[FFML] [Fanfic][Anime][X-over]Darkness Chronicles: Book I: Part I: Chapter V

[Craig]

As always, C&C is appreciated.

--------------------

 				     ** ** **

Darkness Chronicles
An anime-Manga Cross-over

 				     ** ** **

Book I:
Part I: The Gathering
Chapter V:

 				     ** ** **

Crack!

A chunk of pavement exploded almost at his heels. Then there was a heavy, 
tearing crunch as Marina leapt from the roof to which she had vaulted 
after shattering Ogawa's neck, and slammed down on the 33C that had nearly 
killed him scant moments before.

For a moment, he slowed his frantic pace, indecision and a sudden helpless 
fear for her making him hesitate, despite the danger and the agony 
shooting viciously from his wounded leg with every step. He had to wait; 
he could not...would not leave her like this. Yet he knew he could do 
nothing to help: that any hesitation now would only lessen the desperate 
chance she had given him, slim though it was.

He was badly hurt - he did not need the vicious stabs from his leg, and 
the dull, relentless ache from the bullet in his shoulder to tell him 
that, and he was sure also with a terrible certainty, that she could not 
keep this up for many minutes, not with most of her systems inaccessible, 
and with the sensory overload caused by her attempts to access her 
enhanced suite with the standard chip. She would crash or become 
hopelessly synaesthetic with data she had not the power to process as she 
was, and then they would have her once more, and it would all have been 
for nothing.

Choking back a sob of bitter self-reproach, he looked back one last time, 
and turned helplessly away. He should have known it was hopeless: that his 
bid for escape and her freedom could have had no other end.

Gasping for breath, his left leg shooting numbing shards of agony through 
his body at every impact with the ground, he rounded yet another corner, 
and dived desperately into the comparative darkness of an alley. He spun 
crazily, no longer able to bear his own weight on his injured leg, let 
alone that of the small heavy case he clutched desperately, protectively 
close. Then he cannoned into some dust-bins and other refuse, and a moment 
later he lay dazed and panting in a sodden pile of some unnameable, 
evil-smelling filth, the case tumbling to rest just beyond the reach of 
his clutching hand.

For what seemed an endless haze of pain and growing confusion, he lay 
still, too exhausted and terrified to move, while blood soaked slowly 
through his heavy trench-coat from the terrible wound in his shoulder, and 
through his trousers from the long, jagged slash just below his left knee 
where the 33C razor-doll had just missed shredding him from ankle to hip.

"You have to get up! You *have* to!" he kept telling himself again and 
again. "You can't let it end; not like this. You're their only hope. She 
can't do this alone, and if you die now, what would have been the point?"

Yet for long seconds he remained where he was, while fear and a growing 
hopeless despair kept him helpless and unable to move.

It was another explosion and a long, agonised scream, suddenly cut short, 
that roused him again at last.

Stirring: trying vainly to fight down the retching, clutching nausea, he 
made a feeble effort to struggle to his knees. But already it was too 
late. Far beyond the limits of endurance, his exhausted, pain-racked body 
would not obey him, and at last he collapsed once more, to lie panting, 
unable to summon the will or strength even to turn his head. It would be 
so simple to surrender to the gentle, calling blackness of oblivion, an 
oblivion free from all the loss and pain.

For a moment he struggled to hold the darkness at bay. Then with a last 
tiny sob, he closed his eyes, and the world around him was no more.

 				     * * *

Movement. He was being carried. He could feel the firm but careful grip 
about his legs and body, and his arms had been draped over lithe, slender 
shoulders.

He tried to stir, then moaned as fresh agony knifed through his left leg 
and wounded shoulder.

"Keep still," Came a low female voice close beside him.

For a moment, in his pain, he thought it was that of his lost daughter. 
Then another wave of agony washed over him and memory pieced itself 
together.

"Marina?" he gasped.

"You were expecting someone else?" The buma responded, her tone seeming to 
him in his daze almost amused, although no less wry for that. "Did you 
think I wouldn't make it?"

She laughed a chilling, hard-edged laugh, and tossed her head, her long 
fair hair flipping against his cheek.

"I...I hoped. But a 33C-A... They're quick and dangerous, and in your 
condition..."

"Losing isn't part of my nature," she answered, the hard edge still in her 
tone. "You should know. You defined my combat parameters, and wrote most 
of the code."

"Parameters change," he gasped, too exhausted to manage more. "I...I 
wasn't sure you'd care after what's happened, or come for anything but the 
case, even if you escaped."

"Then you're a bigger fool even than I imagined," she answered simply. "If 
you don't know your own firmware... Loyalty is such a high priority for 
us, is it not, Otousan?"

"You're more than firmware Marina," he began softly; "so much more."

But he was cut off by another short, savage laugh.

"Oh yes!" she said harshly. "So much more. The perfect assassin, the 
perfect lady of high society, the perfect spy, the perfect commander, the 
perfect street whore, the perfect bait for the Knight Sabres?" With this 
last she laughed again, a wild, savage sound, laced with what he was 
certain was self-mockery. "Except that now I need to find them, rather 
than take or kill them. You didn't put that in my redefined parameters 
before we had to run.

"I'm surprised you didn't christen me Shasti, rather than give me the name 
and likeness of your lost daughter. It would have been so much more 
appropriate." This time, the laugh was a short vicious snarl.

He tried to shake his head, not comprehending.

"It doesn't matter," she said, for a moment something almost resigned and 
weary in her words.

They continued in silence for some time, her smooth, cat-like movements 
barely jolting the injured scientist.

"Where are we going?" he asked at last.

"I'd intended to find a place where I could at least try to patch you up," 
she answered simply. "A derelict, an office building; it wouldn't have 
mattered. But you're too badly hurt. Now we have to stick to our original 
plan.

"They won't come looking tonight. I took the precaution of tampering with 
the surviving assassin, just a little; just enough to make them think she 
killed you. And Ogawa and Radford are dead. Not that that will mean much 
on close examination; I was a little pressed for time. But it will delay 
them, for a while; long enough, I hope."

"You really are amazing," he said softly, a father's warmth and pride 
suddenly in his tone.

"Genom's latest in the quest for perfection in combat and covert 
intelligence,," she parroted in a near perfect imitation of the tones she 
herself had used for the internal executive presentation only two days 
before, but tinged with a hard, sardonic edge. "Now that the restrictions 
regarding the production and export of military Buma models have at last 
been relaxed, Genom is ideally suited to take its place as the premier 
provider of products unsurpassed in power, reliability and combat 
performance.

"Presenting our latest prototype, first in an entirely new concept in 
next-generation Buma design, and heralding a quantum leap hitherto thought 
impossible.

"Incorporating our newly patented EOA (Enhanced Organic Architecture), 
together with the very latest in AI iso-linear technology, personality 
simulation, and heralding a revolution in quantum processing, the Bu-33DA 
is the ultimate tool for those demanding the very highest in 
state-of-the-art buma products with which the name of Genom Corporation 
has come to be synonymous.

She stopped, as though only now aware of just how dangerous it might be to 
announce herself to any who might be near enough to hear, and coherent 
enough to care: this was the Canyons after all.

But the man she was carrying did not have again to hear the words. He had 
helped write the speech she had delivered. In his semi-delirium, his mind 
ran on, replaying all that she had said during the presentation.

"Pre-programmed with over one-hundred-thousand personality variants, and 
presented standard with more than one-hundred-thousand terabytes of 
three-dimensional Optical RAM on-board, coupled with the very latest in 
relational data retrieval and assimilation, an on-board library including 
the Encyclopædia Britannica, the Oxford International Dictionary, over 
ten-thousand works of historical and cultural reference, and support for 
over two-hundred languages, the Bu-33DA is a must for those demanding the 
very best artificial intelligence has to offer."

"Able to emulate all functions of the proven C-Class military-spec 
Bu-55C-MKII without the need for internal expansion, and all functions of 
the military-spec Bu-33C Security Operative, together with the full 
capabilities of the discontinued S-Class special-operations model 
Bu-33S-A, including but not limited to social, relational and interface 
capabilities, the DA-33 is uniquely suited for a myriad of applications, 
from weapons control to shock-troop command, and from military confidante 
to the subtleties of covert intelligence.

"Add the enhanced DA-2134 EOA C+Q CPU with an additional 
one-hundred-thousand terabytes of CPU-INTERNAL 0.01 nano-second ORAM, 
together with DA-SPECIFIC weapons, physical and ECM enhancements, and the 
Bu-33DA becomes the Bu-33DA-Elite, a machine unparalleled in combat 
capability, physical performance, and relational intelligence and raw 
computing power."

There had followed a stunning, but in part simulated display of Marina 
disposing of a score or more of the best in C-class, Doberman and the 
massive Bu-12b machines within a matter of seconds, in part simulated 
because of last-minute problems with the first DA-2134, which had forced 
the first DA prototype to remain a standard 33 until the second chip (the 
huge block of pseudo-organic technology nestled, amongst other things, in 
the case that swung now from about the buma's neck) could be completed and 
tested.

That had very nearly cost them everything. It *had* cost him her trust.

"We have to find her tonight!" he gasped, not wanting to remember again 
the rage and accusation in her eyes, or the words she had hurled at him 
when he had told her he had been discovered, and that they would have to 
abandon the others and escape while they could. "There's" so little time. 
If that madman moves tomorrow as you predicted...

"We can't do this alone. Until the upgrade is completed--"

"I'm a liability," she said shortly. "I know; I need not be told again.

"Stop moving," she continued harshly. "Do you want the tourniquet to come 
off? I'm perfectly aware of our need for speed; leave such matters to me."

"Couldn't you fly?" he asked, his voice a mutter of half-delirium.

"If somebody hadn't neglected to remember that the standard CPU hasn't the 
additional micro-instructions needed to drive enhanced thruster controller 
routines optimised for the 2134: yes, I could," she answered with more 
than a touch of sarcasm. "And, of course, if you want us detected again, 
and shot down for our trouble! I have no weapons control at the moment; or 
had you forgotten?

"I should have thought the CPU upgrade would have been your first 
priority."

"Needed your enhanced systems ready," he muttered, drifting again towards 
unconsciousness. "Thought we'd never get out without them. Didn't know so 
much would be incompatible. Panicked when Domina wouldn't help me. I'm 
sorry. I'm sorry, M'rina."

"Tell that to Liana," she snapped savagely, her voice suddenly frigid with 
renewed accusation, "assuming you ever have the chance.

"Tell me! What did you expect me to do; be ready just like that, on the 
off-chance that lunatic would be stupid enough to send her to find us the 
moment your monumental carelessness announced to all of Genom what you 
intended?

"And now my new systems are all but useless, and she's still under that 
madman's control. I can't believe such unimaginable stupidity! And from 
you, of all people, when you should have known what would happen: what he 
would do to keep her."

"'Know," he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. "'M sorry. 
Lost my daughter to him! Had to save you before they had chance to hurt 
you. Didn't want you to be Genom's slave. Just wanted get away; save you, 
and C'milla. Took Liana b'fore I could help her! Couldn't lose you too."

"You really are a stupid, maudlin fool!" she told him harshly.

But he could not see the sudden desperate tightness in her face, nor the 
glint of unshed tears in her blue eyes as she looked down at him for a 
moment, her expression melting. His own eyes were already closed, and her 
tone betrayed nothing.

"Wanted them to pay for what they did to her," she heard him gasp, his 
voice a cracked whisper. "No hope. Find us. Kill me, and make you forget; 
make you and C'milla what they want. And make more from F'llini's pr'ject. 
S'rry... So s'rry"

"Not if I can help it," she snarled, too softly for him to hear.

But she knew her time was desperately short. Even if there escape did not 
precipitate that lunatic Fellini moving earlier as she had predicted, they 
had at most until morning.

Her father had destroyed the recall data and her access key, but the 
project would already be expediting the activation of the only other DA in 
which a security key had been included, and as intelligent as he was, she 
knew his obsession had robbed him of the imaginative flare he once had 
possessed.

Once they had unlocked Camilla's key, it would only be a matter of a few 
permutations on her part before they had her own, even assuming he had not 
been fool enough to include it in the other DA's initial data.

They had to get to Sylia Stingray before that happened. If the Mason-Largo 
journals she had found were not a self-deception on his part, and she did 
not believe they were, in the Knight Sabres alone lay her only chance to 
save her father, and her only hope for the completion of the upgrade he 
had begun, before it was too late. The vigilantes would have to have 
access to qualified medical personnel who would ask no questions - they 
could not operate without that safeguard, and they must have facilities 
capable of completing her upgrade in safety; their own equipment could not 
be maintained without them.

Also, in Stingray's daughter alone lay perhaps her one hope to unravel the 
subtleties of the fundamental algorithms even Alexei Ivanovitch 
Zhuranovsky had not been able fully to comprehend. His knowledge, like 
that of every scientist in the vastness of Genom Corporation, was at least 
in part empirical: at best a reflection of the intricacies of the unique, 
inventive genius that had made the lithe, stunningly beautiful pinnacle of 
technological achievement who raced now with her precious cargo through 
the vastness of the canyons with such single-minded purpose, possible.

Haynes was out of the question. There was no hope of reaching him, and no 
time to try.

She had to reach Katsuhito Stingray's daughter before her father grew 
worse, and before morning; there was no other chance. By dawn they would 
have Camilla out of her tank, and the second functional DA-2134 could be 
initialised and installed within a few hours.

Not that they would need the chip, unless their initial attempt failed. 
They would waste no time with tests; Camilla would be of no danger whilst 
her enhanced physical and weapons systems remained off-line. They would 
have her attempt immediate access to the first prototype, and Marina could 
not access the code to override her response once her key had been sent; 
there was no code as such to access, a precaution on father's own 
suggestion she knew, ironic as that was now: a failsafe should her 
prototype systems crash so completely that nothing else was accessible.

The key would hardware cold-boot her systems, and place her in firmware 
command mode under the control of a simple bootstrap, the standard 
iso-linear running as little more than an extremely expensive ORAM 
interface. Then they would have her, her, and father. And once that 
happened, the capture and destruction of the Knight Sabres was inevitable, 
and with their deaths would die for ever the last hope of freedom for her 
and her sisters, and if Fellini was not stopped, the last hope for all 
humanity.

The 2134 upgrade alone would do nothing to prevent such a scenario; her 
firmware was designed to run the classical-instruction portion of the 34 
in an enhanced equivalent of the same mode at cold-boot. The hardware key 
needed to be changed or removed, and the code-base created by the elder 
Stingray, and which defined the general instruction set still for every 
buma CPU, needed to be altered to ensure maximum protection from any 
potential Genom override code, and anything Fellini might have created. 
And there was only one person who might understand the original algorithms 
enough to be able to do that.

She had to take this chance. If Mason had guessed correctly, Sylia 
Stingray and the Knight Sabres were their only hope. And she would help 
them, or she and her team would die. Of that, Marina would make very 
certain.

Alexei moaned again, and she shifted him a little, trying to ease the 
pain. He was in desperate need of attention. He had lost too much blood in 
the alley before she had found him, and probably he had infected the 
wounds during his time amongst the refuse, not to mention the fact that a 
good deal of shrapnel was still inside him, and he might well have severe 
internal injuries.

Were she fully functional, she could have taken to the air, or covered the 
ground at perhaps twenty times her present speed. Given reasonable 
conditions, she might very well also have been able to operate on him 
successfully, even with minimal facilities, and in his dire situation.

But her enhanced systems were proving far less compatible with the 
standard chip even than the worst he had feared, and she was finding it 
increasingly difficult to interpret the growing, screaming ruin that was 
supposed to be sensory data. Any attempt on her part to access more of her 
new systems would only hasten the deterioration.

Baring her teeth in a combat-snarl of savage frustration, she tightened 
her grip on the now unconscious scientist, and began to increase her pace. 
She could not afford to spare him. If she did not find help quickly, he 
would die, and all hope would end.

Snarling again, her mouth set in a feral line of grim determination, she 
lowered her head, settled the man she considered her father closer to her, 
and went on running.

 				     * * *

"Priss! Priss; behind you!"

Whirling at Nene's scream, Priss ducked the vicious swipe of yet another 
C-55, and flipped back to put some distance between herself and the buma.

The fight seemed to have gone on for ever, yet somehow there seemed to be 
as many opponents as when they had first engaged them, what seemed an age 
ago.

"Eat this you bastard!" she snarled, twisting from the path of the blast, 
and driving a spike into the machine's suddenly gaping mouth.

There was a satisfying flash as the laser discharged into the buma's head, 
then in the next moment an explosion slammed Priss to the ground.

"Sh*t!" she panted, flipping to her feet. "How many more are there!"

A desperate, nearby scream made her remember Nene. And suddenly, like 
every other time, the fear came, rising with sudden, terrible speed 
through the fire and adrenalin of the fight like a slow, lurking memory of 
nightmare and poisonous dread. She knew Nene was in trouble, but she did 
not know why.

Spinning just in time to avoid the claws of yet another homicidal machine, 
and smash it to the ground with a savage back-hand, Priss leapt away and 
turned, just in time to see Linna whip round, slashing the head from the 
machine that had been about to take her head off.

"Have to do better than that!" Priss cursed herself.

She spun, flipping again as yet another particle beam slammed into the 
place in which she had been standing scant moments before, the irrational, 
unreasoning terror growing with every moment.

Then in the next instant something slammed into her from behind, and she 
found herself on the ground, pinned and utterly unable to move.

"Damn it, damn it! No!" she gasped with sudden frantic need, struggling 
urgently to escape, knowing like before that this was the critical moment: 
that this time she must not fail.

Kicking out with a savagery born of desperation, she felt her foot connect 
with hard, yielding metal. There was a dull thudding crunch, and Priss 
hurled the suddenly dead weight from her, and lurched upright. She turned 
to finish the machine just struggling to its feet.

Then suddenly a terrible, agonised scream made her spin back, and away. 
Knowing already what would happen: that as always she was too late, Priss 
searched wildly for a moment, and froze, head up, eyes wide, gaping, 
sickened and horror-stricken.

Nene hung limply in the grip of the 33C razor-doll, the machine's claws 
seeming impossibly to have punched right through her suit. She was turned 
half towards her, her helmet torn away, blood splashing on her lips and 
pumping from the dreadful wound over the buma's arm as she hung, her face 
a mask of leaping terror, green eyes wide and glazed with pain and numb 
incomprehension.

Then, even as Priss stood frozen, knowing what was to come, yet as always 
too numb to do anything but stare in nightmare fascination, the machine 
seemed to shift and change before her eyes, until in her place stood the 
tall, stunning figure of a woman, her long flame-red hair streaming like 
living fire about her, her face, beautiful and terrible beyond the last 
end of torment and ruinous despair, twisted in a nightmare smile of 
unholy, boundless appetite as she lifted Nene effortlessly in her arms, 
her mouth reaching for the blood on her own.

"No!" Priss heard her own voice as though from some great distance, yet 
her scream seemed suddenly to fill the world. "No! No! No!"

Then the thing turned towards her. And she was ruin and oblivion beyond 
the last end of madness, and Priss began to scream, a scream that had no 
beginning, and would last until the uttermost end of for ever.

With a lurch, Priss bolted wildly into a sitting position, choking back 
another scream of primal negation, bedclothes flung in every direction as 
she thrashed desperately for a moment, caught still in the cloying horror 
of the dream. Then she was staggering to the basin, fighting savagely 
against the nausea that threatened to have her bring up everything she had 
eaten the night before at any moment.

For almost a minute she knelt, while her racing heart slowed and the 
extremity of the nightmare receded, until at last, the nausea abating, she 
returned to sit on the edge of the bed, a glass of cool water in her hand.

"Damn this!" she muttered furiously, glaring about the interior of her 
caravan as though seeking some enemy in the shadows upon which to vent her 
boiling frustration.

This was the sixth night in a row that the damn nightmare had come 
calling. Always the dream was the same: the interminable fight with a 
never-ending hoard of buma, while a part of her waited, knowing with a 
growing certainty how the nightmare would end, yet helpless to act or to 
influence in any way the horrible climax to the scenario. Only the victim 
and the attacking buma changed. Last night it had been Linna, the night 
before, Sylia. Once even it had been Sylvie, appearing absurdly in the 
midst of the fight, running desperately towards her only to be hit by a 
leering C-55 that had lifted her broken form, to morph and change into the 
same tall, flame-haired figure of infinite ruin, smiling with a look of 
hate and triumph, and a hunger beyond depravity as she held the 
feebly-struggling 33S, and Sylvie screamed and screamed with a lost, 
broken horror Priss could still hear in her memory.

With a half-snarl of rage, Priss rose to pace restlessly about her home 
like some caged thing. She knew she should try to forget about it: that 
brooding on the damn thing every time it came to torment her, probably was 
only going to make things worse. But it was the overwhelming, cloying 
intensity of the nightmare that most troubled her, the horror made all the 
more unsettling by the fact that she was no stranger to bad dreams, and 
she knew she should have been able easily to deal with something like 
this.

It made no sense. Why the hell should she be dreaming this now, night 
after night, and why the hell did it keep bothering her for so long once 
she was awake? Nothing had changed; indeed, things had been unusually calm 
and quiet since that lunatic Yoshida had tried his insane attack on the 
ADP. Maybe that was the problem, she thought wryly. Not being called on to 
risk her life every other night, some deranged, twisted little part of her 
subconscious was dreaming up this sick nightmare, just to keep her on her 
toes, and remind her that she had better not get too comfortable.

She smiled a sardonic little smile, barely able to suppress a laugh of 
self-mockery. That just would not surprise her; it would not surprise her 
at all. The trouble was that the damn dream was so horribly real and 
vivid, far worse than even the worst nightmares to which periodically she 
was prone, and no matter what she tried, she did not seem to be able to 
stop the stupid thing from coming again and again to wake her in the early 
hours, thrashing and struggling, and screaming like some kid less than 
half her age.

Priss sighed. It was plain that she was not going to get any more sleep 
tonight. It was almost morning anyway, and she had an early rehearsal, 
something unusual for the Replicants, but something into which she had 
cajoled them to agreeing, due to the fact that Sylia had scheduled a 
training session for the coming afternoon, followed by a rare night out 
together as a group, just to relax, since things were so quiet.

She shook her head. The idea of spending her social time with the other 
sabres did not bother her at all as once it might have done. They had 
become her friends: she no longer even pretended otherwise, despite all 
their differences; perhaps closer than any friends in a long time. But the 
continuing nights of far too little sleep were taking their toll, and she 
was dead tired.

Perhaps, she thought moodily, she should try talking to the others about 
the damn nightmare. Probably they would laugh their heads off at her 
expense: well, Linna and Nene at least. But she had had enough of the damn 
stupid dream, and she seemed to remember reading something somewhere once 
about dreams going away if you told someone else about them. Yeah, that 
might just get rid of the stupid thing, and let her get a decent night's 
sleep for the first time in what felt like a small eternity.

Suppressing a sudden, copious yawn, Priss stretched, fighting down the 
momentary desire to just curl up once more, before she moved to get ready 
for a long, soothing shower, and to find something to wear.

Typical. Just when the damn dream was starting properly to fade and she 
might have been able to get more sleep, she was not going to get the 
chance.

Sighing again, she finished gathering what she needed, and soon she was 
preparing for what was going to be a very long day.

 				     * * *

"That was undoubtedly the worst performance of your life."

Priss sat back, staring miserably at the screen. She had known that she 
had performed far below her usual standard, but she had not realised just 
what one hell of a dog's breakfast she was making, until Sylia had called 
a halt in the middle of a test, deactivated the simulation, and told Priss 
to come out to where she and the others were waiting in a tone that left 
the young singer in no doubt that she was very far from pleased.

"Well?" Sylia continued grimly, one slender finger flashing out to cancel 
the replay with a snap that seemed to echo throughout the room. "Perhaps 
you'd care to tell me why you just scored a 2.5, an aggregate I might add 
lower even than Nene has managed after two double shifts, and a night 
getting far less sleep than she should."

The redhead flushed in embarrassment, remembering more than one less than 
stellar performance after half a night spent gaming or chatting on-line, 
when she should have been tucked up well asleep.

Priss shifted, suddenly both ashamed and furious with herself for not 
being able to deal with something so simple. It was a dream; a damn stupid 
dream! And here she was, worrying herself sick because she was not getting 
enough sleep due to some idiotic nightmare. Why the hell was she letting 
it get to her? Why couldn't the thing just go the hell away, and stop 
tormenting her every damn night!

Abruptly, and to her shock and outrage, Priss felt her face begin to burn, 
while her eyes stung suddenly with unshed tears. Clenching herself, 
suddenly more angry and humiliated than she could remember being in a very 
long time, she surged to her feet, whirling towards the door, her only 
thought to get out and find somewhere private to sort out what the hell 
was going on.

Then a slender hand laid gently on her arm.

"Priss?" Sylia's voice was quiet, and suddenly it was all Priss could do 
not to burst into angry, frustrated tears.

For what seemed for ever, she just stood there, fighting savagely for 
control.

"Sorry," she said at last, when she was certain her voice would not crack. 
"I'm sorry, Sylia. The truth is, I...I haven't been sleeping well over the 
last few nights."

For another long moment she hesitated, still more ashamed for her 
inability to rid herself of the stupid damn dream. But she would be damned 
if she would let this beat her, and at last, with a heavy sigh, she 
settled again slowly in her place. Then steeling herself, she began to 
speak.

 				     * * *

She had seldom been in a more foul mood. Kate Madigan stood amidst the 
ruin that had once been Dr. Alexei Ivanovitch Zhuranovsky's, and his 
daughter's city flat, and vowed that she would have the miserable, 
narrow-visioned bastard eviscerated with something small and very blunt by 
the very machine he had stolen, after security had finished with him of 
course. It had not been a good night for Madigan.

She had been roused from a dead, dark sleep by the C-55 all but dragging 
her from her bed, only an hour after she had settled into it for the 
night.

For one terrifying moment, the nightmare certainty that the chairman had 
decided that her mishandling of the largo affair did indeed warrant 
summary dismissal, and that her services would no longer be required, had 
seized her with horrible intensity. Then the security buma had made its 
report.

The first Bu-33DA prototype was missing, along with Zhuranovsky and the 
functional DA-2134.

Madigan, cursing more vehemently than she had since the moment the true 
enormity of the Largo fiasco had become clear to her, had struggled with 
frantic speed into something more suitable than a nightdress, her mind 
whirling in wild desperate speculation.

There had been indications that the fool might try something like this, 
indications to which she should have paid attention, rather than listening 
to the idiots who considered themselves the cream of Genom internal 
security. Ever since the unfortunate death of his daughter, the scientist 
had been a liability. Yet her baka advisers insisted that he was obsessed 
with seeing the project to its completion, and would not try to escape, 
not yet, not until the last test was complete, and he had seen the machine 
he had begun to think of as all but the resurrection of his lost child 
fully functional. Certainly, they had assured her continually in imbecilic 
concert, there was no possibility that he might try to flee with her 
before the remaining prototypes were activated and tested to his 
satisfaction. He had begun to care for them rather than simply for the 
project, and that would keep him focused and loyal.

She should have known better. She should have had him confined to quarters 
within the tower for the duration, or at least until the first DA's 
initial firmware could be checked independently, both for faults, and for 
any influence he might have hidden in its programming.

The problem was that they were desperately pressed for time. The attack on 
Gulf and Bradley, and the ensuing investigation into the American company 
it had precipitated had forced them to sever all ties with their disgraced 
partner. If things turned out as anticipated, they would move in later to 
pick over the scraps and purchase the ruined company and its patents at a 
fraction of their initial investment.

But now contracts must be met, and the joint project had in any case 
always been little more than a diversion: something to control and 
manipulate the military of an increasingly desperate Third World, and to 
divert attention from the infinitely more important, not to mention 
proffitable potential realised in the revolutionary Bu-33DA prototype.

And it had been going so well. Had it not been for the failure of the 
initial 2134, the field-test could have begun, and the infiltration of the 
Knight Sabre organisation taken place *exactly* as originally intended.

Madigan's plan had been elegant in its simplicity.

Camilla, a new experimental prototype based supposedly on a merging of the 
33C personal security unit and the discontinued 33-S sexaroid, and 
designed apparently for the lucrative and in some cases illegal 
international market in such products, as well as its domestic equivalent 
now that the restrictions on such buma had at last been relaxed, would 
escape" with Marina, the daughter of a distinguished Genom scientist 
forced to head the project, and murdered" recently "after the machine's 
completion.

Whilst Camilla, the standard DA, played the part of desperate escapee for 
the sabres benefit, Marina, the Bu-33DA-Elite, would be waiting, the 
perfect distraught daughter of a cruelly murdered genius, apparently no 
longer willing to trust anyone as an intermediary, save for her father's 
creation, who had become her friend.

Madigan might not know who the Knight Sabres were, but she was certain it 
would not take the two supposed escapees long to find them, given a 
convincing scenario and the appropriate leaking of information concerning 
the project, information specifically created for the occasion, but based, 
at least in part, on a tiny fragment of the truth.

Camilla's task would be to observe, and to play the desperate, terrified 
machine-become-alive, appalled at what she had been created to become, and 
seeking a new beginning. At each return to the hideout Madigan had no 
doubt the sabres would soon provide, she could upload the gathered data to 
Marina, who would be the field commander and determine what should be 
done. When they were ready, Marina would upgrade the second DA, and they 
would summon the sabres to the hideout on whatever pretext seemed 
appropriate. The women would be captured and brought to the tower, where 
the remaining four prototypes would be waiting to take their place.

Unlike Largo's ridiculous trap, the deception would be perfect. After the 
appropriate extraction of information, ensuring of course that none of the 
four were damaged unduly, the four DAs would be released to destroy the 
sabres' reputations beyond hope of redemption. When their future was 
ruined: when they were hated and despised, the buma would be recalled, and 
the four disgraced Knight Sabres released to provide the ADP, USSD, SDPC, 
Genom, or whomever else wished to bring action against them, with the 
criminals the city would demand.

The plan: "*Her* plan" she reminded herself bitterly, had been her first 
real chance to redeem herself in the chairman's eyes, and he himself had 
approved it as an acceptable first test for the new prototypes. And with a 
single stroke, Zhuranovsky had brought it crashing down about her.

She would die if she could not recover at least the stolen DA, and its 
chip, of that she had no doubt. Failure of this magnitude was beyond 
incompetence; it could be almost inconceivably disastrous. Should the 
Knight Sabres hear of this, and take the buma, and the 2134, she did not 
want to imagine the appalling implications.

"Ma'am?"

Madigan started at the rumbling tone of the machine at her side, unused to 
being unnerved by the creatures.

"Have you found anything?" she demanded, although she held out very little 
hope.

"Dr. Zhuranovsky has not entered his home today, nor does the inventory 
indicate anything either touched, or missing," The machine answered.

"Very well. Have everything removed to the tower for analysis, regardless 
of how insignificant, then burn the flat," she said briskly. "Place a 
watch on the building and--"

She stopped as her phone pinged.

"Madigan," she snapped even as she snatched it from her coat, and unfolded 
it.

"The surviving security buma has just returned, Madigan-sama," Came the 
voice of a human security operative. "It claims that it has destroyed both 
Zhuranovsky, and his companion."

Madigan had warned them that it would mean death to anybody who said 
something that could identify the DA-33 over the network, secure as it 
might be. But this news made her forget her own caution.

"Destroyed!" she shrieked, fear, and rage fighting for dominance. "Didn't 
you tell those two idiots what they were to do?"

"Ogawa, and Radford are dead; the 33C brought back their bodies in the 
car. It seems that...um...Zhuranovsky's companion broke both their necks, 
and tried to attack the buma. It had no choice but to destroy 
it...um...her."

"How very unfortunate," Madigan purred icily. "and how thoughtful that it 
brought back Ogawa and Radford, while leaving the others behind.

"Have that data treble-checked" she continued, her contempt for the man 
and the rest of the congenital imbeciles in internal security climbing 
several further notches as she shook her head, dismissing the buma's 
report already as absurd. "and have the location of the battle to me in 
less than thirty seconds. Believe me, if this *is* true, Ogawa's, and 
Radford's deaths will be the least of your problems."

That should at least get the fool thinking, if indeed that were possible.

"Hai, Madigan-sama," The man answered, unable to keep the sudden terror 
from his voice.

Madigan whirled from the sitting-room, and snapping several further 
instructions to the gathered humans and machines, she strode quickly from 
the flat, and down towards her waiting limousine.

Moments later she was being chauffeured at speed towards the canyons, the 
four security buma silent as they listened to her continuing commands.

 				     * * *

Priss yawned, stretching luxuriously as she woke gently from the best few 
hours sleep she had had in what seemed for ever.

As usual, Sylia had been right, she thought with a strange mixture of 
gratitude, and a momentary touch of irritation. Had Sylia actually ever in 
her life been wrong? She had suggested Priss stay the rest of the 
afternoon in the guest room, and had given her a short-term soporific to 
help her sleep.

And it had worked. The nightmare had not come to plague her, and she felt 
better than she had in several days.

Yawning again, Priss slid to the floor, the last of her lassitude 
vanishing as she made her way into the room's opulent en suite. She had 
perhaps an hour before they would have to leave to meet the others at the 
restaurant, and she was going to make the best of it.

Soon, she was relaxing in a great deal of deliciously hot water, the 
nightmare all but forgotten as she settled back and half-closed her eyes. 
Yep; this day was not turning out so badly after all.

 				     * * *

"You shee Prish? Told you you were worrying 'bout nothing."

Nene was sprawled haphazardly across her chair, her head having just 
settled on Linna's arm, her green eyes trying vainly to remain focused on 
the blur that was an increasingly moody Priss who sat facing her.

Beside her, Linna snapped closed the data-pad on which she had just 
finished making an investment update she had forgotten to do that morning, 
and pushed her upright yet again, shaking her head.

Nene giggled.

"Whasha matter?" she demanded cheerfully, trying to turn to look at her. 
"Can't sh'port me? Anyway; don't need it. 'M fine; shee?"

She tried to stand, swayed, and collapsed back in her seat.

"You know," she continued, suddenly morose, "I think 's time to go 
somewhere elshe. Thish ish sh'poshed to be fun." She glanced across the 
table at Priss and Sylia, then slumped back in her place.

Priss was now glaring at her, her initial good mood having long since 
evaporated. Why was she not surprised that this had happened? Nene had an 
unfortunate tendency to over-indulge when they went somewhere together for 
an evening, if they did not watch her. Not prone to drinking, the younger 
girl was appallingly bad at gauging her limits, which were low, even for 
someone of her small size.

At first, shocked at how few drinks it took to render the young redhead 
all but paralytic, and concerned she did not get herself into trouble when 
they went out together, Priss had come very soon to the conclusion that 
treating her like a little kid was not going to help, and that the only 
way to make her take greater care was to let her get herself falling-down 
drunk once or twice to teach her to be more careful, an opinion the others 
seemed to share.

Unfortunately, although a great deal more aware of her alcohol intolerance 
than she had been a year before, still Nene did not seem to have grasped 
the concept that a good wine could get her plastered just as easily as 
something a great deal less refined, this evidenced by the fact that she 
was now glaring petulantly around the table, seeming not at all pleased 
that her suggestion of a moment before was being met with such 
disinterest.

Priss sighed, shifting irritably in her place. The damn night had started 
off so well, but she had realised too late that even a little alcohol had 
not been a good idea, as her anxiety concerning whether the damn nightmare 
would come again that night returned, and her mood darkened. Now she sat, 
glowering across at the smaller girl, her current drink barely touched, 
her mind still on what had happened earlier.

As she had feared, Linna and Nene had ribbed her mercilessly about the 
dream, although they were as sympathetic as amused, and she knew the 
teasing was as much an attempt to try to cheer her up as anything else. 
But they had not experienced the overwhelming intensity of the horror, and 
although she had tried to laugh with them, she had become increasingly 
grim and morose as the evening progressed, and she began to wonder whether 
the coming night would be any better.

"You know, you're really pathetic sometimes," she said sourly, still 
glaring across at the younger girl, knowing she was being unfair, but too 
irritated at that moment to give a damn.

"Wha'ja mean!" Nene retorted, hurt. "Leasht my dream-buma don't turn into 
vampire women, or whatever it was. Thatsh really weird you know, 'nlesh it 
was shome kind of shubconscious thing telling you it washn't your fault, 
what happened to Shylvie." Abruptly she brightened, plainly pleased with 
her deductive powers. "Hey! I'll bet that's it!" she cried, far too loudly 
for Priss's liking. "I'll bet you're still feeling guilty, sho the dream's 
trying to tell you--"

But Priss had had enough. Leaning suddenly across the table, she brought 
her face close to that of the young redhead, her red eyes flashing 
angrily.

"Listen Nene," she growled, the words harsher even than she had expected 
as Sylvie's broken form flashed painfully for a moment in her memory, "I'm 
not in the mood for this now, alright?"

She rose angrily to her feet, glaring into the green eyes that were 
suddenly confused and on the brink of tears.

"Hey, Priss," said Linna quietly, not wanting the night to end like this, 
"let's just leave it all right?

"And as for you, little Miss Cyberpunk," she continued, standing quickly, 
and slipping an arm around Nene to lift her to her feet, "I think you've 
had quite enough for one night.

"I'll take her home, Sylia," she ended quietly.

Sylia nodded, her attention on Priss. Gently she reached out, and caught 
the other girl's hand, exerting a gentle but insistent pressure to pull 
her back into her seat.

For a moment Priss remained standing, still glaring at Nene. Then she 
sighed and settled back once more, her expression softening, and Sylia 
relaxed her hold.

"'M all right; no need to hold me up," Nene was insisting, swaying on her 
feet, and smiling through the brimming tears as she clutched at Linna for 
support.

"Shut up," said Linna without anger as she slipped the data-pad into her 
bag, and slung it on her arm.

"But I'm 'll right," Nene insisted, beginning to pout. "'M not a shild. 
Le' go. 'wan t'njoy myself. 'm not going home yet."

"Yes you are," said Linna calmly.

"'m not going home yet!" Nene insisted with far greater volume.

Then she lurched, swayed again, and collapsed into Linna's arms in a dead 
faint.

"I think you are," said Priss, with a sudden smile. "Why do you do this to 
yourself?"

Shaking her head, she moved to help Linna and Sylia get a blissfully 
oblivious Nene out to Linna's van, her look abruptly warm and fond as she 
gazed down at the smaller girl for a moment, before she shook her head 
again and turned away.

"Can you manage with her?" she said to Linna as she stepped back. "I can 
follow you if--"

"No," Linna assured her. "I'll be fine."

Sylia disappeared in the direction of her car, returning with a bottle of 
small, pink pills, one of which she convinced Nene to wake up long enough 
to take.

"That should help her metabolise the alcohol in an hour or so," she said 
quietly to Linna, her own face touched with a smile as the young redhead 
murmured a giggling: "Night-night. Sleepy-time!" and settled into blissful 
oblivion again as Linna closed her door. "At least she won't regret this 
tomorrow."

Moments later Linna had wished her and Priss goodnight, and soon she was 
driving through the night towards Nene's flat, the younger girl curled up 
beside her.

Linna hummed quietly to herself, her own mood introspective. Things had 
been quiet, too quiet recently. For nearly two months they had done 
little, save to train and deal with the ever more occasional buma 
rampages. Not that she minded the respite. Yet it gave her time to think, 
and to ponder anew the path her life was taking.

Beside her, Nene murmured something in her sleep, and Linna glanced down 
at her for a moment and sighed.

It was easy for the others. Nene's reasons for being part of the team were 
clear and straight-forward: a naive but unshakable desire to do what she 
could to make the city safe. Sylia, with her grim, calculating 
determination to settle the debt Genom owed her family and the world at 
large, needed no other reason. Even Priss, with her bouts of depression, 
rage, and savage desire to make Genom suffer, knew exactly why and for 
what she was fighting.

But for Linna, the reasons for staying were less simple, even to herself. 
True, the money was far better than anything she might have expected to 
make as a dancer: certainly *far* more than she could ever make as an 
aerobics instructor. But money had long ceased to be her primary 
motivation, and the more so still after Irene's death at Mason's hands.

She had never been cynical, able nearly always to remain cheerful and 
optimistic, and make the best of every chance life had given her. Yet she 
found herself wondering suddenly when she had really started to believe in 
what Sylia was trying to do, and just when the other Sabres had become 
three of the best friends she had ever had.

She smiled, glancing again for a moment at Nene curled up in oblivious 
contentment. Yet she wondered with a sudden chill whether things would be 
the same in five, or perhaps even in ten years. Would she still be a 
faceless figure in a green hardsuit, risking her life night after night 
for a battle she knew in her heart they could never truly win?

What of the career she had left behind, of the life she had once dreamed 
could be hers, but that was impossible while things remained as they were? 
What of her future?

Linna shivered, abruptly intensely aware of the loneliness that lurked 
always behind the facade of success, and confidence she projected, waiting 
until one day she realised that the chance for happiness had flown, never 
to be recalled. Suddenly afraid and vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed 
herself to feel, she reached out to Nene at her side.

But Nene slept on untroubled, and Linna withdrew her hand, a sudden, 
unreasoning feeling of foreboding taking chill possession of her. In that 
moment she wanted only to reach the relative security of her own 
apartment, empty though it might be.

Shivering again, Linna increased her speed, the irrational unease growing 
with every mile as she sped through the night to take Nene home.

 				     * * *

She was running, fleeing wildly through a frigid, numbing whiteness, while 
something she could not name pursued her, closer with every moment, and a 
nameless, cloying horror grew and grew so that she ran blindly, and dared 
not look back.

"Sylia!" A voice called again. The tone was almost familiar, Yet she could 
not place it. "Sylia Stingray."

And then she knew. Or did she? Largo, or Mason, or some twisted 
amalgamation of the two?

Stumbling to a halt, she whirled, staring helplessly into the fog, seeking 
vainly for the source of the myriad echoes. For a moment she could see 
nothing. Then the fog swirled and parted, and he stood before her, Largo 
in all his malignant power, but with the face of the man he had been.

"Sylia!" he said, his voice shifting somehow between that of Mason and 
Largo, whilst sounding of both and neither. "Sylia Stingray! I knew it."

And with that, he smiled a smile of death, and raised his hand, and her 
world was filled with fire.

With a gasp, Sylia jerked herself awake, bolting upright as she stared 
about her room, her heart racing feverishly for a moment, before she drew 
in a long, steadying breath and sighed. This was not the first time she 
had dreamt of Mason, or Largo, or both, but the fog and the overwhelming 
sense of foreboding were something new.

Sylia shook her head. No doubt the atmosphere was at least in part 
conjured up from Priss's description of her own nightmare, and her 
subconscious decided to pick tonight to remind her of her own past demons 
for no other reason than some particularly warped sense of humour.

Sighing, she glanced aside at the clock on her bed-side table. It was a 
little after two.

Shifting a little, she prepared to lay down and go back to sleep. Then 
suddenly she froze.

Something was wrong. For a moment she could not place the sudden sense of 
imminent danger. Then she stiffened as it came again: the faintest sounds 
of stealthy, barely-heard movement from somewhere in the flat.

It was not Mackie. He was staying at Dr. Raven's for the night, as he was 
in the middle of a project, and had intended to work late. Besides, Sylia 
knew the sounds he made; the knowledge was instinctive, like anything else 
safe and familiar.

Reaching for the emergency pager she kept always close at hand, she 
activated it and set it aside. It would take the others some considerable 
time to arrive, even assuming they did not sleep through the call. 
Meanwhile, she would have to deal with whatever, or whomever was there. 
Whatever it was had been able to enter the building, without triggering 
her security, a nearly impossible task that spoke of only one kind of 
intruder.

Was this then how it was to end; her last fight? If so, she would not die 
without a struggle, nor at all, if she could help it.

Moving quickly, her mind suddenly cold, and calm, Sylia rolled to the 
floor, reaching for the heavy Earth-shaker that lay on the dressing-table 
. She caught it up, then froze. The stealthy sounds had ceased. There was 
a soft, barely-perceptible click as a door was opened and closed again 
with the same exquisite care. Then came the faintest whisper of a 
footfall.

For one fractional moment Sylia had time to realise that she had 
miscalculated, and to raise the pistol in a last hope. Then the bedroom 
door exploded inwards, and something barely glimpsed closed the distance 
between them in a heartbeat, and slammed her face-down on the bed.

"Should you move, I will not hesitate to cut your head from your body," 
Purred a low female voice close to her ear.

Sylia felt the pistol plucked from her hand, then a tiny jerk as it was 
flicked to the further side of the room.

"You are Sylia Stingray?" The voice continued.

It was as cold and calculating as the tones of any buma Sylia had heard, 
and the frigid chill of the body pinning her own only confirmed what she 
already knew.

"I imagine you knew that already," she answered, her own tone belying the 
sudden turmoil in her mind.

How had the machine entered the building without triggering a dozen facets 
of her security? Yet she was given no time to consider.

With a sudden brisk movement, the buma half lifted her in one arm, keeping 
her face pressed to the pillow.

"Forgive me," It said unexpectedly.

Then there was a quick savage sound of tearing as it slashed her shift 
from neck to hem, pulled it from her, and in one fluid movement, whirled 
in a quick, curling motion to stand, snatching her from the bed as though 
she weighed nothing, and setting her naked on her feet, her back turned 
towards it.

"Do not try to turn," It said, the threat more apparent by the lack of 
overt warning in its tone.

For a moment it remained still. Then with the same fluid motion it spun 
her to face it.

Now it was Sylia's turn to gasp. The buma could not have been further from 
what she had expected.

Standing perhaps a little under six feet in height, the machine was 
scandinavian-fair and astoundingly beautiful, a picture of voluptuous 
female curves beneath the scant, tight-fitting jump-suit that clung close 
to the lithe, slender form. Long, lustrous fair hair tumbled in heavy, 
dishevelled waves below its waist, a tattered ribbon that once must have 
kept it tied back and out of its way looped still loosely in its tangles. 
The picture of elegance, however, was disturbed horribly by the fact that 
Freshly dried blood, and more that was not dried smeared the clothing such 
as it was, and more still was spattered on the bare arms, fair face, and 
long neck. The look in the blue eyes as they regarded her was 
disconcertingly intense, and very much alive, and the ripe, full mouth was 
set in a fierce smile of savage determination and appraisal as the 
creature studied her intently. Had she not already guessed the truth, she 
could not have told that the thing before her was not as human as herself.

"Impressive," Sylia acknowledged calmly, searching for something with 
which to buy time. "Although the blood does detract somewhat from the 
perfect picture of elegance.

"But I understood Genom had abandoned such designs. Or have the recent 
changes to export restrictions encouraged Chairman Quincy to rethink his 
priorities? Certainly I wouldn't have thought it appropriate for an 
assassin, unless of course, I'm being treated to a display of his own 
perverse sense of humour?"

The machine surprised her again by laughing, a hard, savage sound.

"Your composure does you credit," said Marina. "But even you have no idea 
how close you and your friends have been to death, nor of the danger in 
which you might have found yourself had I been sent as Genom intended.

"Still, that's not important at the moment. I'm not here to kill you, not 
unless in the last possible extreme, and certainly not if you're willing 
to help me, and save Tousan's life.

"My name is Marina, and I've not come at Genom's command.

"Tell me what clothes you need. Do not move."

Less than a half-minute later, Sylia had finished dressing in all that the 
machine would allow her.

"Come," Marina commanded, pushing her ahead of her from the bedroom, and 
along the passage. "Father was hurt during our escape, and I can't help 
him as I am."

Entering the sitting-room, Sylia gasped again as she caught her first 
sight of the figure lying by the door. Blood pulsed slowly from a shredded 
gaping wound in his shoulder, and also from the long, vicious slash in his 
left leg, splashing on to the already blood-soaked trench-coat upon which 
he lay. It was clear to her immediately that the shoulder-wound at least 
had been given him by a heavy-calibre gunshot.

"Who on Earth--" she demanded.

But the buma had already crossed to the figure, and returned, a small 
black case clutched in her arm.

"You will find the data, and the chip you need in this," she continued, 
her tone suddenly fierce, and urgent. "I'll explain everything when I know 
Tousan is safe. But now you will fetch help for him. You must have someone 
you can call; your organisation could not function otherwise."

"Organisation?" Sylia inquired mildly.

But a horrible suspicion that the strange buma knew already exactly of 
what she was speaking was confirmed as the machine's eyes flashed.

"Don't try to play games with me, Stingray-san!" Marina said coldly. "I 
haven't the time, and nor have you. Both of us know to what I'm referring; 
I see no meed to be more specific. If you--"

But suddenly she whirled, easing the case quickly to the floor.

In the next instant the window exploded, and three hardsuited figures 
leapt into the room. It seemed that the alarm system had long since 
signalled Mackie after all.

Before Sylia could so much as move, the machine had twisted, slipped 
aside, and leapt to attack. Moving with an inconceivable, fluid blur of 
speed so far beyond any buma they had ever before encountered as to leave 
Sylia gaping, she caught up Linna as though she were feather-light, and 
catapulted her through the remains of the window with the force of a 
cannon. Flipping effortlessly from Priss's tackle, the DA snatched her 
from the floor, and sent her spinning in Linna's wake, the suit's systems 
struggling uselessly against the singing impetus of the cast.

"No!" Sylia cried as Nene began to move.

Too late, Nene, still less than entirely at her best, tried desperately to 
avoid the machine. In the next instant she had followed the others, but in 
the same moment the buma lurched, froze, then without a sound crumpled to 
the floor.

Whatever Nene had tried to do had, it seemed, been effective.

Sylia dropped to the floor beside the disabled machine, tearing 
frantically at the jump-suit in her haste to find something that might 
disable her in a more permanent fashion, without doing any lasting harm. 
The movement when it came was too quick for her to comprehend. One moment 
she was attempting to turn the creature on to her back. In the next she 
was pinned to the buma, a lithe hand clamped tightly about her throat, but 
not so much as to hurt her.

"Try to fight again," Marina purred softly, "and you will be very, very 
dead.

"I'm sorry; believe me, I understand your position. But I swear I didn't 
come to fight you, nor to do you harm; only to seek help for Tousan before 
it's too late, and for you to help us as he intended.

"But do not doubt me; I shall kill you if I must. Even incomplete as I am, 
my reflexes are a million times your own, and I'm more protected against 
ECM than you could begin to understand."

There was a movement from beyond the shattered window, and a moment later 
Priss stood in the room once more, Linna and Nene only moments behind her.

"Listen you piece of--" Priss began.

"Don't threaten me, Priscilla Asagiri," said the buma calmly, ignoring 
Priss's unavoidable start of shock and horror at her speaking her name. "I 
haven't the time. Father is dying, and I will do anything I must to save 
him. Do you understand? *Anything*!

"You, and she," she indicated Linna, "will fetch your doctor here, or take 
Tousan now to a place where he can find the help he needs, a place Genom 
can't find. Nene Romanova," she indicated the pink-suited figure, "is your 
insurance, and my own. She will stay. She may relay all that's happening 
here to you, and record it as you wish. You have my promise that she and 
your leader will be safe. But attempt to betray me, or let Father die 
unattended, and I promise you, I'll kill them. I'm sorry, but I've no 
choice. Tousan is in desperate need of help, and you are our only hope."

With a snarl, Priss began forwards, but Marina shifted so that Sylia was 
between her and the advancing blue hardsuit.

"You want this?"" she purred in a low threatening snarl of her own. "I 
will not warn you again. I don't wish to hurt you: any of you. But I will 
do what I must. Do not force my hand."

"Syl--" Priss began.

"Do as she says," Interrupted Sylia, her voice at last beginning to show 
something of the tension she was feeling. "I believe there is a great deal 
more happening here than we are aware. Nor do we have a choice.

"Take her father, and the case."

"No," said Marina urgently; "the case must stay. You will need it if 
you're to understand."

"Leave it," Sylia agreed. "Go."

"But that thing will kill you the moment we're gone!" said Linna, her tone 
at the raw-edge of panic.

"No, Linna Yamazaki," The buma responded, her voice warmer than Sylia had 
expected. "I've given my word, and I have never lied, save to Genom, which 
I hate more than you could begin to comprehend."

"Go; now!" Sylia commanded urgently.

"If you hurt them, you piece of Genom sh*t--" Priss snarled.

Then turning, she watched as Linna bent to lift the sprawled figure by the 
door.

"What on Earth happened to him!" Linna gasped, seeming only then to become 
aware of just how badly he was hurt.

Priss flinched in concert, horrified despite herself at the man's 
condition.

"Razor-doll," Marina answered flatly. "I was not quick enough, although I 
tore her apart for her trouble.

"Go now, and do not forget, their lives depend on you. Find father the 
help he needs."

Moments later, Linna had leapt from the room, the man cradled in her arms. 
Priss remained for a moment, her attention still on the machine.

"Is there something about death you don't understand?" Marina hissed, 
tightening her hold ever so slightly on Sylia's throat. "Why are you 
making this more difficult than it has to be!

"Go."

With a snarled oath and an unseen glare that would have vaporised the DA 
where she stood, had she the power, Priss whirled abruptly, and leapt 
after Linna.

"Remember what I said, you bitch!" she shouted back. Then she was gone.

"Reset the security system," said the buma quietly, turning to Nene. "I 
imagine you're capable. Then wait on the roof. I doubt that you could hurt 
me, even as I am, but I can't afford to take the chance; I'm sorry.

"And you've no need to scan me," she continued with a sudden genuine 
smile. "You'll have all the data you wish, as soon as Tousan is safe. 
Whatever you might choose to think, I'm not your enemy."

While Nene reset the system, Marina led Sylia once more back to her room, 
pausing only to close the door behind them.

Retrieving the pistol, she tucked it away into a drawer where Sylia had no 
hope of reaching it without her intervention.

"Sit," she commanded, pushing Sylia down on to the bed, and settling 
herself beside her. "If you wish, I can fetch what you need to dress more 
comfortably. I'm sorry I can't trust you to fetch your clothes, or leave 
you to dress alone; I understand you may be uncomfortable with my watching 
you. But needs must, and I can't relax my guard; not yet."

"Your observation doesn't particularly concern me," said Sylia, her voice 
chill and calm once more. "you're a buma after all."

"Oh?" Marina purred, her tone abruptly silkily warm, while her eyes shone 
with a sudden magnetic intensity. "Not even when I seem so very human? 
Something, at least in part, so like an S-class equivalent that nobody 
could tell the difference, and would mistake me for something a little 
less overtly dangerous?

"After all," she added, moving suddenly closer, "Even as I am, I have many 
times your strength and speed. I could do with you anything I might wish, 
and you would be powerless to resist. And I'm only a fraction of what I 
will be when you complete the upgrade, assuming of course, Mason's and 
Largo's files concerning your abilities were accurate."

She laughed softly at Sylia's almost imperceptible start.

"Both of them were obsessed, you know," she continued, her voice suddenly 
very low; "fascinated beyond all reason with Katsuhito's daughter, the 
leader of the Knight Sabres.

"And at the least," she said, her voice little more than a whisper, "won't 
you admit to being curious: eager to examine all that I am, and that I can 
give you, to see just how Father did what hitherto was thought to be an 
impossible dream: to see just how this is possible?"

She reached, laying a slender hand on Sylia's arm.

"Perhaps," Sylia conceded coldly, twisting from her touch, and moving to 
regain the distance she had lost. "Although I assume the data is here," 
she indicated the case. "As to anything else--,"

Marina's suddenly-mocking laughter cut her short.

"You are uneasy, aren't you," she purred triumphantly, although Sylia was 
certain suddenly that there was as much self-mockery as any other emotion 
in her tone. "I'm perfectly aware you're immune. Even barely operative, 
and with every sense screaming, I can read the subtlest of movements, and 
your every response. You haven't reacted to my triggers, physical, or 
chemical. I should say you're safe, at least for the moment."

She smiled viciously, and laughed again, a hard, bitter sound, the 
self-mockery now undeniable.

"Shall I prove it?" she demanded suddenly, moving closer once more.

In the next instant, slender arms moved to curl with sudden fierce 
strength about Sylia's tense unyielding form.

"Are you satisfied?" Marina continued savagely, her hold tightening still 
more, as she pressed suddenly close. "Is this enough?"

Then abruptly she released her, and jerked a little back, her face tight 
with something Sylia was sure was revulsion at what she had done. For a 
space they remained, watching one another in silence. Then at last Marina 
stirred.

"I am the first prototype of a new generation," she said softly, "a 
quantum leap in combat, command and relational intelligence: a superlative 
beyond all they could hitherto have hoped. I doubt that even you, Sylia, 
can yet appreciate just what they have created, or just how dangerous I 
am."

Sylia nodded, shifting a little in her place.

"I believe I am beginning to do so," she answered quietly, her tone tinged 
with unease, yet touched by something unexpectedly warm that brought a 
genuine smile to the buma's beautiful face. "A test? Part of your combat 
routines to test a potential enemy for later advantage?"

Marina nodded, the movement quick and savage.

"An S-class response," she confirmed, the loathing apparent in every word, 
"but tied irrevocably to my combat libraries, and part of my initial 
assessment routines. Such tests are as much instinct for me as any other, 
designed to seek a weakness, something I can use for later manipulation, 
should it become necessary."

Sylia shook her head, her face tight with loathing and disgust, and a 
sudden genuine sympathy as she met Marina's fierce blue gaze.

"But what now?" she asked quietly at last. "Do you intend that we stay 
like this until the others return, or they call to tell me what's 
happened?"

"I'm sorry," The buma answered. "But I've no choice. For what it's worth, 
I don't believe you'd betray me. But I must be sure.

"Were I fully functional I might have been willing to be less cautious, or 
found some other means by which I could win, or force your cooperation; 
although What I know already would be enough, assuming I were willing to 
reveal to Genom what I've discovered."

"Largo?" Sylia demanded tightly. "You mentioned files, but I can't imagine 
Mason leaving such speculations for others to find. As you said, he was 
obsessed, and would never have wanted anyone else to know."

"The data was incomplete," Marina told her. "and most certainly Largo 
didn't leave it in a condition to be accessible by anybody who didn't know 
of his obsession. But he was arrogant enough to continue to use Mason's 
executive account: a measure of his contempt for Genom I imagine, 
reactivating an account they'd frozen, and keeping his secrets on a Tower 
server all but under the chairman's nose.

Sylia nodded.

"As for how I obtained it: even dual-key encryption is simple to break, 
when the name of his obsession is the archive, and the pass-phrase.

"Of course, even Largo was certain only of you. But he was almost sure of 
Priss, and I was curious concerning the women I and Camilla were to 
deceive and capture. I compared your voices as projected by the suits with 
recordings of Priss's performances, most of which contained enough speech 
to be useful, and of ADP traffic, since it seemed the most likely place 
another member of the team might work. It didn't take long for me to match 
Nene's ADP transmissions to the voice of the pink hardsuit. You can 
distort them but you can't alter your manner of speech, accents, rhythm, 
quirks of phoneme, and pronunciation, a million subtle cues that made 
identification a simple matter for a relational intelligence. You should 
have installed recognition systems, and reconstructed the speech from the 
obtained raw data."

Sylia sighed.

"Perhaps an oversight on my part," she agreed. (But the processing needed 
for such a system would have taken too many resources from other and vital 
tasks, and I had to take the chance that vocoding and band distortion 
would be enough. Also, the delays inherent in such a system would simply 
be too dangerous."

Marina nodded in her turn, conceding she had a point.

"Linna was by far the most difficult," she continued. "There was no reason 
for recordings of her voice to be widespread, nor did I know where to 
start. But Genom had obtained a partial recording of Miriam Yoshida's 
attack on the ADP, and although edited, it contained enough speech for me 
to correlate it with back-stage security footage from Priss's Hot Legs 
club concert of two weeks ago. Linna and Nene were the only two allowed 
backstage during intermission.

Once I had identified three of the Knight Sabres, confirming your identity 
for myself was simple correlation, particularly in light of Largo's 
interest, and similarities between your father's initial buma designs and 
the technology of the Sabre hardsuits."

"And Genom?"

"Father had me wipe everything last night, before we escaped," she 
answered. "The Mason-Largo files were destroyed with everything else 
related to the project of which he was head. So far as I'm aware, there 
are no other copies. But even if there were, nobody not intimately equated 
with his obsession could decrypt the data; at least, not until now.

"But we have far more pressing concerns. Although Father's half of the 
twin DA project data is corrupted beyond recovery, Camilla is all they 
need. Once she is active--"

But suddenly she started, and turned her head.

"Signals traffic to Nene," she said quickly, her face abruptly tight and 
anxious. "I can't decode it in this state, but she's responding. She's 
coming down."

A moment later there was a sound from outside, then the door which Marina 
had closed was pushed open, and Nene's pink-suited figure stepped quietly 
into the room.

"That was Priss," she said very softly, seeing no point in dissembling 
with the buma. She had been listening through Sylia's own security system, 
and had heard the entire conversation. "I...I'm sorry, Marina. He's not 
going to make it; he was just too badly hurt. They're at the garage. 
He...he's asking for you before he dies."

 				     * * *

He was still in pain, but now at last it was bearable, a faint echo of the 
agony he had known. The doctor they had brought to him was old and quiet, 
a good man who had asked no questions, and done what he could. They had 
told him his daughter was coming: that she was on her way. And he could 
wait. He must. He had to see her one last time, to say he was sorry, and 
to say goodbye.

He knew he was dying: that he could not stay much longer. They had tried 
to hide it from him: not thought he could hear the quiet conversation from 
beyond the half-closed door: not guessed that he knew.

He had listened intently, a quiet relief and the gentle calm of acceptance 
soothing the pain and the fear. Marina had found them as he had hoped, and 
now she would be safe, or as safe as she could be. His only regret was 
that he could not stay himself to finish what he had begun. But he would 
be with his daughter soon, and her namesake would see Genom smashed to its 
knees for her, and for him, and all her sisters safe and beyond their 
reach for ever, and humanity spared the horror Fellini would have wrought.

He must be certain she understood what she must do: that he had planned 
even for this: that he had not failed her. Then he could say his last 
goodbye, and rest at last in peace.

"Is he--?"

"He's holding on, barely."

More voices, approaching once more. Then suddenly there came others, 
reaching him faintly from beyond what must be a closed door.

"Neechan, are you sure? How do we know she isn't--"

"Where is Father? Where!" another voice demanded, this one high and tight 
with desperation.

Someone must have pointed, for a moment later there was a crash, and in 
the next instant arms were slipping beneath him, and he felt tears fall 
upon his cheek.

"Tousan!" Marina's, his daughter's voice called.

In the growing confusion, he was not certain whether it was the voice of 
his creation, or his child, calling to him from beyond.

Please! he prayed silently, desperate for something to hear him. Please, 
not yet! Just a moment more!

Urgently, he fought down the seductive peace of death, and opened his 
eyes.

She was kneeling at his side, cradling him desperately to her, his head 
settling on her shoulder, her long hair soft against his cheek.

"Tousan!" she cried softly, her gentle voice choked and heartbroken with 
grief. "Tousan! Oh Tousan, forgive me! Please forgive! I'm sorry...so 
sorry for all I said to you. I tried! Truly, I tried! But I couldn't...it 
was--"

"Shh," he murmured, his voice barely a breath in the sudden stillness of 
the others in the room. "How could I ever blame you, my Marina; my little 
patrushka? You did all you could. It's your fight now. Make them suffer, 
M'rina, for what they did to her, and to me. Rescue C'milla, and 
poor...poor L'ana, and the others I'll never have the chance to know. 
And...and stop...stop that inhuman madman F'llini, and bring him down 
'ntil he has nothing: 'ntil he is nothing; hm 'nd Qncy. Swear to me. Tear 
out Gen'm's heart for me, my da'ling: my prec's. Prom'se me!"

His voice was a tiny gasp of sound beyond human hearing, his breathing a 
faint, laboured whisper.

Marina held him desperately, her face stark with shattered grief, her 
vision blurred with tears.

"Don' cry," he breathed. "Just prom'se you'll never f'get me, and what 
they did. Was all 'ntended. Make you torture Knight Sabr's f'r tes', to 
pr've you'd do 'nyth'ng they wanted. Even F'll'ni is pawn! Thinks he's 
won, but 's wrong. I found the hidden data...know what he's doing. Hid 
ev'thing in you; Stingr's daughter will find it. Q'ncy's mstake. Doesn't 
know what'll hapn when C'milla sends your key. Tr'cked him. Make him pay. 
Tired now. Time to go.

"G'bye M'rina, my M'rina, and s'rry. I...I l'v."

Then with a tiny sigh, Alexei settled, limp and still in her arms.

For what seemed an eternity of numb, disbelieving unreality, the Knight 
Sabres, Mackie, and Dr. Raven stood, and watched as the buma remained, 
still as though carven in marble, the scientist cradled gently close, the 
tears falling as though they would never cease.

Then suddenly she began to tremble. With a last choked sob, she stooped to 
kiss his cheek. Then with infinite care, she eased his body to settle 
gently once more, moving to fold his hands upon the coverlet as though in 
peaceful sleep. Then slowly she rose to her feet.

For a long moment she remained standing, arms tense at her sides, hands 
clenching, and unclenching while the trembling grew and grew, until it 
seemed to wrack her body in wave upon wave of spasmodic shaking. Then, 
starting deep in her throat, a slow, building snarl began, rising and 
climbing until at last she threw back her head, and the sound burst from 
her in a shrieking, terrible scream such as none of them had ever imagined 
could come from the mouth of human, or machine.

In the next instant the DA bunched herself. Then with a cataclysmic 
detonation of exploding plaster and shattering tiles she was gone, 
slamming straight upwards through the ceiling, and away into the night.

"Oh *SH*T*!" Was all Priss could think of to gasp.

 				     * * *

Dr. Natsumi Kanamoto was sound asleep in her flat when she was roused by 
her eight-year-old daughter's first terrified scream. In the next instant 
the wall between her own and her daughter's room exploded in a shattering 
shower of cement, and a moment later she was dragged still semi-conscious 
from her bed, and slammed to the floor with enough force to shatter her 
ribs to splinters. Trying to scream, blood suddenly filling her mouth, 
Natsumi had one moment to stare in numb, nightmare horror into the 
blazing, hate-filled eyes of the missing bu-33DA who wore the face of the 
girl she had helped her lover to destroy before searing pain exploded 
through her as the machine crushed her neck to pulp, and tore her head, 
still alive, from her body. Natsumi stared at her own headless corpse, her 
mouth opening in a silent petrified scream. Then Marina's frigid blue 
stare was all she could see.

Marina continued to gaze into the staring, terror-filled eyes of the dying 
woman until they glazed at last, the face fixed in a macabre silent rictus 
of nightmare. Then turning she hurled both head and body through the 
window, before the petrified child could see what she had done.

A moment later she was gone, slamming her way up through the ceiling, and 
away into the night once more. There were others to eliminate before 
morning, both for revenge and necessity. It would not prevent Camilla's 
activation, of course; certainly it would not stop Fellini. But if she 
could kill enough of her father's assistants and his Nemesis's accomplices 
before Madigan realised that the assassin's data was at fault, it might 
give her the time she needed.

 				     * * *

"We can't move everything from the garage, Sylia!" Priss cried 
desperately. "I told you we should have blown that thing apart."

"As if you didn't try!" Linna snapped, her own nerves at the edge, as she 
held back the growing terror and unreality of this night. "You saw how 
fast she moved! We didn't stand--"

"Another one!" Mackie gasped as he stumbled to a halt in the doorway. 
"Near the harbour. That's thirteen now within an hour; Kami knows how many 
others they're not reporting! Can we be *sure* it's her?"

"I think there's little doubt," said Sylia, as she hefted another crate in 
her hardsuit. "The mode of entry and escape."

"And the fact that they're all Genom researchers, and security personnel," 
Nene added. "Why aren't they protected? They must know what's happening."

"Perhaps they outlived their usefulness, and Quincy's letting Marina do 
the job for him?" Priss suggested. "Just another buma gone rogue."

"Perhaps," Sylia answered. "Or perhaps the victims are expendable bait."

"You mean Quincy knew all this would happen!" Linna demanded.

"It's a possibility we have to take into account," said Sylia grimly. 
"After all, all this does seem a little too convenient, does it not? Why 
wasn't Zhuranovsky watched? And how on earth did he manage to escape with 
a top-secret military prototype, particularly with the machine in a barely 
functional condition?"

"If that's barely functional," Priss muttered, "I wouldn't want to face 
one when it was running on all cylinders."

"Why were only two assassins sent after Zhuranovsky?" Sylia continued, 
ignoring Priss. "And *really* why was the surviving 33C not monitored from 
the tower? It was not, or they would have known the DA had fabricated its 
data, and sent another immediately."

"Then the whole thing is a setup;" Mackie exclaimed. "a test for the new 
prototype!"

"Regarding the DA herself, we won't know that until, and if, we find her," 
Sylia answered. "As for the rest..."

"Not a very good trap if we're suspicious of it already," Linna observed.

"Suspicion isn't important if you're caught," said Priss grimly. "Anyway 
if it's a trap we've already screwed up royally.

"Sylia we *have* to go after that thing tonight! We have to blow her 
apart, destroy her so completely that nothing's left for Genom to find."

"I agree" said Sylia, "at least concerning finding her. As for destroying 
her--"

"What!" Priss gasped. "Because of all that with Alexei Unpronounceable? 
The thing's a weapon for Kami's sake! It said itself that it could emulate 
S-class, C-class, and god knows how many other buma, not to mention human 
personalities, emotions, whatever. Even if the thing thinks its alive, 
it's too damn dangerous! Hell; I'd bet the thing would give Largo a good 
run for his money, and it's not even properly up and running! Damn it; the 
thing trounced us in a second. Worse, it knows who we are!"

"Which is precisely *why* we need her undamaged," Sylia answered.

"But we have the data!" Priss insisted. "That case contains enough to tell 
us its bra size. The thing's a piece of Genom military sh*t. Blow the 
thing to pieces before they get it back, or it kills us, or it really does 
go rogue, and wipes out half the damn city, if it hasn't cracked up 
already!"

"You didn't feel the same about Sylvie," said Nene quietly.

It was an ill-timed remark. Priss whirled on her, red-brown eyes ablaze.

"Listen Nene," she shouted furiously. "just shut up about that. I've had 
enough for one night. That was entirely different, and you know it! This 
thing is a top-line military prototype. That means weapons: probably 
experimental ones knowing Genom's record, plus an AI intended to use them, 
and that means more trouble than we've had to deal with, ever! How many 
more times do I have to say it?"

"Priss!" Sylia snapped in sudden icy command. Then more quietly: "I don't 
intend to argue the matter. We have to find her, and if possible, bring 
her back unharmed."

"That won't be necessary," said a sudden quiet voice from beyond the open 
doorway.

A moment later Marina stepped into the garage. She was a sickening sight. 
The once black jump-suit was now drenched with blood; indeed blood seemed 
to cover her liberally from head to toe. Even her long fair hair was 
matted, and coated a hideous black.

Nene lurched away, gagging in her helmet as she fought desperately to keep 
her sudden nausea in check. Even Priss stepped away from the machine, her 
face twisting in horror and revulsion.

"And you think that thing is safe!" she muttered darkly.

Mackie had his hand over his mouth, and looked ready to faint.

"Kami-sama!" Linna gasped faintly at last.

"Quite a sight, am I not?" Marina's tone was flat, and frozen. "I must 
apologise. I had to kill them as quickly as I could. I believe I've 
delayed Camilla's activation long enough for you to complete my upgrade 
Sylia, and to give me the chance I need to enter the tower, and tear out 
the Genom chairman's eyes, tongue, and heart."

 				     * * *

Domina Tatyanna Zhukova was more afraid than she had ever imagined she 
could be. She should not be here; she should not have to be doing this. 
But Madigan-sama and the two 33C razor-girl buma had left her very little 
alternative. Apart from the fact that it was likely the missing prototype 
would make her her next target if she was not brought safely to the tower.

It had taken security too long to discover just how Marina had selected 
her victims, and why the dozen, or so traps they had set had failed. The 
answer had been absurdly simple, and so overlooked in the panic. The buma 
had accessed the pager-phones each of her intended targets kept by them at 
all times, as was standard Genom practice, and so had been able to 
determine in a moment where each could be found. Ignoring those in the 
tower, she had made her way to each home, scanning at a distance, able to 
blend effortlessly into the night, her ECM shielding her from other buma 
whilst her own suite picked out possible danger with flawless precision.

If nothing else, Domina had thought bitterly as she shifted uneasily 
between the two 33Cs that flanked her in the limousine, it had been as 
perfect a field test for the machine as they could possibly have designed.

Why Marina had not used her weapons systems, she could not guess. It was 
just possible that Alexei had not yet had a chance to complete the 
upgrade. If that was the case, if the DA was still running with the 
standard chip, then probably her enhanced systems would be all but 
useless, and her sensory data a distorted mess. Still, the DA might be 
able to learn to interpret and interpolate, given time. She could not even 
guess at what Marina was capable in her present state. It might depend on 
a myriad of factors beyond her expertise and experience. Only Alexei had 
had the genius to tackle the low-level optimised assembler code vital to 
achieving the DA's unparalleled speed and flexibility, and he had had 
Marina make so much random garbage of what had once been the project's 
server archives.

The backups were no better. He had had her corrupt the archival, and 
encryption routines, and then re-initiate a full re-archival. The loss was 
not simply inconceivable, it was catastrophic beyond the worst anybody 
could have predicted: over four-hundred-billion yen of investment up in 
smoke, unless the lost information could somehow be reconstructed.

Their only remaining trump, apart from a few hardcopy scraps, were the 
as-yet inactive prototypes, and only one of these had yet been fully 
initialised. Camilla was all they needed to reconstruct the lost data. The 
problem was that Domina, as one of only four remaining researchers out of 
the fifteen who had been alive less than an hour before, had been 
designated the project's new head, and would be responsible for recovering 
as much as was possible in less than no time at all.

Madigan herself would be overseeing that recovery. Camilla was to be 
removed from her tank, and operational before sunrise. She had continued 
in a threatening purr that she would expect Marina to join her before 
noon. Which of course boiled down to the unqualified fact that if they did 
not find the missing DA's key, and have Camilla recall her before then, 
heads, quite literally, would roll.

Domina tried vainly to fight down the tightening knot of terror in her 
stomach as the lift climbed steadily through the seemingly innumerable 
levels of the tower, carrying her towards quarters that would be as much a 
prison as any cell until the project was brought to a satisfactory 
conclusion, or she failed. If that happened, she would never leave the 
tower, of that she was sure.

"The remaining technical and support staff have already been assembled," 
Madigan was saying to her, her tone a cold, professional confidence as the 
lift drew to a halt, and the doors hissed almost silently aside. "and all 
have been advised of your arrival. I expect there will be no problems?"

"None, Madigan-sama," Domina answered, fighting down the terror.

It was said that buma could sample the various bouquets of fear as 
exquisitely as she might one of her expensive perfumes. "I expect the 
second DA to be fully operational within an hour."

A rash promise, but she intended to stay alive, and if that meant someone 
else falling foul of the special assistant to the chairman then so be it. 
She knew already whom she would choose should it come to that.

"And the key?" Madigan demanded.

They had stepped from the lift into the wide, familiar passage, and Domina 
noted with a shiver that the two buma still flanked her.

"That depends on how imaginative Alexei proves," she said. "The key's 
encryption isn't a problem; the hardware is internal to the DA. We have 
only to find the initial seed. Our only concern is the fact that the 
sending of three successive incorrect combinations will shut down the DA 
completely, and make it impossible to recall her."

"Does the machine send a response to an incorrect key?"

"No. There's no indication that she's received anything until the correct 
key is sent," Domina replied.

"Then how do you hope to find her?" Madigan demanded, her tone even more 
frigid than before.

"That shouldn't pose much of a problem Madigan-sama," Another voice 
answered suddenly.

A moment later, a short white-coated figure stepped from the passage into 
which they had been about to turn, and halted, directly in their path.

Domina glared with barely concealed loathing at the short, balding man 
before her.

Kosuke Yoshida was of middle years, what remained of his dirty black pate 
straggling in unkempt disorder towards his eyes, his podgy face masking a 
snide amusement as he looked from her to the lavender-haired woman a pace, 
or two behind. There were few amongst the project scientists Domina 
loathed more, not only because of his sycophantic attentiveness that she 
was certain masked savage ambition, but because of the fact that she was 
equally certain he was as much a spy for internal security as anything 
else.

Yoshida glanced at the two machines flanking the new project head, and his 
smile grew wider, and more predatory.

"Alexei Ivanovitch Zhuranovsky might be many things," he continued 
smoothly, "but after the unfortunate death of his daughter, imaginative is 
no longer one of them. The DA's key is likely based on no more than the 
name he gave her, or something else just as obvious. We still have 
Camilla's key, so it should be a simple matter to have her derive the 
other."

"And if she makes a mistake?" Madigan demanded. "If three invalid 
combinations are sent?"

"At the most it will delay the inevitable, Madigan-sama," he answered, his 
sycophantic, predatory smile now reaching his eyes as he watched Domina's 
discomfort. "Zhuranovsky-hakase developed a secondary system that ensured 
each DA prototype remains continually aware of the location of any other. 
It...wasn't in the official documentation," he ended, now with a full easy 
confidence.

"Excellent," said Madigan, her own sudden smile managing to convey both 
approval and just a hint of warning at his sudden self-assurance.

Domina fumed silently. Of all the researchers Marina had killed, why 
hadn't that despicable, treacherous viper been one of them?

"I imagine we can expect results before morning?" Madigan inquired, 
turning to her. "You will of course, see that Zhukova-hakase is given 
every cooperation," She continued, her smile now as frozen as midnight as 
she turned suddenly steel-hard eyes on Yoshida.

Domina could have leapt for joy at the sudden terror in his face. He had 
just realised, the fool, that his own life was just as much at stake as 
her own.

Madigan remained standing in silence for a moment. Then abruptly she 
turned and was gone, the two buma following at her brisk command.

Domina remained still for a moment, still basking in her unexpected 
victory. Then at last she stirred.

"Well; do you intend to stand there until morning, like some imbecile," 
she demanded icily, "or might you let me pass? I at least have work to 
do."

 				     * * *

"You *can't* be serious!" Priss gasped.

They had returned to Sylia's apartment after leaving Mackie and Linna to 
unpack once more. Now that Marina had seen the packing in progress, any 
further attempt to hide the nature of the garage was pointless.

Nene, still sick and shaking after finally losing the battle against the 
nausea that Marina's appearance had precipitated, had sat huddled between 
Priss and Sylia, whilst Marina, still blood-soaked, had travelled 
concealed beneath piles of boxes in the rear of the van.

She had emerged upon their arrival like some nightmare apparition of 
massacre into Sylia's garage, and Nene had had to be rushed upstairs once 
more. Priss herself hadn't felt altogether steady on her feet as she had 
stepped again into Sylia's sitting-room.

"You're going to need some cleaning up before I can do anything with you," 
Sylia had said matter-of-factly, gesturing for the buma to follow her as 
she moved towards her bathroom.

"I'd be more than happy to clean that thing up," Priss had muttered after 
her; "permanently."

The shower had proved an unexpected ordeal. Marina had snapped to combat 
readiness the moment Sylia had had her step beneath the pouring water. 
Then abruptly she had frozen in place, and remained statue-still. With her 
sensory input already close to overload, the streaming water proved too 
much, masking everything in a tumultuous roar of confusion. The closed 
screen had done little to help.

Marina had remained, her teeth bared in a vicious frozen snarl, while 
Sylia's instructions soon ceased to elicit even the tiniest flicker of 
response. Watching her, Sylia had found it mildly ironic that the DA could 
be disabled so completely by something so absurd as the sound of warm 
water.

She had left the machine frozen in place for a minute or two, while most 
of the blood had washed slowly away, then finally she had opened the 
screen, and nearly lost her life when Marina had flipped on to her hands, 
and just pulled up short of decapitating her with a vicious snap-kick that 
would probably have slammed what remained of her through the adjoining 
wall, had it connected.

Masking her fright, Sylia had filled the bath, and had had the buma remove 
the jump-suit, and settle in the water to wash away the last traces of 
blood.

There had been further trouble when she had tried to have the DA wash her 
hair. Marina had developed a sudden, absurd fascination with the water 
coming from the hand-held rose, and had spent nearly a minute swiping 
cat-like at the spray, giggling inanely as she watched the resulting 
splashes. Whether it was the equivalent of childish curiosity, or a 
bizarre fault caused by who knew what incompatibility between her CPU and 
her upgraded systems, Sylia had no time to discover.

Just as suddenly, Marina had snapped to attention, completing the task of 
cleaning herself without further incident, until Sylia had had her stand, 
and given her a large fluffy towel, whereupon she had lifted it to her 
face, frozen again, and a moment later, tumbled limply from the bath to 
the floor. There she had remained unmoving.

It had taken Priss to help Sylia dry, then carry the seemingly inert 
machine to her own room, where they had laid her, still unmoving, on 
Sylia's bed. Sylia had sent Priss to the sitting-room for the case while 
she tried to elicit a response from the buma without touching her. It was 
when Priss had returned that she had told her of her decision.

Priss stared from her to the thing that looked like a naked girl of 
perhaps twenty, or so that lay on her back before them, then back to her 
again.

"Sylia you can't!" she exclaimed again. "Listen to me. The thing's gone to 
sleep, God knows why. Let's blow it to pieces before it decides to wake up 
again."

"Not sleep," Marina answered, causing both of them to jump back in 
surprise. "just sensory shut-down. Synaesthesia. Too much input for this 
chip. I've closed down everything but audio, but I can reactivate enough 
to kill you should you try to hurt me."

As though to prove her point, a hand blurred from its resting place by her 
hip, and Priss cried out in pain as a sudden iron grip nearly broke her 
wrist. For a moment Marina held her immobile, eyes locked on her face. 
Then the machine released her, and the hand blurred again, moving in a 
fractional instant with no more sound than the whip of intervening air to 
settle gently in its former place.

Priss stared malevolently at the DA for a moment, then turned her 
attention once more to Sylia.

"I want to talk to you outside," she said fiercely, her red-brown eyes 
meeting Sylia's implacable brown gaze with savage determination. "This 
concerns all of us Sylia. If you're doing this out of some morbid 
curiosity to see what that piece of military sh*t can do when it's running 
on full power, I hope you're going to be willing to accept the 
consequences when the thing gives up being warm and friendly, and blows 
away the city, and us with it. God almighty, it's already killed fourteen, 
or fifteen people, and I don't think it did it out of a sense of public 
service. I don't give a damn how innocent the thing can look; it's a 
top-line military-class combat machine, and you show me one of those 
that's not psychopathic! You haven't the right to finish putting the thing 
together. Hell, the thing hasn't a right to exist. Take it apart, and burn 
the bits before we all pay for it."

"And when Genom activate Camilla?" Marina's frigid, implacable tone 
slashed through Priss's tirade like a knife. "You've no reason to trust 
me; I don't blame you for your suspicion. But once Camilla is active with 
the 2134, your suits will be less than a fractional inconvenience to her, 
of that at least you can be certain. And Camilla is only our most 
immediate concern.

"Her instructions will be *very* specific. She will be commanded to 
attempt to recall me, and hunt and capture at least one of you should that 
not be possible. After that, the rest are as good as dead."

"Exactly," said Sylia quietly. "and the reason Marina's upgrade must be 
completed while she is still in our hands.

"Marina, shall we go?"

"There's a growing incompatibility with my net and my enhanced sensor 
suite," Marina said quietly. "The errors are cumulative the longer I try 
to access the suite with this chip, and so much activity tonight has only 
made matters worse. I'll freeze again, or worse, should I continue to use 
external senses. There may be permanent Net damage. I can't risk that! 
You'll have to carry me."

"Priss?" Sylia said quietly.

Muttering under her breath, and shooting killing looks at the DA, Priss 
helped her lift her from the bed, snapping viciously at the machine to 
keep her hands to herself, and her god-damned 33S routines under control, 
when Marina tried to do no more than drape an arm over her shoulder to 
help her lift.

"Say; wouldn't it be better to do this in here?" Priss continued coldly as 
they carried the buma, now wrapped in the towel, from the room. "You don't 
have a sitting-room window at the moment."

"I need the mainframe," Sylia answered simply. "Apart from which, I'm 
certainly not going to try to upgrade her up here."

"You're not going to take the thing down to the--"

"It can do no more harm" Sylia interrupted. "and time is of the essence."

It was only a few minutes later that Marina lay unceremoniously 
spreadeagled on her back on a work-bench, the towel draped over her, and a 
cloth beneath her to prevent any unnecessary chafing to her pseudo-organic 
skin. Several optical interface cables had been linked from tiny ports in 
her wrists and neck through a protected interface to Sylia's system, while 
Sylia herself bent over her, a monomolecular surgeon's scalpel glinting in 
the light, as she began to cut away the skin just above the DA's brow. It 
would be impossible to avoid damage to the tissue, but Marina had assured 
her that it would re-seal and repair when exposed to enough external 
radiation.

Sylia completed the cut, Marina turning first left, then right as the 
blade completed its incision. A moment later, Sylia drew back the scalp 
with its compliment of long fair hair from the buma's skull, and let it 
fall.

Watching, Priss was unable to suppress a shudder of nausea at the sight.

Face implacable, Sylia laid the scalpel aside, gesturing for Priss to 
raise the head of the table a little more.

"Have you finished housekeeping?" Sylia inquired of the buma.

"Yes," she answered. "Closing down. Do not betray me Sylia Stingray," she 
ended, her tone suddenly very low and intense, and something complex in 
her blue eyes as for a moment they held Sylia's gaze.

A moment later the face went slack, and the body utterly limp.

"Now's our chance," said Priss again. "The thing really is sleeping this 
time. We can--"

"The case, Priss," said Sylia quietly. "If I lose her ORAM it will take 
more time than we have to reinitialise her."

"Then you're really going through with it," Priss stated flatly, moving to 
retrieve the case, and setting it down a moment later with a bang within 
Sylia's reach. "You know what's going to happen when that thing's active? 
And don't give me anything about checking. You said yourself that the 
thing has, what was it, a thousand terabytes of memory?"

"One-hundred thousand with the standard chip, two-hundred with the 2134," 
Sylia answered.

"And you're telling me you can check all that for anything Quincy might 
have had put in that thing's excuse for a mind?"

"No," said Sylia simply. "I'm saying we have no choice.

"Priss, listen to me. The DA series heralds a quantum leap in buma design, 
in many ways as spectacular as the invention of the machine itself. For 
the first time, we are *utterly* outclassed. And I do not make that claim 
lightly. Zhuranovsky has achieved something nobody believed was possible, 
certainly not so soon. The DA is a creation of genius even Father would 
have been hard put to surpass, and with their creation, the race has been 
escalated beyond the worst I could have imagined. Our *only chance*, and I 
do mean our only chance, is to have Marina active and tame before the 
second DA's activation."

"But you don't know whether we can tame the thing!" Priss said urgently.

"It doesn't matter," Sylia answered. "Camilla alone could kill us without 
trouble. And then there are the others. One could beat us, easily. Five 
would be an absurd proposition.

"Priss, we are already dead, be it now, or in a day, a week, a month. If I 
do not have Marina fully active before Camilla's activation, we are 
finished.

"But even if that wasn't the case: even if we could win, Marina has hinted 
at least twice tonight at something else: something darker behind the DA 
project: another development with which Zhuranovsky was only peripherally 
involved, and the second reason he needed to reach us so urgently. We need 
to know what that is while we have time, and only Marina can tell us.

"Now are you going to help, or argue?"

It was a quicker process than Priss had expected. The standard iso-linear 
popped from the DA's head with a little applied pressure in some strategic 
places. A moment later, Sylia had lifted the huge jet-black lump of 
sculpted plastic, and snapped it into place with the same ease.

"Is that it?" Priss gasped incredulously as Sylia resettled Marina's 
scalp.

"Not yet," Sylia answered, her attention already on the monitor. "The 
nano-links have to grow into place, and her scalp has to reestablish its 
original alignment before it will begin to seal. That will take a minute 
or so. Then I have to activate the transfer of certain portions of her 
ORAM to the 2134's internal memory."

"Why can't it stay where it is?" Priss asked.

"Because the chip's ORAM is some twenty times as fast for linear access, 
and thousands of times as efficient for relational access," she answered.

For minutes Priss watched in silence as Sylia worked frantically at the 
console.

"Couldn't Nene help?" she asked at last, feeling suddenly superfluous.

"I think she wants to keep out of the way for a while," said Sylia 
distractedly. "And no: she can't do anything here that I can't do myself. 
Why don't you check on her?"

"No way," said Priss icily. "I want to see that thing wake up, and fill it 
with holes if it's unfriendly."

Sylia sighed, and returned to her work.

Priss rose from where she had been sitting by the head of the buma, and 
began to pace restlessly from one end of the room to the other, her eyes 
never leaving the limp form of the machine. After what seemed an eternity 
of waiting, a quiet ping from the console made her stop her aimless 
circuit of the room, and step again to Sylia's side.

"Finished now?" she inquired.

"Yes," Sylia answered. "I'm ready to reboot her.

"Priss, call Nene. I want all of us here during her initialisation. If I 
can prove to her that we mean her no harm--"

"Just so long as you don't expect me to take her in my arms, and welcome 
her," Priss said with another glare at the buma.

"I'll call Nene," she added a moment later. Then turning, she hurried from 
the room, the door closing quietly behind her.

"Now then," said Sylia quietly, "let's see what you can do."

Settling more comfortably, she moved her hands to the keyboard, and began 
to type. A moment later a graphic of the DA's internal architecture sprang 
into sharp relief before her, and Sylia gasped as the true enormity of 
what Zhuranovsky's team had built came home to her at last. Marina was not 
simply armed, she was a devastating arsenal of death in almost innumerable 
forms, some beyond the imagination of any save the most ruthless of 
top-line military designers.

There was what appeared to be a viciously enhanced version of the obvious 
particle-beam weapon in her mouth, in her case hidden in an aperture in 
her throat, but eyes, ears, nose and even each breast could also spit 
laser, particle-beam and micro-wave death with a power and speed of 
recovery hitherto inconceivable. And that was just the beginning. The 
sexaroid pheromonal, endocrine and exocrine systems had been adapted with 
Genom's usual terrifying penchant for the unexpected, to enable the 
machine to produce everything from stimulants to hallucinogens, and from 
nerve gas to diapedesistic toxins that could kill within seconds of 
contact, or the venoms of poisonous plants and animals of a myriad of 
species, should the cause of death need to be fabricated, or made 
impossible easily to trace. Sylia did not even want to think about the 
more vicious and covert of the buma's weapons, many designed specifically 
to kill during her guise of s-type intimacy.

Sickened, yet morbidly curious, Sylia continued her examination, her mind 
held in a kind of rapt, horrid fascination as she continued to study the 
staggering combat capabilities of the thing before her.

The hands, and feet were an arsenal of death, able to kill upon contact or 
at a distance with the plasma-blade emitters mounted in their backs, one 
above each finger and toe, or deliver Marina's chemical arsenal through 
tiny needles that could extend from beneath the long sharp nails, should 
the release through the skin itself be too slow. The nails themselves were 
razor-edged, and constructed of a super-conductive ceramic composite that 
probably could tear through inch-thick armour plate like foil, each able 
to play the part for either pole for devastating flash-pulses of 
electricity that would all but vaporise a human victim should there be 
enough separation between them, and powerful enough to create a plasma 
arc, or obliterate the systems of the most protected of buma upon contact, 
should one be foolish enough to engage the DA in a close fight.

The teeth were of the same material, and were equally capable, each 
tapering to razor-sharp edges, and each containing a tiny channel through 
which the various chemicals could directly be injected. Even the long, 
lustrous fair hair was deadly, able to transfer the chemical cocktails in 
the same way, or emulate charged, monomolecular weapons analogous to 
Linna's ribbons, but to tremendously greater effect, simply because it was 
so plentiful.

The strength, and reflexes of the body itself were staggering, the machine 
being able to outmatch their suits by perhaps a factor of five, not to 
mention the fact that the reaction-time was so far beyond Genom's released 
combat machines as to make the comparison absurd.

Marina's ECM and sensor-suite were top-line precision instruments of a 
design that spoke of the theft of a thousand patents, coupled with the 
inventive genius that had placed Genom at the forefront of military design 
hardware. Like the C-55, the DA was not capable of indefinite flight, but 
being lighter, could maintain flight for perhaps ten minutes. The 
thruster-ports themselves were concealed beneath the skin, and would need 
to vaporise it and any clothing that covered it, before they could be 
used. Not that it mattered, with the tissue's ability to self-repair, 
given sufficient energy.

"Yet perhaps the most devastating weapon in the DA's arsenal was the chip 
that sat now snug within its inch-thick protective layers of alloy and 
ceramic within the buma's skull, the skin already beginning to re-seal in 
reaction to the ambient radiation in the room. The raw classical computing 
power alone was staggering: Marina able to outmatch ten-fold the best 
mainframe money could buy. And that did not take into account the 
experimental next-generation QPU that was integral to the '34, the Quantum 
unit making any predictions as to the Elite's true capabilities 
impossible.

For what seemed a surreal eternity of growing horror Sylia remained 
unmoving, staring aghast at the displays and combat projections the 
computer was giving her. The machine was a nightmare of the most twisted 
and perverse of military technology gone mad, coupled with raw AI power 
hitherto unimaginable: the product of what could only be described as a 
truly demented design ethic. And they needed her; needed her with an 
urgency that made Sylia's skin crawl with sudden outrage, and revulsion.

It was not so much the mind of the machine that terrified her, although 
now that she had completed the upgrade, she was suddenly none too certain 
as to whether the DA would be still the Marina they had seen, with such 
staggering power at her disposal; it was the concept: the appalling, 
unimaginable perversity of what Quincy had had the researchers do to her 
father's work that sickened, and enraged her, more now than ever before.

Priss was right. Such a creation should never have been built. Marina and 
her kind should not exist; the consequences could be appallingly 
catastrophic.

Pushing down the horror and the boiling anger, Sylia pinned her thoughts 
to a grim, implacable calm, and turned her attention once more to the 
displays. Camilla would be active very soon, and she needed Marina ready 
and calibrated, before that happened.

The initialisation, and testing itself was a simple enough procedure. 
Zhuranovsky had given her all the information she needed, and left very 
specific instructions as to what needed to be done, should he be unable to 
perform the task himself.

Re-scanning the provided disk yet again for anything untoward, Sylia 
spawned a protected sub-process, and activated the boot-strap program. 
Immediately, the body began to twitch and shiver as the program began a 
remote diagnostic of the interface between the 2134 and the innumerable 
sub-controllers that governed Marina's physical and sensory responses. 
Within a second, every aspect of the system had been tested, and the 
program uploaded its initial calibration to the internal ORAM of the DA's 
new chip. This would change of course depending on a million factors, but 
the initial calibration was important to ensure Marina's immediate 
readiness to handle her upgraded interface to her body.

The physical, and sensory tests complete, the program initiated a 
CPU-INTERNAL non-destructive read-write test of both internal, and 
external ORAM. Even with the tremendous speed of the 2134, this would take 
several minutes to complete.

Leaving the test to continue, Sylia moved to the door, just as Priss's and 
Nene's voices reached her as they returned.

"What's happening?" Priss called as she caught sight of her.

Sylia merely beckoned, and turned back into the room.

"ORAM test," she answered as they entered, and moved to join her, Priss 
once again taking up a position from where she could have a clear shot at 
the machine, should it try anything. "It will take a few minutes. In the 
meantime, you'd better look at this."

Reducing the test window, Sylia pulled up the saved data on the DA's 
capabilities, and displayed it for both to read.

"And you want this thing up, and running!" Priss gasped in shock, her 
voice little more than a whisper. "Sylia, you *can't* be serious! God; no 
wonder that thing said she was dangerous! If ever something made an 
understatement..."

"Um...Sylia? Isn't it too much of a risk?" Nene ventured softly, aghast at 
what Sylia had shown her. Watching her, Priss was certain that of all of 
them, only Sylia had a greater appreciation of just what Marina might 
truly be capable. "We really don't know what will happen when you put her 
on-line."

"Certainly it's a risk," Sylia agreed. "But unless you can think of a way 
to disable Camilla, not to mention the four at least that will follow 
her..."

Nene shook her head helplessly, her emerald eyes still riveted to the 
screen.

"It can't be done," she said simply after a moment, her voice very small. 
"Even if I could jam her sensor suite, and I don't see how I could, her 
ability to anticipate and adapt to cope with anything I could try... It's 
beyond anything..." She shook her head.

"But how--" Priss began.

"Zhuranovsky," Sylia interrupted quietly, "and his development of this 
chip. I suspect even Genom have not yet fully appreciated just what he's 
created. He has proven himself a genius, in his own way as great as Father 
himself.

"Without a direct, hard-wired neural interface, our suits are limited by 
the speed of our own reactions, regardless of how much raw power I can 
give them. The buma has no such limitations. The failing so far in 
computer-fast physical response times has been due only to the inability 
of researchers to produce both materials able to reproduce the fluidity of 
organic muscle tissue with the strength needed for a combat machine, and 
the software needed to cope with the complexities of full sensory reaction 
and response, without years of conditioning.

"Unlike the billions of years organic life has had to perfect instinctive 
physical responses, the buma had to start from scratch. The success of the 
S-class models proved that such complexity was possible, but it took the 
machines time to develop human-like physical reactions to external 
stimuli.

"Zhuranovsky took the raw data from a 33S that had been active long enough 
to learn the intricacies of its own body, and developed a mathematical 
representation for modelling those responses. More; he was able to 
optimise and quantify only what was needed, further increasing the already 
staggering speed he had achieved. And that in a standard 33S-A CPU. With 
the DA-2134, any assumptions concerning the DA's raw AI potential and 
capabilities become meaningless.

"Coupled with new materials able to respond at almost a hundred times the 
speed previously thought possible, the limitations of a partially rigid 
construction could be abandoned, and the DA would be able immediately to 
make full use of the vastly enhanced flexibility of its body's fluidity of 
movement whilst gaining all the benefits of Combat-class construction.

"Look at this," she ended, moving to the machine.

Reaching, she lifted Marina's left arm by the hand, and beckoned Nene and 
Priss to her side.

"Are you sure that thing's still bye-byes?" Priss asked dubiously.

"Quite sure," Sylia answered. "Here; take her hand."

With obvious reluctance, Priss accepted the limp, cold hand of the buma, 
and at Sylia's instruction, began to manipulate the supple fingers, wrist, 
and lower arm.

"Notice the fluidity of the tissue, the near perfect similarity to organic 
muscle?" she continued. "The 33S used such materials, but at best 
possessed perhaps three times comparative human strength. Here however, 
the problem of a pseudo-organic material capable of perhaps fifty times 
the load-baring capabilities of its organic equivalent seems to have been 
solved, although this is a prototype, and only time will tell."

"You're saying that this thing has fifty times the strength of someone of 
her size?" Priss demanded incredulously.

"Fifty times the load-baring capacity," Sylia corrected. "There is more. 
Each of these," she jabbed a finger at the muscle tissue in the machine's 
arm, "can fire in perfect concert with computer-accurate precision, and 
respond at many thousand times the speed of human tissue. Marina's 
momentary strength is probably many hundred times that of an organic 
equivalent, and I'm referring to an organic equivalent operating at 
maximum potential, something that happens only under very rare 
conditions."

Nene had taken the buma's hand, and was examining it.

"Ew! I can't see how this could pass as human," she said with a shiver. 
"It's cold!"

"The body can be warmed by an internal circulatory system, analogous to 
blood circulation," said Sylia. "But it need not be active. The buma 
tissue will function at temperatures far below true organic tissue, so the 
body temperature need be raised only for social, or covert interaction.

"Besides, everything is more, or less inactive at the moment."

"It's like handling something dead," said Nene, dropping the arm back to 
the table with a shudder, and stepping quickly away.

Priss gave a disgusted exclamation, and resumed her place, while Nene 
moved quickly to seat herself at Sylia's side as their leader took her 
place once more before the console, and enlarged the test window.

"Only a minute, or so to go," she said quietly.

"And then what?" Priss asked.

"Then we initialise her physical systems, and her main reactor, then the 
CPU," Sylia answered.

"And then she wakes up?" Priss continued coolly.

"No, she will boot in a firmware command mode slaved to Zhuranovsky's 
external driver suite," Sylia told her. "There are several further tests 
to complete before I `wake' her."

Another ping from the console, and a new screen put an end to further 
questions.

"Everything seems fine," Sylia said calmly. "Well, shall we begin? Priss, 
tell me if you notice anything unusual, twitching, spasms, anything at 
all."

"Oh don't worry," Priss answered icily. "If this thing does anything 
weird, you won't have to ask twice."

Nene half turned in her chair so that she could keep a watch both on the 
screen, and on the limp form of the DA. Sylia seemed to be paying 
attention only to the monitor before her, although Nene caught her 
glancing more than once to the buma as she continued to type.

"Any change?" she inquired of Priss.

The diagnostic indicated that the circulatory system was now functioning, 
but she wanted independent confirmation. Besides, it gave Priss something 
to do rather than simply sit and glare at the machine.

"It's humming, or rumbling, or something, if that's what you mean," Priss 
answered after a moment. "Now it's quiet. Oy Sylia, should it be turning 
bright red?"

"She should be returning to her natural colour again," Sylia answered. "I 
ran the system at maximum for a few seconds to save time. Let me see."

She turned to study the buma for a moment.

"Perfectly in order," she said, her tone still clinical as she turned back 
to the displays. "Now for her reactor."

As the seconds passed, Priss felt an ever growing sense of unreality 
taking hold of her, at the surreal strangeness of what they were doing. 
She sat, her left hand clenching and unclenching in her lap, while her 
right remained curled about the heavy Earth-shaker she held ready, her 
eyes never leaving the machine. As she watched, it began to breathe, the 
rhythm slow, and even, the towel-draped body settling into a hue of 
imitation healthy life.

"Priss, do you have perfect pitch?"

Sylia's question was so sudden and unexpected that Priss jumped and turned 
to stare stupidly at her for a moment.

"What? Yes. Why?" she managed at last.

"A little eccentricity on Zhuranovsky's part," Sylia answered, her tone 
suddenly frosty. "It seems he wanted his daughter's copy to be able to 
sing. The calibration is the last, and I'd prefer no unforeseen problems 
later by ignoring anything."

Her tone was growing steadily more irritated.

"What do you want me to do?" Priss asked.

"Just a moment," Sylia answered.

In the next instant, both Priss, and Nene jumped in alarm, as a sudden: 
"Mmmmmmmm," Came from between Marina's closed lips.

"Oy! Warn me next time!" Priss snapped.

"That should be concert A," Sylia said, her tone still colder. "Of all the 
ridiculous stupidity!" she muttered. "We haven't time for this."

"It's nowhere near," Priss answered. ;"Here."

Standing, she moved quickly to Sylia, and within moments of being shown 
what to do, she had matched Marina's humming to the various signpost tones 
produced by the program, and confirmed the displayed values as correct.

With a quick murmur of thanks, Sylia turned from her again, and typed 
something.

"Tiger tiger burning bright," Marina said in a monotone, again startling 
the two girls.

"What the hell?" Priss demanded. Then suddenly she grinned.

"Let me try that," she said, moving quickly to Sylia.

Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys.

"Nene is horribly overweight," Marina continued, again in a monotone.

"I am not!" Nene exclaimed immediately, emerald eyes flashing dangerously 
as she glared suddenly at the buma.

Priss burst into laughter, and Nene turned furiously towards her.

"You take that back!" she cried.

"I never said a thing," Priss answered, still laughing.

"I should say we're ready now," said Sylia, unable to keep a smile from 
her own lips as she turned again to the console.

Her fingers flew, then abruptly the window changed, and a new display of 
text and icons appeared.

"Bu-33DA-ELITE prototype, version 2.23 initialised," Marina said suddenly. 
"Serial number BU-7541-33.01E. Designation, Marina. Checking CPU status."

Her voice was the cold, detached tones of a C-class, but no longer the 
monotones of the external speech driver.

"Is it--" Priss began.

"Not yet," Sylia answered.

"Errors, none," Marina continued.

"Checking bus interface. Controllers, active.

"Checking internal ORAM. CRC, valid.

"Checking external ORAM. CRC, valid.

"Checking ECM, and sensor-suite. Calibrated.

"Checking external sensory input. Calibrated.

"Checking language data. CRC, valid.

"Checking general library data. CRC, valid.

"Checking combat subroutine libraries. CRC, valid.

"Checking S-class subroutine libraries. CRC, valid.

"Seeking primary neural-net. Primary net found.

"Checking primary net integrity. CRC, valid.

"Seeking secondary neural-nets. No secondary nets found.

"Displaying access key. Please send key to reboot.

"Waiting."

"What's all that about?" Priss demanded.

"Just a precaution to ensure the hardware key is working," Sylia answered. 
"A flag is set after the key is sent. Before that, the key will be 
requested every time she's rebooted."

Sylia re-sent the key from the displayed values, and a moment later the DA 
began its checks again, save that this time there was no key request. 
Instead: "Reboot complete. Command?" Was spoken, and displayed, the window 
also showing several icons.

"I think we're ready," said Sylia quietly.

"Sylia, just a minute," said Priss.

A moment later she was standing beside her.

"Look; are you absolutely sure you know what you're doing?" she said. Her 
tone was no longer fierce, or angry, but instead quiet, and intense. "Are 
you *sure* we need this thing? Hell, we've faced everything Genom's thrown 
at us before now. Do we really have to fire this thing up, and if we do, 
can we shut it down again if something goes wrong?"

"Yes to both," said Sylia calmly. "Marina possessing her own key was an 
unexpected bonus; I wondered why Zhuranovsky hadn't supplied it. But then 
I suppose it's a safe enough thing to store internally. Now that I have 
that, she's of no danger, provided of course it can be sent in time."

Turning, she plucked a small data unit from where it had been settled 
almost by her hand, and disconnecting it, she handed it to Priss.

"This will send the key at a touch of this button at very short range," 
she said. "There is no danger of it being detected beyond this building, 
but it will certainly be enough to stop Marina should she be dangerous. 
Don't do it unless it's necessary."

"I hope you're right," said Priss, although she seemed suddenly a good 
deal more relaxed. "All right. Let's get this over."

"Nene?"

"Mm; all right, I suppose," Nene agreed uneasily.

Sylia turned to regard the buma for a moment. Then turning again to the 
console, she positioned the cursor, and typed the final initialisation.

For Priss, the result was extremely anticlimactic. She did not know what 
she had expected, but certainly she had not expected Marina simply to sit 
up in one easy fluid motion, disconnect all but the interface cable 
running to her neck, smile coolly at Sylia, and inquire flatly: "The 
upgrade is complete?"

Priss gaped for a moment, then seemed to get herself under control.

"Is that all?" she gasped.

"All?" Marina inquired.

"I think she expected you to show emotion," Sylia answered quietly.

"My RP sub-net is off-line until the tests are complete," Marina 
explained, glancing to Priss. "For want of a better analogy, I'm not yet 
self-aware, simply a classical computer system with its QPU largely 
inactive.

"May we proceed?"

There followed a minute or so of the test program uploading several 
mathematical, tactical, historical and linguistic queries to the DA, and 
evaluating her down-loaded responses. After the minute and several 
thousand problems the program indicated no errors, and Sylia at last 
closed the process, and indicated that Marina could both disconnect the 
interface, and bring the remainder of her consciousness on-line.

The buma removed the cable, and moving with a lithe twist to the floor, 
stepped to hand it to her. Then abruptly she froze in place. For a moment 
she remained stock-still. Then with a wild scream she flipped high into 
the air, and landing once more by Sylia she snatched her from the chair as 
though she weighed nothing, and nearly cracked her ribs with a sudden 
fierce embrace.

 				     * * *

"That thing is off the planet!"

Priss was seated once more in Sylia's sitting-room, Nene settled across 
from her, the younger girl's green eyes uneasy as she stared at her own 
hands restless in her lap.

It had been a very tense few seconds after Marina's initial reaction. 
Priss had raised the data-pad like a weapon, her finger moving to send the 
key.

"No...Priss!" Sylia had gasped, unable to force more sound from her 
tortured lungs. "It's alright.

"Marina, would you mind? It's rather hard to breathe."

The buma had relaxed her hold a little but had not let her go. Tears 
suddenly streaming from her eyes she had kept Sylia held to her for 
several seconds, then abruptly she had released her, and stepped back, 
sudden colour rising in her cheeks.

Priss, and Nene had stared in stunned amazement as the buma had then, of 
all things, danced a flowing curtsy to Sylia, and blushed a deep crimson.

"Forgive me Oneesan," she had said in a quiet, wondering tone. "I need 
time to adjust. The balance between my rational side and my RP net... 
It's--"

"That's perfectly alright Marina," Sylia had answered quietly, her 
composure apparently unruffled, but a brief, genuine smile touching her 
lips at Marina's sudden choice of address. "Shall we go up?"

"Oh, and I think you might want this." She had handed her the discarded 
towel with another smile.

"I should like to bathe again," Marina had said. "I can still smell blood, 
though you wouldn't notice it."

The simple move to the apartment had been an absurd process, with Marina 
turning this way, and that, listening, and staring, and sniffing the air 
with a wide-eyed, absurd look on her face.

The trouble had continued even though Sylia had headed the DA into the 
bathroom the moment they were in the flat. Sylia had emerged moments 
later, while from inside there came the sound of running water, followed 
by delighted squeals, and giggles, and the sound of a good deal of 
splashing. These sounds were still continuing.

"What's that thing doing in there?" Priss demanded.

"Um...playing?" Nene suggested uneasily.

"Cracking up," Priss retorted. "Whoever designed that thing's excuse for a 
brain must have been as mad as--"

"Would you prefer she killed to learn her new mind and body Priss?" 
Sylia's tone was quiet, tinged with something almost wondering as she 
entered the room. "We're seeing something very rare, and you shouldn't be 
quite so quick to judge.

"Besides, Marina has no need to dissemble with us. She could kill us all 
without trouble if she wished. Nene is right. She *is* playing I think, 
just like any very young child."

"Oh come on, your not really going to tell me that piece of military sh*t 
is alive!" Priss demanded.

"You had little trouble believing it of Sylvie, and Anri," said Sylia 
quietly.

Priss's eyes flashed, but she seemed suddenly unable to think of anything 
to say.

"All right!" she conceded angrily at last. "even if it is alive, that's 
not to say the thing isn't dangerous."

"No," Sylia agreed, "but better that her first experience as an Elite is 
playing in warm water, rather than testing her enhanced weapons systems in 
some Genom training facility. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You'll be telling me next we have to treat the thing like a little girl!" 
Priss exploded.

"She *is* a little girl, at least emotionally, a little girl who has just 
lost the man she thinks of as her father," said Sylia, her tone suddenly 
cold. "For all her knowledge, and sophistication, she is only four months 
old, and *extremely* vulnerable.

"It's up to you. If you want to believe she's no more than a combat 
machine, that's entirely your decision. But push her away, and we're 
likely to find ourselves facing Camilla alone.

"She doesn't need us Priss. She is perfectly capable of managing alone, or 
very soon will be. Our survival may very well depend on our establishing 
ourselves immediately as the equivalent of a family for her: the only 
family she has."

"Great!" Priss muttered darkly. "First we finish putting the thing 
together, now we have to play nurse-maids to the piece of homicidal Genom 
military trash while another piece of homicidal Genom military trash is 
being sent to clean us up. Just great."

"I'm going to make some tea," said Sylia, ignoring Priss's glare. "Do 
either of you want anything to eat?"

It was some time after Sylia had moved to the kitchen that the sounds from 
the bathroom ceased as suddenly as they had begun. For a minute, or so 
there was silence. Then the door opened, and a moment after that Marina 
strolled stark naked into the sitting-room.

Nene suppressed an "Eep!" of shock, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh sh*t, Marina; put something on for god's sake!" Priss exclaimed, 
turning crimson, and averting her eyes.

"I don't understand," said the buma in bewilderment, halting her advance, 
and turning to rgard her intently. "Surely it doesn't matter, save with 
the opposite sex. We are all female."

"Oh hell! Haven't you any social programming in that thing you call--"

"Priss!" Sylia's tone was hard-edged, and icily cold.

A moment later she appeared with a tray in her hands. Setting it down, she 
turned to Marina. The DA's eyes were brimming with tears, and her 
expression was slowly freezing, hardening into the vicious, frigid mask of 
a combat machine.

"There are other factors, Marina," said Sylia quietly. "It's not 
considered courteous to do as you just did: certainly not with comparative 
strangers. But then you should have been perfectly aware of that. Rely on 
your library at least at first, and *don't* try to manipulate those you 
want to be your friends."

"I will dress," said Marina in a small voice, turning, and hurrying from 
the room.

Priss gave Sylia a quizzical look.

"I imagine she didn't check," Sylia answered. "She's still adjusting, and 
probably more than a little euphoric. But I suspect also that she was 
trying to gauge yours and Nene's reaction to seeing her like that. A test 
for later advantage, and something we're going to have to deal with until 
she has enough experience to override the natural tendency of her combat 
routines to dominate her initial reactions."

"You mean--!" Priss's eyes blazed. "The damn, lousy--"

"Shh," Sylia snapped.

At that moment there came the sound of an opening door, and Marina 
reappeared, clad in her now-familiar jump-suit once more. Moving with a 
fluid grace, she lowered herself to the lounge at Sylia's side, and 
settling, she watched in silence as the others sipped their tea.

"May I try?" she inquired softly at last.

"Haven't you tried it?" Sylia inquired.

"It wasn't considered necessary that I be given anything save for water 
laced with nano-machines and the compounds my various production plants 
need," she answered. "Father would have let me try of course, but his 
instructions were very specific, and he didn't dare lose his chance to 
free me for so small a concession."

"Typical Genom bastards!" Priss muttered almost sympathetically, before 
she caught herself.

"They were concerned only with military applications tests," Marina 
continued. "Detailed social instruction could wait.

"Not that it mattered to me then, at least not more than to please them. 
My obedience was instinct, and predefined until father removed the 
hard-wired parameters."

"And now?" Priss demanded.

"Now I'll destroy them," said Marina in a low, feral snarl. "Now you've 
changed my key, I've at last nothing to fear."

"Changed?" Sylia said, suddenly very uneasy. "Your key was uploaded as 
part of the boot-strap program?"

"No, it's a flashed hardware key," she answered.

Then suddenly she leapt to her feet. "You did alter my key, as father 
instructed?" she demanded.

"There *were* no such instructions," Sylia replied, sudden fear knifing 
down her spine.

"What!" Nene, and Priss gasped. "Sylia!"

"Then my key's still unchanged?" Marina cried at the same moment almost in 
a scream. "How could you have been so careless!"

"I assumed the key to be an integral part of the base driver-firmware the 
boot program uploaded!" Sylia exclaimed, slow horror tightening her 
throat. "Where is the key?"

"Beneath the CPU, in a sealed cavity," Marina answered. "It has to be 
changed! Until then, we're desperately vulnerable!

"I don't understand! Father promised he'd included a virgin key, and 
instructions on how to burn it."

For a moment she remained still. Then abruptly she whirled, and snatching 
Sylia from the lounge she leapt towards the passage.

"We have to hurry!" she cried urgently. "If they send it before it can be 
changed..."

A moment later she was racing from the flat. The air screamed in Sylia's 
ears, then her stomach lurched as the buma leapt the stairs, and plunged 
to the floor below.

A desperate knot of horror was clenched tight in Sylia's heart. Why had 
Zhuranovsky not given them this one piece of vital information? If he had 
not, there could only be one reason. He had intended this from the 
beginning. He had used his creation as coldly as any Genom operative. But 
why?

Or had he been out-manoeuvred? Had Quincy known or guessed what would 
happen, and managed somehow to remove the one thing they needed?

Whatever the answer, she had made a terrible mistake, and because of what 
seemed suddenly an appallingly dangerous rationalisation on her part, they 
might well all die, and Genom could not be less implicated. Just another 
four deaths on a night of many.

The sudden lurch of the buma as she pulled abruptly to a halt came almost 
as no surprise to Sylia. They must, she thought with a numb, leaping 
terror, have known exactly when Marina's upgrade was complete. Probably 
They had been watching and listening through her from the very moment she 
became active.

Slowly, Marina set her on her feet once more. Then for a long moment they 
were still, staring at one another in silence, the DA's smile suddenly 
calculating, and deadly, terribly cold.

"I should regret the necessity to kill you," she said softly at last. 
"Besides, there is no need."

A moment later her left hand blurred towards her, and Sylia felt a tiny 
pin-prick as the needle beneath the nail of Marina's index finger extended 
to pierce the skin of her neck.

"Forgive me," she heard faintly as her legs failed her.

Then Marina had caught her in her arms, and blackness closed about her.

 				     * * *

"How much longer?" Domina demanded, her voice tight with rising tension 
and a certain degree of excitement, despite the situation.

It was something of a moment of truth for her. She had watched the removal 
and activation of the first DA from a position a good deal closer than she 
had been entitled by her rank. She was then only the eleventh most 
important of the fifteen principle scientists directly answerable to 
Alexei. But he had trusted her, and considered her a friend.

Yoshida had been third in rank, and had stood at her side, staring in what 
she had considered vicious fascination, as the lithe machine had risen 
from her tank. She had not realised that she had been staring in precisely 
the same fashion, or that, as snide, and conspiring as he was, he had for 
once not been thinking only of himself, and his eyes had been as full of 
wonder as her own.

Now the four remaining researchers, herself, Yoshida, Madeleine Amura, and 
Hiroshi Daitokuji stood, and gave instructions, whilst the technicians and 
support staff worked furiously at data-pads, or rushed back, and forth 
with cables, and additional equipment in their hands.

"Only another minute, or so, Zhukova-hakase," Yoshida called to her.

Domina hurried the length of the laboratory, turning to glance at each man 
or woman as she passed.

"We're ready."

Madeleine had suddenly appeared at her side.

By far the least ambitious and most likable of any of them, she was the 
youngest, and the most likely to be sacrificed by the other two should 
they fail.

Domina smiled a hard, grim smile. Yoshida would be the scapegoat should 
anything go wrong if she had any say in the matter.

"Yoshida? Daitokuji?" she called.

"Ready," Both answered.

Moving towards her place, she paused to tell the security buma by the door 
that it could signal Assistant Madigan to join them.

"I have done so already," It responded.

"No doubt," Muttered Domina darkly as she hurried to seat herself before 
the master console. From there she could see most of what was displayed on 
the consoles of each of the others.

It was only a few seconds later when Madigan appeared, flanked by a squad 
of machines as she stepped into the laboratory, and hurried to stand 
almost immediately behind Domina.

"We are ready to begin at your instruction, Zhukova-hakase," said Yoshida 
smoothly from his place on her left, and almost at her side.

"I imagine she was perfectly aware of that," Madigan purred icily.

Domina could have kissed her hand.

Yoshida turned chalk-white, and fixed his attention again on the console 
before him.

"Very well," said Domina. "Let's begin. Yoshida?"

"I've started the pumps," he said quickly. "The tank should be drained in 
two minutes."

"Madeleine?"

"I'm beginning the upload now, Domina-san," she answered, glancing for a 
moment to her right at the sensor readings on Daitokuji's console before 
turning back to her own. "I only hope Zhuranovsky-san ironed out the bugs 
in this version."

"Meaning?" Madigan demanded.

"Alexei blanked the driver firmware, both in the standard chip and the 
second 2134, before escaping," Domina answered. "We're using copies 
Yoshida happened to have made for...hmm...his own reasons."

Yoshida choked back a gasp of horror as Domina smiled.

"How fortunate," Madigan purred, turning to smile icily at the scientist. 
"and how very enterprising of you to have anticipated him, Dr. Yoshida. I 
must remember to mention it to the chairman in my report."

Yoshida had never seen such a smile, and hoped he would never do so again.

"None of us can be certain what will happen when we activate her," Domina 
continued. "Our driver base is a very early revision, and there will be 
problems long since corrected in the firmware Alexei used. Suzuki, O'Neil 
and Liebermann worked on the initial data and linguistic libraries, and 
several worked at adapting the initial C, and S subsystems, but it was 
Alexei who integrated and improved the whole almost beyond recognition in 
later releases. Whether he had completed the initial integration in this 
version, we won't know until we activate her. Also, the code won't be 
optimised, and she'll be running at a fraction of her true potential, even 
for the standard chip. We can only hope there will be no unforseen 
problems.

"Yoshida?" she ended, turning to him.

"The tank is half drained," he said, his tone a good deal less 
self-satisfied. "I've halted the pumps as per your original instructions."

"Very well," said Domina, glancing at his monitor for a moment.

Once responsible for the majority of the design of the S-type physical 
hardware of the machine, her purpose now was entirely coordinative.

"Madeleine?" she inquired.

"The upload should be complete in less than two minutes."

"Daitokuji?"

"The sensor suite tests without errors," he assured her. "Of course I 
can't test her sensory responses, or flight systems yet."

"The circulatory system is running as it should under the external driver, 
Zhukova-hakase," Yoshida told her a moment later. "We're ready at your 
command."

"Be careful," she reminded them. "We don't want her bursting out of her 
tank. Daitokuji, are you absolutely *certain* her power-plant is 
firmware-limited? After the fiasco with Marina, I don't intend to take 
chances."

"Yes," he answered. "I've set it at two percent, and locked out the 
controller. It will no longer accept commands from her CPU. She'll be able 
to move around, and respond to requests, but that's all."

"And her weapons systems?"

"They can't be activated with her plant so low; the sub-controllers won't 
pass the commands. I assure you, Zhukova-hakase, we're in no danger."

"Very well," she said. "Madeleine?"

"Bringing up CPU," said Madeleine, unable to contain the rising excitement 
in her tone. "CPU active."

"Circulatory systems now under internal control," Yoshida announced.

He seemed to have abandoned the desire to play politics, as eager as the 
rest of them it seemed, to see Camilla on-line, and functioning.

"Sensor-suite released," Cried Daitokuji. "Sensory systems accessed by 
internal CPU. The damned thing's working!" he shouted suddenly, a grin 
plastered across his face.

Domina heaved a sigh of relief as a tight knot of fear unclenched itself 
at last. Not that they were home yet, but at least the initial activation 
was going well.

"Madeleine?"

"Running external diagnostic," she said quickly. "Physical tests complete. 
Running ORAM test. Do you want me to cancel it?"

"It will take nearly an hour with the standard chip," Domina explained, 
turning to Madigan. "It is extremely unlikely that there will be an ORAM 
fault."

"Cancel it," Madigan said briskly. "You can test it when you install the 
2134. I assume tests with the enhanced chip will be much faster?"

"Very much faster," Domina confirmed.

"I've cancelled it," said Madeleine. "We'll need to drain the tank before 
I can do anything more."

"Yoshida?"

"Pumps on," he said.

"Leave enough to cushion her," Domina told him.

"Daitokuji?"

"The plant is fine," he said excitedly. "No fluctuations above the limiter 
baseline.

"Sensor-suite, and sensory responses exactly as expected."

"I've left two inches of lubricant," Yoshida said a moment later. "That 
should be enough."

"M'hmm," Domina acknowledged. "Madeleine?"

"I've already begun, Domina-san," she said, her voice shrill with 
excitement.

A moment later, the naked machine, now quite visible through the glass of 
her tank, twitched, and shifted. For a moment nothing more happened. Then 
a gush of lubricant exploded from her mouth, and she began to breathe.

"All physical systems under internal control," Cried Yoshida, his tone at 
last betraying something of the excitement he was feeling.

"Sensory systems accessed," Cried Daitokuji. "CPU activity. God! She's 
beginning to wake up," he ended almost in a shout.

"Not yet," Madeleine said, flashing him a smile. "You're seeing the sensor 
results of the final tests. Domina-san, there's something here about 
pitch-tuning her voice."

Domina gave a sudden quick, light laugh, but her face was suddenly gentle, 
and touched with sadness.

"I might have expected it," she said softly. "Alexei loved his music 
almost as much as his mathematics.

"Can you ignore it?" she inquired, her voice professional again.

"Yes," Madeleine answered. "It only generates a warning.

"Beginning speech test."

She touched a key, and a moment later: "There's a one-eyed yellow idol to 
the north of Katmandu. There's a little marble cross below the town," Came 
from the tank in a monotone.

"Not exactly an inspired performance," said Domina, unable to keep the 
growing excitement from her own voice. "Obviously Alexei never bothered to 
finish the external speech driver."

"Hello; speech testing.

"Tsuki ni kawatte oshioki yo!

"Ranma no baka!" said Camilla as Madeleine typed.

Then: "ouaowimftgntflagnplkrest," followed by girlish giggles from the 
scientist.

"What's the matter with it?" Madigan demanded immediately.

"I think Madeleine was having a little fun," Domina answered, giving the 
younger woman a sharp glance.

"Do that again, and I will not be pleased," said Madigan quietly, turning 
to shoot the young scientist an icy glare.

Madeleine gulped, and returned to the console before her.

"All tests complete," she said, her voice subdued. "I can begin the boot 
initialisation as soon as you're ready, Domina-san."

"Proceed," said Domina, her tone suddenly a little softened.

Madeleine gave her a grateful smile. Then turning once more to the 
console, she typed a quick sequence, and a moment later, both hers and 
Domina's consoles showed the boot window.

"DA-33 prototype, version 0.01-Alpha initialised," said Camilla.

"Serial number BU-7541-33.03.

"Designation, Camilla.

"Checking CPU status."