss you 
and 
taste you and lick you all over. I want to feel your cock in my mouth, I want to 
suck on it 
and roll my tongue around it. I want your hands on me, all over me, do whatever 
you want 
to me, use me, I’ll be anything you want, anything you need.” 
     He let go as if her wrist was on fire and recoiled, but the thin sheet 
proved that 
her words had not been without effect. “What ... what ...?” 
     “Don’t I excite you? I think I do ... I know I do. Look at my body, Jason. 
Look at 
these breasts. Here --” she tugged the top of her dress down to her waist. “Look 
at them. 
Oh, touch them, please touch them, I’ve wanted you for so long, don’t send me 
away, not 
when all I want to do is make us both feel good.” 
     Jason stared. “But ... ye’re a gargoyle!” 
     Godiva chuckled. “When you’re under stress, your accent comes out. That’s 
so 
sexy.” She undid her gold mesh belt. Only the flare of her hips was keeping her 
dress from 
slipping all the way off. “So I’m a gargoyle? Aren’t I beautiful?” 
     “Yes ... what kind of trick is this?” he cried. 
     “Shh, quiet! Don’t wake your sister! What would she think if she found us 
here 
like this?” 
     “Ye’ll have te leave,” he said thickly. 
     “I’ve waited so long for this. I never thought I’d have the chance. Jason, 
I 
need you! Can you honestly look at me and say that you don’t want me?” 
     He looked, and she preened before him, extending her wings, turning this 
way 
and that, and when her back was to him, she pushed her dress down so her tail, 
buttocks, 
and long gorgeous legs were exposed to his view. 
     “I’m a dancer,” she said, glancing back coyly over her shoulder. “Would you 
like 
me to dance for you?” 
     He squeezed his eyes shut. 
     “Oh, you silly,” Godiva crooned affectionately. On cue, from somewhere in 
her 
circuits, her onboard sound system activated and the haunting, seductive strains 
of 
Eastern music floated through the room. 
     Jason opened one eye and shut it again quickly when he saw her looking at 
him. 
But could he keep them shut? 
     Not at all. 
     He had the sheet bunched in his lap, but even that couldn’t conceal the 
fact that 
he was soon in what her high-school chums would have called a pre-dick-ament. 
     Slowly and sinuously, Godiva began to writhe to the rhythm. She used her 
hair 
and wings as curtain and fans, alternately concealing and revealing, wishing for 
the 
bangles and cymbals she’d seen on the video. 
     As she danced, she stroked herself with a lover’s touch, showing him how 
ready 
she was, how willing, how eager. Her fingers moved over the hairless mound 
between her 
legs; it felt like warm suede and was as plump as a ripe peach; when she was 
sure Jason 
was watching avidly with both eyes, she wetted her fingers in her mouth and then 
slid 
them inside herself, moaning softly as she did so. 
     He sprang from his bed, the sheet wrapped around his waist. “Ye’ll have te 
leave!” he said again, much more insistently this time. 
     Godiva dropped with languid grace across the bed he’d just abandoned, her 
hair 
spread over the bottom sheet in a torrent of gold. She parted her thighs wide, 
using both 
hands to masturbate as she kept rolling her hips to the music. 
     “I know you want me, Jason! Here I am for you!” 
     Inspiration struck, and she brought her tail up between her legs. The 
spade- 
shaped tip reached her mouth and she began nibbling at it, and settled the thick 
length 
along her opening, not penetrating, but undulating her tail, sliding it back and 
forth. 
     “Ah, God!” Jason groaned, gaze fixed on her performance. 
     “Mmm, I like that,” Godiva sighed. “I’d like you better, though. I’m so 
hot! I 
don’t think a tail will be enough. So drop that damned sheet and fuck me!” 
     His jaw was clenched, his fists were clenched, his shoulders were shaking 
... then 
he gave in with a hoarse cry and threw the sheet to the floor. A new wave of 
heat crashed 
through Godiva when he came striding toward her, his legs magnificent, his 
erection 
jutting stiff and proud from a patch of dark curls. 
     He fell on her and she pulled him down, and with unerring aim he hit the 
mark 
and thrust hilt-deep. They cried out together, her in vindication, him in 
agonized lust. 
     A terrible remorse starkened his face, and she realized he was horrified at 
the 
thought of his cock sunk into an inhuman place. Before he could leap up, she 
wrapped her 
legs around him and dug her nails into his back. 
     “Oh, no you don’t!” she panted. “You’re going to finish this fuck, and 
you’re 
going to enjoy it!” 
     With that, she began pushing her hips up at him in earnest. She stole his 
mouth 
with a deep tongue-kiss to muffle his protesting shout. He tried to pull away, 
then gave in 
and was kissing her frantically, fondling her breasts, and driving into her so 
forcefully that 
the bed creaked and thudded. 
     “Aiiieeee!” Godiva shrieked. Oh, overload, overload, she was sure that she 
was 
going to blow a fuse and be reduced to a smoking pile of spare parts, oh, it was 
so good, 
this was what she’d been missing all those lost years, better than 
walking-dancing- 
gliding, yes, she came in one shattering explosion after another. 
     Her frenzied gyrations sent Jason over the edge too. He pounded against 
her, 
the muscles in his jaw, neck, shoulders, arms, standing out in vivid relief. 
Sweat slicked 
his back. His expression was one of exquisite passion and torment. 
     Then she felt the first spurt of his fluids deep within her, and he 
clenched a 
double fistful of her hair and kissed her so hard that her head was pressed down 
in the 
mattress, and went on and on, emptying himself, as if it would never end. 
     He collapsed atop her, dead weight and quivering. She could feel the 
thunderous 
hammering of his heart. Could hear it ... 
     ... No, that was the door ... 
     “Jason! Jason!” 
     SLAM! 
     “Jason! Answer me!” 
     SLAM! 
     The door leaped in its frame, presumably as Robyn Canmore kicked it or 
threw 
her shoulder against it from the outside. 
     “Shit!” Robyn exclaimed vehemently. 
     BANG! 
     The gunshot was followed by a scree of metal. Half of the lock showered 
into the 
room in little metal pellets. Smoke curled up from the hole in the door. 
     “Roh ...” Jason tried. He pushed himself partway up, groaned, and sank back 

down on Godiva’s breasts. “Robyn!” Too quiet to be heard more than a yard away. 
     Godiva, having no desire to end this night with a bullet to her central 
processing 
unit, kissed Jason one last lingering time and helped him roll off of her. She 
was getting 
out of bed as another ... 
     SLAM! 
     ... broke the door inwards in fragments. Robyn Canmore, wearing a shortie 
nightie, tumbled through the wreckage. 
     Before the blonde woman could regain her feet or get her bearings, Godiva 
ran to 
the window, scooping up her discarded dress as she went. She tore it open, heard 
Jason’s 
yelp as he was bathed in another swirl of icy air, and dove headlong into the 
night. 
     Getting dressed in mid-air was out of the question. She glided nude and 
serene, 
every now and then doing a giddy little loop as the amazement of what she’d just 
done 
came bubbling back up. 
     The sight of the Aerie Building looming in front of her brought her to a 
halt. She 
backwinged and landed on a ledge, staring at the skyscraper and the castle atop 
it. 
     Okay, she thought, this is it. Party time over. You’ve done what you set 
out to 
do. You danced, you made love, you had a weekend alive for a change. You know 
what 
you have to do now. 
     She exhaled and bowed her head, looking down at her shapely legs with their 

high, arched feet, and the tail that coiled around them. Then, with a sigh, she 
stepped off 
the ledge and unfurled her wings once more. 
  *  * 
January 8th, 2001 
Monday, 5:50 PM 
     “So that’s where we are,” Xanatos said, spreading his hands to show he’d 
put all 
of his cards on the table. 
     “Two nights ago,” Goliath rumbled thoughtfully. “And there’s been nothing?” 

     “Nothing. I’m sorry to dump this on you right when you wake up, but I’m 
going 
to need your help.” 
     “And what would you have us do?” 
     “She’s out there somewhere, and she’s kind of hard to miss. I want her 
found 
and brought back before she’s front-page news. It’s not going to do your cause 
any good 
to have her running around out there.” 
     “We are a clan, not a cause.” 
     “Okay, so it’s not going to do your clan any good to have her running 
around 
out there. Think about it, Goliath. Think about what she is, what she can do.” 
     "Such as what?" Goliath inquired skeptically. "She's no warrior." 
     "No, it's worse." 
     "Worse?" 
     Xanatos drummed his fingers and chewed his lip. "I ... oh, hell. The Godiva 
robot 
contains a chip. A very special kind of chip." 
     "What have you done?" Goliath's voice began an ominous rise. 
     "The chip emits a subsonic frequency ... loaded with subliminal arousal 
cues." 
     "Explain." 
     "Anybody around her ... gets turned on. Sexually. I didn't activate the 
chip 
during the party. Didn't think I had to. But if anyone can unlock the codes and 
actually 
use the damned thing, it's Sabra Indrani." 
     “Why on earth did you --” 
     “I hear that familiar tone of accusation coming through,” Xanatos said, 
rolling 
his eyes. “You think this is all my fault. Hunh. Try to do a friend a favor for 
his bachelor 
party, and --” 
     “I did not ask you to. Look how much trouble it’s already caused.” 
     “We’re talking about an expensive piece of equipment here. Which reminds 
me, 
don’t damage the goods.” 
     Goliath gave him a withering look. “There is a living woman inside that 
automaton, Xanatos. We cannot harm her.” 
     “Fair enough. All I ask is that she be brought back. Will you try?” 
     “Very well,” Goliath said. 
  *  * 
     “Look on the bright side,” Lex said. 
     “Yeah?” Brooklyn glanced back at him. “What’s that?” 
     “At least this babe wasn’t programmed with every battle move we know.” 
     “It’s her other moves that I’m worried about,” Brooklyn muttered darkly. 
     “You’ve still got her panties, don’t you? The ones she threw at you.” 
     “Lex!” He looked around fast to make sure no one was in earshot, but it was 
just 
the two of them as they skimmed past the Chrysler Building. “That’s not it.” 
     “But you do.” 
     “Shut up.” 
     “Okay, okay, so if it’s not that, what is it?” 
     “I dunno ... chivalry?” 
     “Oh, is that why it was always me getting stuck beating up on Fox and 
Hyena?” 
     “Don’t think chivalry applies to them. Sure as hell not Hyena.” 
     “Then what is your point? Do you have one? Or are you just running your 
beak?” 
     “Pretty sassy to the future leader.” He tossed a mock punch Lex’s way. 
    “Seriously, this whole thing bugs me.” 
     “Because of Sevarius?” 
     “Hey, you and T.J. swore he was out of the picture for good. I’m taking 
your 
word for it. Don’t make me doubt you.” 
     “Oh ... heh ...” Lex grinned. 
     “No, it’s because of that woman. What’s her name. Indrani. This isn’t like 
the 
mutates. Nobody did this to her. She chose it. Who are we to tell her it’s 
wrong?” 
     “You heard Goliath and Angela talking about Mr. Renard and the time he got 
into the golem. Or what about the time Jackal invited the god of the dead into 
him? Or the 
whole Pack; they all chose what happened to them.” 
     “Yeah, but this isn’t the same. She’s not hurting anyone. You said yourself 

Godiva doesn’t have any weapons.” 
     “Just that pair of .38’s --” he started salaciously. 
     “Dammit, Lex, come on!” 
     “Sorry. Okay, I see where you’re going with this. She chose to do this, for 
all we 
know she’s happy.” 
     “Like Aiden. Nobody made her become a gargoyle. What would you think if 
Titania or someone showed up and tried to repossess her body?” 
     “That’s not the same,” Lex said, sounding troubled. 
     “It’s close enough. We’re not going after Godiva because she’s evil. We’re 
going after her because Xanatos is in a snit about someone outsmarting him, 
that’s why. I 
don’t even buy that bit about how expensive she was. Sure, that sort of 
technology can’t 
come cheap --” 
     “Yeah, she’s totally stota,” Lex said. 
     “Stota?” 
     “State Of The Art,” Lex clarified. 
     “Nerdspeak?” 
     “Never mind. But I see what you’re saying. It’s not worth Xanatos’ time to 
stop 
on the street to pick up a fifty dollar bill; he won’t break the bank if he 
doesn’t get Godiva 
back. Especially because all she was doing before this was sitting in the 
dungeon 
collecting dust.” 
     “Right! He’s being like a selfish kid. That’s his toy, even if he wasn’t 
ever 
going to play with it again.” 
     “I bet Fox would have a few things to say about that.” Lex chuckled. 
     “But along comes this woman, stuck in a wheelchair, her life must totally 
suck, 
and all of a sudden she’s got a chance to walk again? Not just walk, but be one 
of the 
most stone-bitchin’ babes on the planet. And we’re going to take it away from 
her.” He 
growled in disgust. “As long as she’s not hurting anyone, we should just leave 
her 
alone.” 
     “What about for her own good? There’s still a lot of humans out there who 
don’t 
like gargoyles. Even stone-bitchin’ babe gargoyles. Sabra doesn’t know what 
she’s 
getting into. She’s out there with no clan, but plenty of enemies. She’s going 
to need 
help.” 
  *  * 
     You’re not really going back there, are you? 
     Who said that? Who are you? 
     Oh, just call me your ... conscience. The little angel sitting on your 
shoulder. 
     I don’t understand. 
     Never mind. Just listen. You know what will happen if you go back. 
     ... Yes ... 
     Yes. Back into your old body. Back to a life of helplessness, loneliness, 
and pain. 
You’re not ready to do that yet. 
     But I’m a day overdue already! I only meant to be gone for the weekend. I 
should 
have gone back last night. They might have already found out, when I didn’t show 
up for 
work this morning. I could lose my job. 
     A job seems like a small price to pay for having your freedom. 
     What? You ... you can’t mean ... stay like this? 
     Why not? You’re strong, quick, beautiful. You can have any man you desire, 
as 
often as you desire. If you go back, you’ll lose all that. Can you live like 
that? 
     I’ve lived like that for a long time -- 
     And hated every minute of it! Now you’ve seen what life can be like. Are 
you 
willing to give that up? Remember how it felt to dance? How it felt to have 
everyone 
looking at you, admiring you, wanting you? Remember how it felt to see the lust 
in your 
chosen paramour’s eyes? You know what you’d see if you went back to those places 
in 
your old body, don’t you? Tell me. Would the people at the discotheque admire 
you? 
     No. They’d ... they’d ... 
     Pity you. So would Canmore. Pity, and revulsion. The same things you’ve 
seen 
for twenty years! You’re insane if you give up and go back to that! When you 
could have 
all of this! 
     Who are you? 
     Consider me a friend. I do have your best interests ... both of our best 
interests at heart. 
     But my job ...! 
     What can it give you? A paycheck. What does your paycheck go for now? Rent, 

food, doctor’s office co-pays, prescriptions ... all the things you don’t need 
in this 
body! 
     My computer ... 
     Rubbish! You only used it as an escape hatch from your wretched life! Think 
of 
all you’d be giving up by going back! 
     I only meant to have this one weekend. One weekend ... 
     “Just one day and then, I swear I’ll be content ... with my share ... won’t 
resent, 
won’t despair, old and bent, I won’t care, I’ll have ... spent ... one ... day 
... out there!!!” 
I’ve been told I have a good singing voice, don’t you agree? But really, Sabra 
-- 
     Godiva! 
     Godiva, then. See? You don’t even want to be reminded of your old name. And 
I 
don’t blame you, not for a minute. 
     But I wasn’t ... 
     Oh, I’ve heard your arguments before. The having of the moment is worth the 

losing of it. The pain can make the little pleasures shine brighter. And to 
that, Godiva, I 
say nonsense! Your life, my dear, sucked. And if you go back to it with the 
memory of this 
weekend, you will regret it and hate it for the rest of your days. 
     But if I don’t go back, they’ll figure it out. They’ll come looking for me. 

     Oh, absolutely. And if they find you, they’ll strap you down and rip your 
consciousness out of that luscious body. You’ll be back in the old one, in agony 

because I can personally assure you that brain tape transferences are much more 
painful when inserted into a living host. And in the end, you’ll still lose your 
job. 
     Then why should I listen to you? I should go back now and make sure they 
don’t find out! 
     No, no, no! You should make sure you don’t get caught! 
     Whoever you are, you’re insane! Where would I go? What would I do? I want 
to 
be whole, but I don’t want to live as a fugitive! 
     That’s something you should have thought of before making your selection of 

hosts. I’m afraid gargoyles still aren’t terribly popular. But face it, my dear. 
You don’t 
have anything else to live for. None of your material possessions are anything 
to write 
home about. You have no family, no friends, not even a hamster to keep you 
company. If 
you’ll just think it through, you’ll realize that my way is the only one. 
Otherwise, you 
might as well give up and die. 
     I ... 
     Oh, really, now ... do you want last night to be the only time you will 
ever 
make love? With all the power you have at your disposal? 
  *  * 
     “Slow down!” the beaked gargoyle called aggravatedly to the smaller one. 
     Godiva watched them from concealment. 
     My new kind, she thought. I wonder ... I wonder what they’re like! 
     “Not my fault you can’t keep up!” the smaller, whose wings stretched from 
ankle 
to wrist, jeered back. 
     She moved into the light just as the smaller one swooped past. His large 
eyes 
doubled as he saw her. As he faltered in mid-air, the larger one, who had been 
making a 
concerted effort to overtake him, collided with him. 
     “Whoa!” 
     “Hey! Lookout!” 
     Godiva winced as they smacked solidly into a brick wall and tumbled to the 
rooftop. By the time they had gotten themselves untangled, she was in front of 
them. The 
beaked one raised his head first, found a leg right in front of his nose, and 
followed it up 
and up. It took him a very long time to reach her face. 
     “It’s her,” he breathed. 
     She blinked. But she had heard him right; now the small one was gaping at 
her 
with the same recognition. 
     “What are we going to do?” the smaller one asked. 
     Carefully, his body poised for action, the beaked one got to his feet. 
Godiva, 
seeing the smooth flexion of his chest, calves, and thighs, felt a warm glow 
spreading 
through her. His tail ... ooh, remembering what she’d done with her own only 
made her 
wild to know what he could do with his! 
     The smaller one stood too, and she shifted her gaze to him. Not a child, as 
she’d 
first thought. Short, but corded with wiry muscle. 
     She held her hands out, apart and palms up. “I’m not your enemy. I ... I’d 
like to 
be ... your friend.” She inhaled deeply, and their eyes bulged in harmony. 
     “Well ...” the short one took a step, but the other caught him by the 
shoulder. 
     “Bad idea. She’s trouble. She’s dangerous. Remember?” 
     Godiva laughed with a low humming undertone that made both males twitch. 
“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” 
     “I’m not!” the short one assured her. 
     “And you?” She looked at the beaked one smokily, challengingly. 
     “I’m not afraid either!” he protested. “But you’re trouble.” 
     “Depends on your definition.” She pressed two fingertips under the short 
one’s 
chin and studied him. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?” 
     He grinned foolishly, and the tip of his tail started drumming on the 
rooftop like a 
dog being scratched on the ribs. 
     “And you,” Godiva went on, pinching the end of the other one’s beak between 

her thumb and foreclaw, “you look a little like trouble yourself. But don’t 
girls always go 
for bad boys? Is that what you are? A bad boy?” 
     “Uh ...” He kept shifting his wings as if his back itched. 
     “Oh, I can’t decide ...” Godiva sighed. 
     “Decide what?” the short one asked. 
     “Which of you to have first.” 
     She wouldn’t have thought they could bug their eyes out anymore, but she 
was 
wrong. 
     “Uh ... have?” the beaked one stammered. 
     “Take,” Godiva clarified. “Do. Seduce. Ravish.” She licked her lips. 
“Fuck.” 
     The short one whimpered, the end of his tail beating out a rapid tattoo. 
“We 
really shouldn’t ...” 
     “I know,” she said, running her fingers from his chin to the hinge of his 
jaw. 
“That’s what makes it so much fun.” 
     “You ... you can’t be serious ...” the other one said with difficulty. 
“We’ve got 
...” 
     Whatever he was going to say was lost as Godiva leaned close and flicked 
her 
tongue against the end of his beak. “I’m serious. And I think ... yes, I think 
... I’ll have 
both of you at the same time.” 
     “Whu ... what?” the short one gasped. “You mean ...?” 
     “I’m sure there’s enough of me to go around,” Godiva said, slipping out of 
her 
dress and cupping her breasts as if in offering. “Don’t you agree?” 
     “This is a big mistake,” the beaked one said, but his hands weren’t 
listening and 
reached out like a sleepwalker. At his touch, Godiva arched her back and let her 
eyes drift 
half-closed. 
     “Yeah, but who cares?” the short one said, stroking the curve that belled 
out 
from her waist to her hip. 
     Godiva drew them both to her, murmuring in pleasure as their bodies pressed 

close against her bare skin. Her hand brushed between the beaked one’s wings by 
accident and he cried out, and she realized there was something she’d been 
missing. 
    When he reciprocated, pushing her hair out of the way so he could apply a 
firm, stroking 
pressure to her back, she trembled deliciously. 
     She sank to the rooftop, pulling them with her. Now the smaller one needed 
no 
encouragement, and was all over her, eager clever hands and hungry, seeking 
mouth. 
     His friend was still a bit more shy, but that all ended once Godiva undid 
his belt 
and wrapped her fingers around what he had to offer. Which was very considerable 

indeed; Jason had been well-proportioned, but ... 
     “Well, and you’re no disappointment either!” she observed happily as she 
divested the other one of his loincloth as well. 
     “Oh, we shouldn’t be doing this!” the beaked one said, not that it stopped 
him 
from nuzzling his beak under her hair to tickle at her ear. And when he grabbed 
her wrist, it 
wasn’t to move her hand away but to encourage her to pump it faster. 
     “Who cares!” the smaller one said again, muffled against her breasts. 
“We’ll 
never have another chance like this, brother!” 
     There was no further discussion. Both of them fell on her like starved 
beasts. 
 Two pairs of hands (plus one pair of grasping little wing talons) and two 
mouths, 
explored her, groping and fondling and licking and sucking and nibbling. 
     Their three tails coiled together like a nest of snakes, sliding along and 
around 
one another. 
     Then both of them were trying to get their heads between her legs, nearly 
knocking their skulls together. Godiva let them duel for a moment, then pulled 
the smaller 
one up her body, having him rest with one knee to either side of her head, 
taking his 
stiffness into her mouth while the other one went to work with renewed effort on 
her lower 
regions. 
     Oh, lost, she was lost in the heat and the passion. Her body bucked and 
rolled, 
her tail lashed. Her wings, stretched to either side, fluttered like sails. 
     She reveled in the taste of the smaller one’s excitement, knew that he 
would soon 
be flooding her mouth, wanted it, needed it, needed that ultimate expression of 
her 
power over him. 
     And the other, oh, yes, skillful tongue probing within her, the rounded 
upper 
curve of his beak pressing with unbearably sweet friction against her most 
sensitive spot 
... then, cool draft as he took his head away, followed by the heat of his loins 
covering 
hers. He reared back, plunged deep, thick and engorged, filling her. 
     Above her, the smaller one’s eyes began to shed hot light. He grasped the 
sides 
of her head, wailing incoherently as he began to shake and spasm. Godiva held 
him tight 
by the base of his tail with one hand and scraped her claws gently down his back 
with the 
other, and his wails became a turbulent cry. 
     He fell off of her and lay panting. 
     She felt the other’s tail creeping along her inner thigh, worming its way 
between 
their bodies, and then it was slithering around to ... to ... 
     Godiva screamed uncontrollably. Her heel spurs gouged into his hips, her 
hands 
shot out and seized him by the shoulders. His face twisted with effort and 
concentration, 
he kept going, kept doing that with his tail ... 
     Then the smaller one’s tail snaked over her leg and down too, and it was 
more 
than she could stand, more than she could take, she didn’t ever want it to stop, 
not mere 
overload this time but a complete meltdown, every part of her imploding and she 
screamed 
again, starbursts flying across her vision 
     And still the beaked one kept on, sending her to incredible, impossible 
heights, 
and when he finished, his smaller friend had regained his strength and took his 
place, and 
they went at her again and, oh, nothing had ever been so good! 
     She lost track of how many times they’d each had her before their youthful 
stamina gave out completely. Finally, the three of them just sprawled in a heap, 
the only 
sounds their ragged breathing and her soft sighs. 
  *  * 
     “I don’t like this, I am never gonna like this,” T.J. Lawton complained. 
     “Quit wiggling,” Angela warned him. “I’d hate to drop you.” 
     “What’s wrong with gliding?” Aiden asked. “I love it! Even before I had my 
own 
wings, I loved it!” 
     “And you think this is precarious,” Angela said as she shifted her grip to 
cradle the young man more securely, “you should have seen Lex carrying her. He 
needs 
both arms to glide, so she had to hold on all by herself.” 
     “Great,” T.J. said. “Why does that not make me feel better?” 
     “Oh, come on!” Angela giggled. “Father’s never dropped Elisa. Would you 
feel 
better if it was him carrying you?” 
     “No!” He coughed, collected himself. “I mean, if I’ve got to be this close 
to one 
of you, no offense, I’d rather it was you than your dad.” 
     “I wonder,” Aiden said, dipping under Angela and then looping around. “Is 
that 
homophobia or gargophobia?” 
     “Aren’t you supposed to be doing the hocus-pocus thing?” T.J. asked. 
     “We’re supposed to be working together,” she reminded him sweetly. “Do 
you sense Godiva yet?” 
     “No, listen, I think this is one of the dumbest ideas ... oh ... wait ... 
crap ...” He 
grimaced. 
     “You do!” Aiden said smugly. “See? Puck was right!” 
     “Face it, T.J.,” Angela said. “You’re never going to be ‘normal,’ so you 
might as 
well give up and enjoy your powers!” 
     “That way,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t know if it’s her, but it’s 
something 
weird, all right.” 
     “Let’s just give Nightstone a wide berth.” Angela caught an updraft and 
climbed 
a hundred feet in a matter of seconds. “Ow! T.J., let go, you’re strangling me!” 

     “Don’t fuckin’ do that! I think I just pissed myself!” 
     “It’s just an updraft, you baby.” 
     Aiden laughed merrily. “Too bad gargoyles don’t come with seatbelts, huh, 
T.J.?” 
     “Yeah, well, your model doesn’t come with much in the way of airbags, 
either,” 
he snapped. 
     Angela let go. T.J. squawked as gravity gave him a hard yank toward the 
streets. 
Then she caught him by the wrists and carried him dangling, while Aiden only 
laughed 
harder. 
     “Be nice,” Angela chided. 
     “Oh, jeez, give me a heart attack why don’t you!” 
     She shook him back and forth a little. “Going to apologize to Aiden?” 
     “I’m sorry! I’m sorry already!” 
     “Okay, Angela, I think he gets the picture,” Aiden said. 
     When T.J. was safely, albeit distrustingly, in Angela’s arms again, he 
pointed 
roughly east. “Over there ... it’s getting stronger. Kinda ... weird, though. I 
never saw her 
operational, but it sure doesn’t seem like a robot. Not like the Steel Clan, 
anyway.” 
     “There!” Aiden cried. “Shadows against the moon! Do you see them, Angela?” 
     “I do! Oh, good, Brooklyn and Lex! They found her!” 
     “We’d better hurry. It looks like they need ... help?” 
     “That’s not what it looks like to me!” T.J. said after an incredulous 
moment. 
     “I am not seeing what I think I’m seeing!” Angela’s jaw was set so firmly 
T.J. 
could hear her teeth grinding. 
     “Oh, gosh ...” Aiden said. “Oh, gosh, no, that can’t be right! They ... 
they 
wouldn’t!” 
     “Uh, hey, maybe we better back off, huh, what do you say?” T.J. pleaded. 
     “Back off? Back off?!” Angela’s eyes flashed like emergency beacons. “I 
don’t think so!” 
     “I can’t believe it!” Aiden protested, increasing her speed to match 
Angela’s. 
     “At least put me down first!” T.J. called above the rushing of the wind in 
his 
ears. “Huh, Angela?” 
     “No chance. I want you to blast that bitch back into her component parts. 
I’ll 
deal with my mate!” 
     “She’s going down!” Aiden reported. 
     “Poor choice of words,” T.J. muttered, holding on for dear life. 
     The three shadows descended to a rooftop. Angela went into a dive, T.J.’s 
yell 
trailing behind her. “Get ready for a rough landing!” 
     He tried to brace himself, but there was no preparing for the jarring, 
rolling crash 
as she let go of him about three feet above the rooftop. He tumbled, taking the 
knees out 
of his jeans and the skin off of his palms, struck a wall, and damn near bit off 
his own 
tongue. Dazed, everything still spinning, he raised his head in time to see 
Angela stalk 
over to the three intimate gargoyles, grab one, and yank him off of Godiva. 
     “You louse!” Punch to the stomach. “You cad!” Clout to the head. “You 
rotten 
no-good son of a --” 
     “Um, Angela?” Aiden ventured. “That’s not Brooklyn ...” 
     T.J. saw Aiden holding the other male by the neck with her hand drawn back 
and 
gloved in silver like she was about to give him a hell of a smack. In that odd 
magelight, he 
clearly saw that it wasn’t Lexington at all, but someone who looked uncannily 
like him. 
     “Not ...” Angela’s eyes dimmed and cleared. “Not Brooklyn?” 
     “The clones!” the two females exclaimed together, letting go as if they’d 
had 
ahold of something dirty. 
     “Hey, watch --” T.J. started, too late. 
     The two clones reacted with lightning speed. The beaked one swept his tail 
at 
Angela’s legs, knocking her over. The one like Lex pounced on Aiden, who uttered 
a high 
squeak and covered her face. 
     Behind them, Godiva got leisurely to her feet. T.J. could feel the energy 
crackling 
off of her, as if sex was her battery and it was fully charged. She seemed to 
glide even 
while she walked. 
     “Shit-goddam,” T.J. grumbled, standing and shaking off the last of his 
dizziness. 
     Angela and the Brooklyn-clone were mixing it up fairly evenly matched, 
trading 
blows in the best gargoyle fashion. Aiden was curled up like a cocoon, firing 
off little 
witchbolts that the Lex-clone easily evaded. While she was concentrating on him, 
Godiva 
sauntered up behind her. 
     “Aiden, look out!” He started to run, but before Aiden could even begin to 
turn 
her head, Godiva had scooped her up and tossed her over the side. 
     T.J. skidded to a halt right in front of the tall nude female. The 
Lex-clone 
crouched at her feet, and she looked like something out of a barbarian painting. 

     “Go away,” she ordered. 
     Oh, gross, he could smell her, reeking of musk. He was going to puke, so 
help 
him God, going to hurl until he ruptured something. 
     Instead, he stripped off his gloves and extended his hands. Jittering 
snakes of 
electricity began jumping from her skin to his palms. 
     “No!” She recoiled. “Stop him!” 
     The Lex-clone leaped at T.J., but Aiden swooped back over the edge of the 
roof 
and intercepted him. As they somersaulted out of the way, T.J. slapped both 
hands on 
Godiva’s temples. 
     A high-power vibration galvanized him. They were rooted to the spot, frozen 
in a 
rictus haloed by sparks. Shrieking, she was shrieking or he was or they both 
were, his 
fingers were blistering, she was clawing at his chest, tearing his jacket and 
shirt to shreds, 
but the humming was dwindling, she was starting to lose power ... 
     The Brooklyn-clone burst between them and sent T.J. flying. He landed 
heavily 
on his back and his ribs flared in pain. Things cracked. He couldn’t move, 
breath huffing 
out in little white clouds, all of his hair standing on end and smoke streaming 
from his 
fingers. 
     He saw the Lex-clone thrown backward by a blast of silver light. Angela 
caught 
him by the tail, spun in a tight circle like an Olympic gymnast going for the 
gold in the 
hammer throw, and loosed him full-tilt into Godiva. It was like he’d gone 
straight into a 
bug-zapper. He went down hard and stayed there. Godiva stumbled sideways and 
braced 
herself against an antenna. 
     The Brooklyn-clone seized T.J. by the front of his tattered jacket and 
hauled him 
to eye level. T.J.’s ribs exploded in agony as he was shaken roughly. Then he 
was 
airborne, sailing ass-first out into the big black, and the last thing he saw 
before the roof 
cut off his line of sight was Angela wrapping her hands around the clone’s 
backswept 
horns and using them as perfect handles to bring his face down into a knee 
strike. 
     A billow of pale stuff surrounded him and painlessly stopped his fall. He 
looked 
up to see Aiden anxiously peering over the edge, and gingerly gave her an 
okay-sign with 
his right hand. She made a lifting gesture and his magic cushion rose up to 
deposit him 
back in the thick of things. 
     Angela and Godiva were going at each other viciously, oh yeah, catfight of 
the 
century, he could have charged admission. Though Angela was the better warrior, 
Godiva 
was still sparking and every time Angela hit her, she got a jolt. 
     “Move!” T.J. hollered, and against his better judgement, tackled Godiva. 
     More pain, roaring through him, but even over that was his utter disgust, 
he was 
on her, gross, she was naked and fresh-fucked-sticky and he was on her and now 
he 
was going to puke, there were no two ways about it, but first ... 
     He got her by the temples again and the current slammed through them. She 
jumped around under him like a coin-operated mattress, one of her tits smacked 
him in the 
face, his leg was trapped between hers and he imagined he could feel stuff 
soaking 
through his jeans, no more, please God, no more, couldn’t take it, could not 
deal with 
this and he vaulted off of her and leaned over the edge of the building and just 
let it fly, 
puked himself inside-out, and finally, shuddering and weak, let Aiden pull him 
to safety. 
     Angela was standing over Godiva. The indigo robot was as limp as a 
disjointed 
marionette, bathed in smoke. Beyond her, the clones were likewise motionless, 
though 
not smoking. 
     “Got her,” Angela declared with great satisfaction. “Good work, T.J.!” 
     “I want a new job,” he groaned. “This one sucks.” 
  *  * 
     “Brooklyn!” 
     He looked up, and his smile turned into an expression of welcome surprise 
as his 
mate flung her arms around his neck and began showering kisses on his beak. 
     “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” Angela said. “So glad I didn’t have to beat 
you 
up!” 
     “Huh?” 
     She started to say something else, but the chattering roar of rotors 
drowned it 
out as one of Xanatos’ helicopters settled to the landing pad in the castle 
courtyard. 
     “I understand you were successful,” Goliath said to Angela and Aiden. “Well 

done, my warriors. But where is T.J.?” 
     “In the copter,” Aiden explained. “He got hurt fighting the clones.” 
     “The clones!” Brooklyn said. “What was Godiva doing with the clones?” 
     Aiden turned purple. “You don’t want to know, believe me, you don’t want to 

know!” 
     He eyed her, then grinned. “Maybe I do!” 
     “No,” Angela said firmly, “you don’t.” 
     Goliath loudly cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d better tell the entire 
story.” 
     “Do we have to?” Aiden made a face. “It was icky. My first real battle, not 

counting that time the Quarrymen tried to attack Ebon, and ... ohhh, it was 
icky! They 
were all naked!” 
     “Who was naked?” Lex asked, coming up alongside his mate. 
     “Brentwood and Malibu,” Angela said. “And Godiva.” 
     “Oh.” Brooklyn and Lex swapped a glance that was almost guilt-ridden. 
     “Hrmmm,” Goliath mused. “We’ve not seen the clones in a long time. Demona 
and Jericho must have let them out of hiding for some reason. Where are they?” 
     “We left them there,” Angela said. “They really hadn’t done anything wrong 
... 
tacky and tasteless, maybe, but ... and we had T.J. and Godiva to worry about.” 
     “How badly is he hurt?” Goliath asked. 
     “I think he’s got broken ribs,” Aiden said. “And he threw up. I mean, he 
threw 
up a lot. There may be internal injuries.” 
     Goliath dropped from the battlement into the courtyard as the rotors slowed 
to a 
halt. The rest followed him over to Fox, who was watching Dr. Fielding 
overseeing her 
medics securing T.J. to a stretcher. He was out cold, Brooklyn saw. 
     “He’ll be fine,” Dr. Fielding said in answer to Goliath’s unasked question. 
“The 
ribs are cracked but not broken, and he’s suffering the usual after-effects that 
go along 
with his power, but once he’s slept it off, he’ll be okay.” 
     Fox came rushing over to check on her son while Xanatos and Owen and some 
staff technicians wheeled a long box over to the copter. It looked like a 
stainless-steel 
coffin shot with wires. The technicians maneuvered the motionless Godiva robot 
into it. 
     Brooklyn shook his head in rueful amazement. “It’s still hard to believe,” 
he said. 
“She looks so real.” 
     Angela thwacked her fingers against the side of his head. “You’ve looked 
enough.” 
     “Hey, don’t take it out on me; we’re not responsible for what our clones 
do!” He 
pointed to a section of the castle where the flagstones didn’t quite match, the 
recently 
repaired scar of a laser blast courtesy of Ventura. “Are we?” 
     She sniffed in a way that told him she was partly mollified, but willing to 
let him 
totally off the hook yet. Brooklyn sighed, having the feeling that he’d be 
hearing about 
this for a long time to come. Malibu got the game, he got the blame, and that 
was the way 
the world went round, was it? 
  *  * 
     Dr. Fielding finished giving orders to her subordinates, then turned to 
study 
Godiva. “Mr. Xanatos, I’m still not entirely sure what you expect me to do here. 
I can’t 
treat something that isn’t alive.” 
     “It’s Ms. Indrani that you’ll be monitoring, Doctor,” Xanatos said. “You’ve 

reviewed the materials on brain tapes?” 
     “As much as I could, but there hasn’t been nearly enough time to acquaint 
myself with the information. Every indication is that the process is extremely 
stressful to 
the nervous system, and Ms. Indrani ... she’s badly dehydrated, she’s been off 
her 
medication for three days now ... and frankly, even without those factors, she’s 
not what I 
would call an ideal candidate.” 
     “Doctor, we have to try. We can’t leave her like this, and her original 
body is 
only going to deteriorate the longer we wait.” 
     “At the moment, we can’t try. I don’t know where that woman got the implant 

we found in her skull, but it is not a Xanatos Enterprises product.” 
     “No, it’s from GENERAL.” 
     “It may have been able to record her memories and personality for transfer 
to the 
tape, but it’s not suited for re-inserting everything into her brain.” 
     “I’ve made arrangements to have everything you need by morning,” Xanatos 
said. 
     “It is morning,” she replied, checking her watch. “You can’t expect me to 
perform the surgery in a few hours! I still have the rest of the notes to read, 
and for a 
procedure of this delicacy, I’d need a full night’s sleep.” 
     “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Doctor, but it needs to be done promptly.” 

     “A woman’s life is on the line, Mr. Xanatos.” 
     “I understand the risks. Just see to it, Doctor.” 
  *  * 
     Wake up, woman! Wake up, damn you, or it’s the end for us both! 
     Godiva tried to open her eyes and couldn’t. Tried to move her arms and 
couldn’t. 
     Panic surged through her. This was it! Her worst nightmare! Complete 
paralysis, 
deaf and blind, but still able to think ... a degree of helplessness that made 
the hated chair 
seem like pure freedom. 
     Oh, quit it, the voice in the back of her mind said aggreivedly. The words 
appeared as waves of dark maroon, rolling on a field of black. They’ve got you 
in a device 
that has nullified your mobility. If we work together, we can bypass it and get 
out of here 
before it’s too late. 
     Quelling her terror, she turned inward to monitor the systems that 
controlled her 
body. Whenever she tried to access them, she ran straight into a blockade that 
took on 
the mental image of a barred and bolted door. 
     It’s a computer security measure, she thought. I can beat this. 
     Good girl! her unseen accomplice cheered. Be careful not to alert them; 
you’re 
not equipped to fight your way out of here. 
     Where am I? she wondered as she diverted part of her consciousness to the 
task 
of deciphering the codes. 
     Our generous benefactor, Mr. Xanatos, has you locked in the medical suite 
of his 
castle. He means to -- 
     I know what he means to do. See? I told you I should have come back. I 
could 
have gotten away with it and no one would have ever known. But now I’ll lose my 
job, 
lose everything. Why did I let you talk me out of it? 
     Because I’m smarter than you, the voice said. Really, with all of your 
so-called 
intelligence, did it never occur to you that this was a one-way trip? You’ve 
neither the 
tools nor the skills to reverse the process. 
     How do you know? 
     A laugh, smug and self-indulgent, rippled in a reddish line. Because I 
invented 
it! It was my genius that made all of this possible! 
     Her mind was racing, racing. I should have realized ... you’re Anton 
Sevarius. 
     The one and only! 
     How did you wind up in here? 
     That’s a long story, but once we escape, I’ll tell you. 
     Why haven’t you escaped already? 
     Because of that arrogant prick Xanatos! the voice shouted, bright violet 
spikes 
slicing the blackness. He thought he destroyed me, but instead, he trapped me. I 
can’t 
access any of the systems. I’m blocked at every turn. But you, with your 
well-honed 
computer talents, can change all that. 
     Oh ... 
     So get on with it already! 
     All right, Godiva thought. I will. 
  *  * 
January 9th, 2001 
Tuesday, 10:00 AM 
     Jimmy Pransky shut his mouth with a snap, and turned to look disbelievingly 
at 
his boss. “You mean ... that’s Sabra?” 
     “For now,” Xanatos said. “We need your help to restore her to her correct 
body. 
You understand that this all falls under --” 
     “Other duties as assigned?” 
     “No, under the strictest of secrecy oaths.” 
     Jimmy nodded. “Sabra. Wow. She’s ... she’s ...” 
     “I know.” Xanatos permitted himself a small smile that failed to touch his 
eyes. 
     “How’d it happen?” 
     “A very regrettable accident. We must set things right. You’ll use this 
computer 
workstation. These wires connect here, and here.” 
     “Okay, sure, I get it. Then, when I’m done, I pop out the disk?” 
     “Owen will handle that. He’ll take it to the operating theater. From there, 
Dr. 
Fielding will transfer the information back where it belongs, in Ms. Indrani’s 
brain.” 
     “Cool!” Jimmy enthused. “Can I watch?” 
     “The observation gallery is up those stairs and second door on the right.” 
     “Great!” He flexed and twiddled his fingers in anticipation. “Ready when 
you 
are.” 
     “Proceed.” 
     Xanatos watched over his shoulder for a few minutes, presumably making sure 

Jimmy wasn’t screwing things up, then left. Once he was gone, Jimmy stole 
another look 
at the robot. 
     “The things they can do these days!” he said. “This must be what Clarence 
was 
working on. I wonder what ever happened to that greasy bastard. Wow, did he know 
how 
to design a robot, though!” 
     The computer beeped, getting his attention. “Incorrect code? What?” His 
hands 
flew over the keyboard, and he got another beep. 
     “Oh, wait, I see what’s going on!” Jimmy chuckled. “Sabra, you sneaky 
thing, 
you’ve changed the codes on us! Well, Ms. Hot-Shot, prepare to meet your 
master!” 
     Owen Burnett entered the room. “Is there some delay?” 
     “Nothing I can’t handle. Be with you in just a sec.” 
  *  * 
     The body of Sabra Indrani l