Night Skies Hotel VIII: Child Of The Sun free porn video

Night Skies Hotel VIII: Child of the Sun By Solari Historian's note: This story is set during the "modern" era of the Night Skies Hotel. While it isn't necessary to have read the entire NSH pantheon to appreciate this story, it does spawn directly from a scene that appeared in "Night Skies Hotel VII: The Sands of Time." *** "We are the Patriarchy. The conquest of your planet is under way. Our armies shall crush your cities, obliterate your societies and forevermore silence you. Truces are irrelevant. You will find no mercy at our hands. You have but one option: Kneel before your new overlords, or be destroyed." - Patriarchal leaflet found in the ruins of a metropolis in Timeline 0171. *** "AAAIIIEEE!!!" The pilot's terrorized scream came over Tropical Isles Flight No. 17's intercom system as the airliner - packed with three hundred and fifty passengers - began shaking so furiously that it seemed to be coming apart at the seams. A young girl held her seat's armrests in a death grip, her face white as chalk as she stared, uncomprehendingly, out of the window next to her. The calm, cheery blue sky of a moment ago was now a kaleidoscope of wild colors surrounding the lumbering passenger jet in a chaotic ocean. "Mommy! Daddy!" The girl looked around, her fearful expression matching the quaver in her voice. Her parents were nowhere to be seen, having been thrown from their seats like rag dolls when the crew had pushed the airliner into a steep dive in a failed attempt to avoid a seething whirlpool of energy. "Where are you?!" Her cries were lost amid the pandemonium of crashing carts, screaming passengers and agonized creaking of rivets and welds stressed almost to their breaking point. Then, just like that, the turbulence ended. The airliner steadied as a calm sky once again appeared outside the jet's thin, metallic skin. But this sky wasn't cheery blue. No, this sky was a sickly gray color, like that of dirty dishwater. The screams died away, replaced by sniffles, whimpers and shell-shocked expressions as the passengers gazed at each other and out of their windows. A gray, lifeless-looking ocean gave way to equally depressing land. The world outside appeared to be about as appetizing as a spoonful of bitter medicine. "Uh, folks?" It was the pilot, his voice sounding uncertain over the intercom. "We, ah, seem to have a slight problem. Buckle yourselves in and prepare for a hard landing." Realization dawned on the passengers - the airliner was coasting, the comforting sound of the engines absent, but not initially noticed amid the tumult of the turbulence. In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot stared at their instrument panels. Red. Solid red. This wasn't good. "Initiating manual takeover," the pilot commanded, running his fingers across various touchscreens, buttons and switches. He looked over at the co-pilot. "Snap out of it, Franklin! Our engines and hydraulics are shot to hell. We've got to get this bird down in one piece!" "Dear God, Matt, there's no way we can repeat what they did in Sioux City in 1989!" The pilot grimaced. "Well, it's not exactly the same situation. They at least still had some engine power ..." his voice trailed off as he focused on the task at hand. The airliner's angle of descent grew shallower and its speed decreased as Matt employed every trick, and then some, in the pilots' handbook to save the lives of those aboard. "Just a bit more ..." "I've got a highway below us," Franklin reported. "It looks like it might be Interstate 95. Odd. There doesn't appear to be any traffic on it." "I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth," Matt said tightly, perspiration soaking his pale, freckled face as he concentrated on guiding the lumbering airliner. "I'm taking her in while I still can!" Franklin glanced over the instrument panels. He flinched as one of the few blue lights turned a sickly amber color, then went red. He began praying Psalm 23. "... Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ..." His gray eyes wide, Matt screamed and jerked instinctively away from the controls. Franklin reached over to regain control, only to see what had frightened Matt: An alien-looking ovoid hovered silently near the falling aircraft. It was black as night. Franklin blinked, and the apparition was gone. Another blue status light turned red, forcing the co-pilot to focus on the task at hand, but precious seconds had ticked away. The airliner began shaking as it flew low over the deserted interstate. "What the hell was that thing?" Matt muttered. "A foo fighter, I think." Franklin glanced briefly at his partner. "You OK now?" A nod. "Good. You're the senior pilot here - she's all yours." A stewardess appeared in the cockpit's doorway, gripping it tightly as the shaking intensified. "We've got the passengers secured as best we can, but we've got injuries." "You did what you could. Now get yourself strapped in, ma'am," Franklin ordered. "We're going in!" The stewardess nodded and hurried through the airline to her station. She brushed past a couple, who held their little girl's hand. The man and woman - bruised and bloodied - smiled reassuringly at their daughter. "It'll be OK, sweetie. We're here, and we'll never let anything happen to you," the woman crooned softly. The girl nodded once, tear tracks staining her tanned, chubby cheeks. The jet soared less than thirty feet above the interstate, inching gradually down as its speed continued to decrease. Lower. Lower. Twenty feet and dropping. Matt made a minute adjustment, oblivious to the world outside his instrument panel, his pulse racing and blood roaring in his head. Ten feet. "Lower the landing gear!" Five feet. Three feet. "No obstructions sighted." It was Franklin. Smiling tightly, Matt made one final adjustment. That's it, that's it ... just a bit more, he thought. At that instant, the starboard wing tipped ever so slightly. Matt's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream as he felt the wing make contact with the pavement. In his mind's eye, he saw white-hot sparks flying, heard the shriek of rending metal. His world blossomed into an unbearable brightness. Tropical Isles Flight No. 17 flipped end over end down the interstate, a cartwheeling maelstrom of shattering glass, melting metal, flames and, most heart-rending of all, the screams of the men, women and children trapped inside. *** "That's the last of them." Matt tossed aside the makeshift spade, breathing heavily. "Two hundred graves. Two hundred people I failed to save." Franklin leaned on his shovel, contemplating his partner. "You've got to stop beating yourself up and start living for those who made it," he finally said. He gestured at the makeshift camp that had sprouted up around the gutted remnants of the crashed airliner. "It's been three weeks. In that time, they've rallied around you." Matt spat viciously. "And what do they have to show for it? No one answers our hails. No one's bothered to rescue us. Life? What life? A few scraggly plants bereft of nutrition and sickly animals that we can't even get near enough to bring down for food!" He snorted. "Some inspiration I'm turning out to be." "Well, we know something's keeping tabs on us," Franklin offered. "Our little foo fighter has been seen more than once." "If I had a gun, I'd take a few potshots at it. Damn thing's at least partly responsible for our predicament in the first place, scaring the hell out of me and all while I was trying to bring the airliner down in one piece." "Let's go." Franklin walked away from the newest grave, that of some older gentleman who had had the good fortune of dying in one piece. "It's about noon - time to send out one of our daily distress calls." Matt followed the younger man, his face still flushed from the exertion of digging in the heat and humidity. "Hey, has it ever crossed your mind that maybe we're not really in Florida?" Franklin's lips quirked in a small smile. "I've believed that almost since day one," he said, looking back at Matt. "The foo fighter, highway signs in some indecipherable script, burned-out hulks of futuristic vehicles ...," he paused briefly, "... and the ruins of that city we found pretty much told me we weren't in Kansas anymore, so to speak." His smile grew. "I see it's been eating away at you, too." "Just a little bit." The men walked through the camp toward the somewhat-intact cockpit of the downed airliner. Dozens of dirt- and sweat-streaked faces turned their way, but there was little in the way of greeting. Life had been hard, and those still among the living had quickly learned to focus on the things that Matt had said would help them survive: gathering what little edibles could be found, getting potable water and building crude shelters. But most had chosen to ignore the one reality they really couldn't afford to ignore - that they were no longer in the Florida they were familiar with. Assuming, of course, that whoever had lived and died in this area prior to the crash had even called the place Florida. "That energy whirlpool hurled us somewhere science doesn't know about yet," Franklin said, his tone amiable. "Which is too bad, since it means we'll probably never be rescued." "I see I'm not the only ray of sunshine around here," Matt deadpanned. He started to speak again, but a tugging at his lower shirt drew his attention to a little girl, not more than five years old. He kneeled next to her and smiled. "Hi there, Kimora. Let me guess - you're wondering if your mother's returned yet, right?" Kimora nodded shyly. "She said she'd be back in ...," she held up both hands, counting to ten, "... this many days. Have you seen her yet?" Matt and Franklin exchanged looks. "We haven't, but as soon as we do, we'll let you know," Matt said reassuringly. This seemed to satisfy Kimora, who returned to her father's side. "What do you think, Franklin? Will Seren be back by sunset as she promised?" "Beats me." Franklin wearily ran his hands through is mop of dark hair. "Personally, I wouldn't mind it if she didn't come back for another day or two. She's an intense, persuasive woman who knows how to get her way - too much so sometimes, in my opinion." He laughed. "I bet she was fun to be around on the archaeological digs she took part in." The men reached the cockpit. Matt gingerly climbed in and began flipping switches. "You'd have to ask her about that," he said, poking his head out, "but she's not completely abrasive. You ought see when she's with her husband and daughter - if that isn't what being a partner and mother's all about, then I don't know what is." "You've got a point." There was a brief burst of swearing from within the cockpit; Franklin grinned and handed Matt a tool. "Did you know they're some sort of high-ranking officials with the federal government?" Matt's voice was muffled. "Really? Hmm. I guess I hadn't considered that, even though they bypassed the security checks regular schmoos have to go through." "Such are the perks of federal employment." Franklin glanced briefly at Kimora's father. "You know, Tritt's about as inconspicuous as Seren is conspicuous." "Well, what's that old saying? Ah, yes: Opposites attract." "I guess so." Franklin peered into the sky, but it, like the land around them, hadn't changed in the weeks since the crash. It still looked like dirty dishwater. "Well, let's hope her little one-woman expedition turns up something useful." A thump echoed from within the cockpit, followed by a blue streak of invectives. "Yeah. We could use a Stargate right about now," Matt's muffled voice muttered. *** Seren pored over the newspapers - Well, at least I think they're newspapers - she had found deep within the library in what appeared to be a still-functioning climate-controlled room. The script, identical to that found on the highway signs, business marquees, was indecipherable to her, but there were some universals that jumped out at her: photos, graphics and maps. "Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating," she murmured as she leafed through the newspapers. She guessed she had at least two weeks' worth of newsprint spread out on the table. Each edition had gigantic headlines, along with multiple photos, maps, graphics and entire inside pages dedicated to whatever it was that had warranted such coverage. Seren made an educated guess and picked up what she figured was the oldest newspaper. Splashed across the front was a six-column photo with ten people in it - six men and four women of various ages and ethnicities. Eight of them were dressed in what appeared to be business-like monochrome outfits, while the other two wore what Seren guessed were military uniforms, black as night. Metallic gauntlets glittered on the men's forearms, and their right hands rested on the pommels of sheathed swords at their hips. Everyone was smiling. Seren sighed. Not for the first time she wished she could read the alien script, but it had no correlation among the many languages she was fluent in. She unfolded the paper so she could see the entire front page, revealing more alien script, photos and maps. Another photo caught her attention; this time it was a shot of a dozen or so gray-uniformed men handing out something - Hmm. Perhaps it's candy, Seren thought - to a group of grinning boys and girls. One of the young girls had been caught by the photographer in mid-somersault near one of the men, her child-like innocence frozen in time. "Whoever these uniformed men were, the natives were obviously on good terms with them," Seren said to herself as she penned an entry in her notebook. "Perhaps it was some sort of celebration or remembrance, along the lines of Veterans Day in the United States." She resumed flipping through the papers. It was more of the same. Wait. Maybe not. She returned to a discarded paper and studied it closer. On the surface, it appeared to be the usual - lots of photos, maps, graphics and stories. But something had changed. Seren thought about it for a moment before it dawned on her: Nobody was smiling in these photos. And the maps - well, they showed what appeared to be front lines, the positions of military units and, interestingly, areas of the world shaded in some strange alien color to set them apart from the rest of the planet. "These men and women are soldiers," Seren murmured. She eyed a photo filled with somber people lined up, all wearing identical uniforms that were unlike those of the swordsmen and gray-clad troops in the earlier photos. They carried what she assumed was some sort of rifled weapon, and a blue flag with twelve golden stars flew over their formation. Other photos showed men and women climbing into what appeared to be truck analogues and undergoing training. "They're preparing for a fight." She flipped through the papers, faster and faster. The photos of the troops were gone now, replaced with surreal shots of actual fighting, burning cities and maps showing more and more of the planet under the strange shading. Seren noticed that the design of the later papers appeared to be more erratic and less professional, almost as if their designers were running out of time and were desperate to get something - anything - published. Seren could feel her heart racing as she lifted the last paper, which definitely had a haphazard appearance to it. Another huge, six-column photo blared out at her. It was a chaotic shot, showing people running ahead of mechanical monstrosities that appeared to be hovering above the pavement, with vaguely familiar buildings in the background. Their faces were etched in yet another universal sign - that of pure terror. She examined the bottom half of the page. One of the photos showed strange, ovoid ships floating high in the sky. There were seven of the black craft. Seren's breathe caught in her throat, her eyes widening with recognition. "Those are Franklin's foo fighters," she whispered. Suddenly feeling uneasy, she gathered the newspapers and stuffed them into her backpack. "Oh, Lord. What if the invaders never left?! What if they've been watching us the entire time?!" Seren raced through the dilapidated building - leaping over tumbled shelves of books and skirting banks of long-dead computer analogues - and hopped on her mountain bike near an entrance. She began pedaling furiously, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the library. All around her the ruins of the long-dead city cried out to her, the collapsed facades, gutted interiors and blasted remnants telling a story that spoke of misplaced friendship, fear, misery, defeat and, ultimately, annihilation. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together to form a picture - "Now why the hell didn't I see it earlier?!" Seren chided herself. "Damnit. And you call yourself an archaeologist!" Scooting past the city limits, Seren looked back at the forlorn, empty metropolis - and came close to wiping out as her focus faltered for a moment. The foo fighter was moving silently through the skies above and behind her a little ways. "Shit. Shit! Shit!! Shit!!!" *** "It looks like the cat's out of the bag." The bass voice chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that filled the Panther's crew cabin. "Should we grab her, milord?" Baron Mobius Ordover studied the fleeing woman briefly, then smiled, revealing a mouthful of strong, square white teeth. "Not quite yet." He stood and stretched, his well-muscled, six-foot, six-inch frame filling a good part of the crew cabin. "We'll let her run the chain out, let her think she and her compatriots have a chance to avoid their fate. Besides, I've always found spirited prey to be a more satisfying catch in the end." *** "I guess the fairy godmother didn't grant your wish, Franklin," Matt teased as he squinted into the setting sun. "It's Seren and, boy oh boy, is she burning rubber." "On a bike?" Franklin joined Matt at the camp's edge. "You weren't kidding. She's cruising." Matt focused on Seren's face. His smile slipped a bit. "Why don't you go tell Tritt and Kimora the good news, Franklin?" The younger man dipped his head and trotted off into the camp. Only now did Matt allow himself to frown, and deeply so. He jogged toward Seren and, as they neared each other, he could hear her voice. It was hoarse, as if she'd been yelling at the top of her lungs since she had sighted the camp. "They're coming! They're coming!" Her cries were faint, but Matt was pretty sure that's what she was yelling. He broke into a run and met her on the cratered and buckled highway. "Franklin's foo fighter! It's not what it appears to be!" She leaped off the battered mountain bike and fumbled with her backpack. "I was at a library in the city and ...," her words jumbled and ran together, her mind outracing her tongue's ability to give shape to her thoughts. "Whoa! Slow down!" Matt commanded. She nodded, breathing heavily as she leaned into him for support. The cross-country trip had left her winded. "There, that's it. Breathe in, breathe out. Much better, Seren. Now what is it that's got you so riled up?" Seren explained - her demeanor now cool, calm and collected - what she had found while exploring the ruins of the ancient city. Matt's face grew grave as her story unfolded. "This is something the entire camp needs to hear about," he said at long last. "Now. Let's do it now," Seren said tightly. She glanced over her shoulder. "The foo fighter could return at any moment. Whatever's aboard that thing - assuming it's manned - had to have seen me leaving the library." "Certainly. Although, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure what we can do if the foo fighter becomes aggressive," Matt said. "We didn't exactly arrive in an Apache attack helicopter, you know." "Hope springs eternal." Matt ran his hands through his sandy blonde hair. "That it does." The pair sprinted toward the camp; Matt reached for the whistle looped around his throat and blew on it long and hard. Activity instantly roiled the camp as survivors gathered on its "village green." Twenty minutes later, the survivors' disbelief - mixed with fear and anger - was almost palpable in the air. "You believe her, Matt?!" a ragged man shouted, waving one of the newspapers Seren had passed around. The pilot hesitated for only an instant before nodding his affirmation. "Well, I don't. Archaeologist, my ass! Schemer's more like it!" "Still pissed I outwitted you at checkers last week, eh, Mason?" Seren said sweetly. Her adversary glowered, but held his tongue. "Good. That's better." Another voice chimed in. "This is all a joke, isn't it? We're actually on the set of some reality television program, aren't we?" This one belonged to a red-haired woman whose face was still healing from the cuts she had received during the crash. A slightly crazed look crossed her face as she fell to her knees and looked beseechingly to the uninviting sky. "Are you having fun, world, watching our misery?! How's the ratings?!" Matt shook his head sadly. The crash had affected some of the survivors mentally more than physically. She was far from being alone in that sense. At least Tritt seems to have a knack for calming people down, Matt thought as he watched Seren's husband kneel at the redhead's side and, presumably, whisper reassurances into her ear. "I believe Seren," Franklin spoke loudly. The co-pilot looked around. "C'mon, who's with me on this?" A murmur swept the crowd. "Forget her abrasive nature for a second and focus on what she's brought back - those newspapers you're holding in your hands aren't figments of your imagination or this place's equivalent of tabloids. Hell, if they were you'd think there would at least be more cleavage." This brought scattered laughter. "Furthermore, isn't our foo fighter enough to make you think something is quite right with our surroundings? No? Then how about the language we can't read. Or the city ruins. How about the ..." "Occam's Razor." It was Tritt. He adjusted his spectacles self-consciously as the crowd's attention turned to him. "Basically, when there are multiple explanations available for any given phenomenon, the simplest version is preferred." He gestured. "If we're going to survive, we must open our eyes to the reality some of us seem hell-bent on ignoring. Simply put, we're no longer in our Florida, haven't been since that crazy whirlpool of energy swallowed us. This is someone else's Florida, assuming they even called it that." The verbal tug-of-war continued on-and-off for an indeterminate time - Matt noticed Seren surreptitiously scanning the sky around the camp more than once, the exasperation on her face and in her voice becoming apparent - before a fragile consensus was reached. "What?!" Matt yelped. "You folks want to negotiate?!" "What would you have us do?" Mason shot back, pointing at the newspaper he still clutched in his hand. "This shows people running for their lives, their cities being destroyed. If those people - with all their resources - couldn't defeat whatever it is the foo fighter is associated with, then how will we, a band of ragged survivors?!" "But that's just it! They were destroyed!" Seren hissed. She held up a newspaper, the one showing photos of smiling adults and carefree children. "They were human. And you can bet they must have begged for their lives toward the end." She gestured expansively, taking in the foreboding, empty landscape around them. "It didn't work for them, did it?!" Mason snarled. "But we're not THEM!" "We will be if we put ourselves at the invaders' mercy," Seren said sharply. "Hey, hey! Calm down, folks," Matt said forcefully. He glanced at Mason, "You have a valid point as does ...," he turned toward Seren, "... our esteemed archaeologist." His gaze swept the crowd. "But the way I see it, we're damned if we do, damned if we don't. We're in unfamiliar terrain. They're not. We number one hundred fifty. Odds are they have many more people. They also have a ship - Franklin's foo fighter - and we, well, we have the wreckage of a jumbo jet." He looked apologetically at Seren. "There's no choice. It would be in our best interest to negotiate with our hidden observers." She shook her head, her luxuriant mahogany tresses seemingly adding volume to her disappointment. "Matt, trust me. Again. Please. You're making the wrong decision." Tritt joined his wife. "She speaks the truth," he said, his hands resting protectively on Kimora's shoulders. "It's better to be free and lost, with some scant hope of eventual rescue, than to be penned up and ..." "Do you two know something the rest of us don't?" Matt interrupted, his eyes hard. Seren and Tritt exchanged seemingly tired glances. "No," she said simply. "We're merely scientists who had the silly fantasy that common sense would rule the day." Harsh laughter erupted. "Oh, but common sense did rule the day! I, for one, am injured, exhausted and hungry," a woman exclaimed. A swell of voices supported her. "The sky is dreary, the ocean dull, the plants droop and the wildlife is emaciated and unappetizing." "I get the point," Seren muttered dejectedly. She joined Tritt and Kimora in the crowd, the intensity gone from her face, as if a cloud had blotted out the sun. "Well, do what you're going to do, Matt. I'll be a good little trouper and toe the line." Matt sighed. There were far too many defeated-looking faces in the camp already, and he didn't relish adding another one, especially when it was Seren. She's always been one of the more capable members of the camp, he thought. Aloud, "Good. Now that the debate's over with, here's what I will do: The next time the foo fighter appears, I will make contact ..." Slow, ponderous clapping cut him off. Matt spied a man emerging from the lengthening shadows at the camp's perimeter. He towered over everyone, his tanned body rippling with thick muscle, his black hair trimmed short in a crewcut. "I'm impressed. Talk about a very lively display of democracy at work," the unfamiliar man rumbled as he drew nearer, his mouth pulled back in a toothy smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I presume you're the pilot of the foo fighter?" Matt asked. The man shook his head and, for the first time, Matt noticed an insignia on the gray uniform, above his heart: it was a sinuous and powerful-looking black dragon coiled around a blue-green planet. The monstrous thing had glittering red eyes and spat hellish-looking flames. "Then who are you?" "I am Baron Mobius Ordover, and I've come to take you into custody," the man pronounced formally. "As of this moment, you're all prisoners of the Patriarchy." "The Patriarchy? Never heard of it," Matt said. He studied the newcomer. "Do you have a sort of Geneva Accords in regard to how you treat your prisoners?" "The Geneva Accords? Never heard of them," Mobius said mockingly. Matt's eyes narrowed. "In answer to your question: No. We do with our prisoners as we please. For instance, you're all slated to be subjected to medical experiments." Matt's blood froze. Images of the wretched souls exposed to "medical" experiments by Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan flashed through his mind. There's no way in hell anyone here is going to be experimented on, not if I have anything to say about it! he thought fiercely. "Where we come from, we don't take words like that lying down ...," Matt and others in the crowd traded surreptitious glances. "Don't do anything stupid." Mobius' voice was earnest, not threatening. "As much as I like spirited prey, I prefer that it also have something of a chance to actually defend itself." His placid green eyes surveyed the camp. "You have one, but not the other." "You're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch," Matt snarled. "Rush him!" A wall of more than one hundred people moved as one toward Mobius, who stood defiantly, arms crossed. It was a desperation move; Matt knew the baron had to have an ace up his sleeve. But it's a gamble we have to take, he thought. Once he's our hostage, we can use him as a bargaining chip, perhaps buying us enough time to scatter in all directions. He sighed. Damnit. Tritt was right - it's better to be free and lost than penned up like animals. An eerie drone stopped the crowd in its tracks, barely a yard from where Mobius stood; people backpedaled instinctively as not one, but five foo fighters materialized over the camp. The black, ovoid ships hovered menacingly, seemingly lazy wisps of reddish energy sweeping across their gleaming, metallic surfaces. In the next instant, a bolt of hellish energy leapt from one of the vessels, lancing into the cockpit of the downed airliner, detonating it in a thunderous roar. Scattered screams echoed among the survivors as red-hot shrapnel pelted the crowd, opening new wounds in already weakened bodies. "Like I said, you have one, but not the other." Matt warred with himself for an instant - Damn it! Either way I'm condemning people to their deaths! Some leader I'm turning out to be! - then roared, "Everyone! Scatter! NOW!" *** Mobius watched the would-be prisoners race away in all directions, shaking his head sadly. He had seen it a hundred times before, but it never ceased to have an impact. The will to survive is one of the most powerful drives humanity has, he thought. He unholstered his energy weapon, adjusted its setting, and casually took aim at the man who had showed the most spirit of all. It's too bad it doesn't always translate into actual survival. "Ungh!" Matt grunted as a savage blow slammed into his back, hurling him face-first into the hard, unyielding ground. Wrenching himself painfully over, he instantly wished he hadn't. The air was filled with coruscating bolts of hellish energy as the foo fighters opened up on the fleeing people. To Matt's shock and horror, the entire hulls of the ships appeared to firing surfaces, as death leapt out seemingly willy-nilly. People - his people! - were vaporized as lines of energy connected with them, reducing their bodies to free-floating atoms. He watched helplessly as the crazy, red-headed woman threw her hands up to shield her face in the instant before she died. He saw another man go down, a gaping, cauterized crater where his belly used to be. A crouching mother with her young son embraced each other as deadly energy enveloped them. "STOP! OH, GOD, STOP!" Matt bellowed over and over again into the chaos, the desperation in his voice teetering on the precipice of madness. "I BEG OF YOU ..." The firing ceased, and in the ensuing silence Matt heard the steady clomp-clomp-clomp of approaching boots. He felt himself being hauled unceremoniously to his feet by a pair of soldiers. It seemed Mobius had also been joined by a contingent of Patriarchal troops. These men were completely anonymous behind their gray, insect-like armored forms, their faces hidden and protected by all-encompassing helmets whose smooth, symmetrical face shields had broad, dark visors molded into them. The men dragged Matt, unresisting, to where Mobius stood, dumping him at the baron's booted feet. "Assuming you're an example of the lively spirit Timeline 0600 - that's your Earth, by the way - has to offer, then the Patriarchy looks eagerly to the day we meet more of your kind on the battlefields of your homeworld," Mobius remarked. "There's more than six billion people like me," Matt slurred. The pain from Mobius' stun blast radiated across his body, and he hovered near unconsciousness. "Just you wait and see." Mobius grinned, his dazzling square white teeth looking almost unnatural. "That's what the leaders of this world claimed, too, and look what it got them." His smile widened. "They exaggerated. My forefathers conquered their world - Timeline 0171, or Uhrth, as they called it - in a matter of weeks nearly eight hundred years ago. It was one of our earliest conquests." Mobius patted Matt on the shoulder. "But I'll take your word for it." Unconsciousness reached for Matt, but not before he saw Franklin, Seren, Tritt and Kimora kneeling nearby, along with a few dozen others. Dear God. We've been decimated. Matt, thy name is failure ... he slipped into the now-welcome arms of oblivion, the arrival of four gleaming white, arrow-shaped shuttles his last images of the waking world. *** Seren stared out the single viewport in the cell that held herself, her family and seven others. Far below the shuttle she could see that the ruins of the city she had explored were but the tip of the iceberg - already they had passed over the abandoned and blasted ruins of a dozen other metropolises, each looking as if it could have been home to a million or more residents in the distant past. Networks of broken transportation corridors - what appeared to be highways, rail lines and the occasional canal - connected the dead cities in a ghostly and tattered cobweb. Her thoughts drifted to the newspapers she had gathered, and to the people in the photos. They had harbored hopes and dreams. Had families, friends and colleagues. And it had all seemingly been for naught. Seren blinked back tears. Is this the fate that awaits my world? she thought miserably. Does everything I hold dear mean nothing in the end, in the face of what this Patriarchy represents? "They didn't go down without a fight." Seren whirled, startled by the voice. It was Mobius. He stood outside the cell's forcefields, his expression neutral. "Their struggle against our armies was short-lived - two, maybe three weeks at most, and it was all over. But they had spirit. They fought with everything they had, never giving up an inch without spilling their blood." He moved restlessly about the cell's perimeter. "Not all the timelines we've conquered can claim that, even those that fared better against the might of our military." "What did Uhrth do to deserve this?" Seren snapped, her tears forgotten for the moment. "What did any timeline do to deserve the ill will of this Patriarchy of yours?" "You're asking the wrong man," Mobius said. "I am but a mere baron in a military machine that numbers in the hundreds of millions. Only a Champion can answer what you want to know, and odds are he won't give a prisoner - let alone a female prisoner - the time of day." He sighed. "As for Uhrth, it's mistake was maintaining trade relations with our greatest nemesis, the Sisterhood." Seren noticed a haunted look briefly cross the baron's face. "Even after we had invaded and conquered Gaia, the Sisterhood's homeworld, Uhrth insisted on keeping trade ties with its remnant." Mobius stopped moving and shrugged. "This affront couldn't be tolerated. So we played nice with them, lulled them into a false sense of security - and then wiped them out." Seren thought she sensed an angry undercurrent in Mobius' voice. Don't piss him off, no matter how desperate you are to learn more about the Patriarchy and Sisterhood, she rationalized. Time to change the subject. Aloud, "Assuming any of us survive these medical experiments of yours, what awaits us afterward?" Mobius regarded her, a curious look etched on his face. "You're an inquisitive one, aren't you?" he finally asked. "Always probing, seeking information, even in the face of death. Not many people can do that." He chuckled. "It's kind of refreshing in a way, reminds me of others I've known in my life." Tritt spoke up. "Seren, my beloved star, perhaps it's best if you cease and desist ..." "No. Rest assured, she'll know the instant she crosses a red line," Mobius interrupted. "Until then, I will answer her questions as I see fit." His placid, green eyes focused again on Seren. "If you or your husband survive, you will be milked for whatever knowledge you have regarding Earth, and then be executed. Neither of you would ever adjust to lives as serfs, not as educated as you are." Goosebumps prickled Seren's skin. "The others will be formally enserfed, serving us until the end of their days - the females mostly on their backs, and the males where ever their masters see fit." Mobius examined the scruffy men in the cell, his face unreadable. "Should a male serf ever wish to escape the drudgery of his life, he can apply to serve the Champions as a slave soldier in the legions we draw from conquered timelines." "What of my daughter and the other children?" Seren's voice quavered ever so slightly. Mobius regarded her steadily, but didn't answer. "Tell me, damn you!" Her imagination ran wild, visualizing a parent's worst nightmare. "You kill them don't you?!" "No. We are a militaristic and expansionistic people, but we're not barbarians." "Bullshit! Those foo fighters of yours killed at least seven ..." "And who the hell chose to resist when I told you not to?!" Mobius growled, his ire piqued. "Tell me, Seren, who put their children at risk? YOUR PEOPLE DID, NOT MINE." The baron spun on his heel and marched down the well-lit corridor, disappearing through a doorway. "You crossed a red line," another prisoner whispered accusingly. Seren didn't reply. She simply clutched Kimora even tighter, burying her face in her daughter's dark hair as, far below the shuttle, yet another dead metropolis passed by. *** Mobius strode into the outpost commandant's well-appointed office. Approaching the man's ornate, heavy oaken desk, the baron kneeled on the lush, red-carpeted floor, his eyes cast downward. "You wished to see me, milord?" "Rise, Baron Mobius Ordover, rise!" Sentinel Aidan Vox's rich, booming voice filled the room. "This isn't a dressing down. You did good out there today, and I'm recommending you for a commendation. But - and isn't there always a but? - I can already tell you that a certain senior scientist will be less than pleased with the mission's outcome." "Tyrekk Jet - with all due respect, milord - can shove it where the primary doesn't shine," Mobius retorted. His battle-scarred superior laughed, a rumble that sounded curiously like a peal of thunder. "He was told well beforehand that resistance was a very real possibility." "That he was." The black-uniformed man shifted in his chair. "Don't lose any sleep over it, though. Thirty males, twenty females and ten juveniles will be a more than adequate pool on which to test the new treatment." Aidan gestured dismissively. "Now get some sleep, baron. You deserve it." Mobius nodded. "Yes, milord." The doorway cycled open as he approached; halfway through, he glanced over his shoulder. "Milord, when will the experiments begin?" "As soon as the last of the prisoners have regained consciousness," Aidan said. "There's eight of them, including ...," he cleared Mobius' action report from a holographic display, calling up new information, "... their leader, Matt, whom you stunned pretty good." Mobius shrugged. "Just doing my job, milord." And then he was gone. *** "This test tube holds a sample of our latest, great hope," Tyrekk murmured reverentially. Golden fluid shone under the lab's harsh, white light. "If this treatment works, the Sisterhood's ability to transform males into females will be eliminated once and for all." His colleague snorted. "I'll believe it when I see it," the advanced scientist said. "After all, how many times have we thought we had the cure, only to find out otherwise?" "Nine times during the last eight hundred years or so," Tyrekk replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "But we came away wiser with each failure." A soft beep echoed. He turned to a holographic display, where a yellow status icon had just turned blue. A grin split Tyrekk's face. "Excellent. The last test subject has regained consciousness." Another voice boomed across the lab. "Yes. Excellent!" It belonged to an imposing, broad-shouldered middle-aged man with piercing black eyes. It was Eternal Scientist Stanton Zev'thun, among the oldest and most elite scientists the Patriarchy had in its service. The ancient man - in spirit, if not body - surveyed his surroundings. "Well, what are we waiting for? Time is of the essence!" "A thousand pardons!" Tyrekk babbled, caught off guard. Eternal scientists didn't drop in every day, even if one was working on an important project. There were dozens of such efforts going on at any given time, and time constraints meant they could only be directly involved in a select few. "We weren't aware you would be observing these experiments." Stanton smiled grimly, his shaved head gleaming under the lights. "If your serum works as you've theorized, the next logical step will be to see if we can further alter it to not only protect a male from the pathogen's effects, but actually reverse them." His face darkened. "As you know, that's all I live for anymore. To free Deyvid Trion from the female flesh that imprisons his soul." He gestured sharply. "So, by all means, proceed." *** Matt felt as if he had one hell of a hangover - the only problem being, he hadn't had a drink in more than a decade. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as harsh, white light hit them. Adjusting to the glare, he found himself sprawled out on a hard, white floor in some sort of cell. Other figures huddled near him - they were all men, and were naked as the day they had been born. One of them turned toward him; it was his co-pilot, Franklin. "Welcome back to the waking world," he remarked, "but you're going to wish you had remained unconscious." "The experiments?" Matt asked dully. He, too, was nude. Franklin nodded. "We're being moved." His blue eyes glittered like chips of ice. "They've already taken the women and other men. Haven't seen any of the children, though." The clomp-clomp-clomp of boots echoed in the corridor outside the cell as six gray-armored soldiers appeared along the forcefield. They raised their evil-looking weapons in a single, fluid movement, covering the prisoners as the lead soldier tapped codes into a wall padd, then into a padd molded into his armor. With the dual security system satisfied, the barrier vanished, silence replacing its almost inaudible hum. "Come," the lead trooper ordered in a synthesized voice. "Your time to serve the Patriarchy is at hand, serfs." Matt and Franklin filed out of the cell, followed by three other men. Franklin helped his comrade - still somewhat fuzzy - as they made their way down the corridor, flanked by the seemingly inhuman Patriarchal soldiers. Matt stole surreptitious glances as the group passed through the outpost. There didn't appear to be very many people staffing the facility, but they came in a variety of uniforms and ethnicities. The pilot did a double-take upon spying a blue-skinned man in a black uniform. He's definitely not from the Earth I know, Matt thought. Before long, the group arrived in a rather large chamber that was far from being empty. The same harsh, white light that illuminated the prison cells was also at work here, revealing a Spartan environment of interlocking forcefields. They formed a series of small cells along the perimeter of a larger, square arena whose far end was bisected by yet another forcefield. Each cell had five men or five women in it, and was separated from the greater arena by yet another forcefield. The soldiers herded Matt's group into the last of the unoccupied cells. An instant after the forcefield went back up, Tyrekk's hologram coalesced in the arena. The scientist's voice filled the chamber. "Greetings, Patriarchal serfs," he boomed. "As of this moment, you no longer have names. You are now officially test subjects one through fifty." The harsh, white light intensified over Matt's cell. "For example, this cell contains test subjects one through five. The next cell ...," the spotlight changed its focus accordingly, "... contains test subjects six through ten, and so on." "So who's number one or three for that matter?" Matt whispered. Franklin rubbed his upper left arm. "Biochips. You got yours while you were out cold." He grimaced. "Trust me, you didn't miss anything. Not unless you get a kick out of watching a pea-sized robot - a least that's what I think it was - burrow its way into your flesh." Matt examined his skin. "Huh. Well, at least it didn't leave a scar." He sighed. "That's the least of our concerns, of course." Tyrekk's voice droned on, but Matt picked up only the last bit: "... and now, let the experiments proceed!" *** Mobius watched the proceedings from one of the empty laboratories overlooking the chamber. "So far the representatives of Timeline 0600 appear to be accepting their fate rather well," he murmured, seemingly to himself, as he moved toward a mainframe. "But I suspect that will change once the experimentation begins, particularly if these tests are anything like their predecessors." The baron examined the system, weighing his thoughts at the same time. "Regardless of the timeline we come from, we're all fundamentally human. Which means some things are universal, such as fear." Satisfied he knew what he was dealing with, he rested his palms on the mainframe, smiling as - moments later - a tingle caressed his skin, signaling a lock. "But it's far from being the only thing that's universal." *** "Take me, not him!" Matt roared, lunging after Franklin's retreating form. "He has a family to live for ... AUGH!!!" A lance of white-hot pain shot through the pilot's body - he struggled ever so briefly, which only intensified his agony, before collapsing in a heap. Franklin stole a glance at his fallen comrade and shook his head. "If I don't make it, Matt, I want you to know that it was an honor being your co-pilot these past few years." "Such devotion!" Tyrekk's thunderous voice mocked. His hard, tanned face scrunched up in a sneer. "Let's see if it survives what we're about to do to you, number four." Franklin stumbled to the far end of the arena, joining Mason - number eighteen - who had also been selected for this particular experiment. He's quiet now, isn't he? Franklin observed as his fellow lab rat looked around, his hazel eyes wild. A forcefield sprang up between them and the rest of the arena. "Numbers one, twenty-four, forty-seven and nine - move into the main arena." Matt jumped to his feet, a warning tingle in his upper left arm telling him what would happen if he didn't move, and quickly. The forcefield separating his cell from the arena vanished once again, and the pilot of Tropical Isles Flight No. 17 joined three other men in the well-lit environs just beyond their cells. Matt vaguely recognized two of the shivering shapes - they had assisted with grave digging at the camp - but he didn't have a problem recognizing the third form: It was Tritt. The lanky man with a receding hairline was as nude as the others, his spectacles reflecting the arena's light. He spotted Matt and inclined his head. "Looks like it's the end of the line," Tritt said, his voice solemn. "Please, allow me to echo what Franklin said. Although I've only known you for a few weeks, I've come to regard you with high esteem during that time. I only wish I'd been more vocal about it earlier." "I appreciate the sentiment, but ...," determination flashed in Matt's gray eyes, "... call me an optimist. Don't give up just yet. So long as we're alive we can fight the good fight, for ourselves and the others, including Seren and Kimora." "You're an optimist," Tritt affirmed. "But an attitude like that is never a bad thing." His soulful brown eyes searched for and caught a fleeting glimpse of Seren. Outwardly, she appeared stoic, but her husband knew better. Her assertive and domineering attitude hides a soul brimming with warmth and curiosity, he thought. I should know. I've seen it, experienced it, and Kimora is proof of that. His soul ached, and not just for himself. "Be seated, serfs," Tyrekk ordered. The four men obediently planted their bare posteriors on the warm, hard surface of the arena. They sat roughly ten feet from the shimmering forcefield that separated them from Franklin and Mason. "Excellent. Now wait and watch." *** Franklin jerked, startled, as a soft hum came from overhead. The co-pilot glanced up nervously, noticing a sleek, futuristic-looking machine moving into place above the cell. A closed opening in its smooth, silvery underside cycled open, revealing a gloomy interior. The overhead forcefield vanished and, in the next instant, a barrel extended from the opening. Its muzzle flashed not once, but twice. They're going to kill us! the co-pilot screamed silently, instinctively throwing himself out of harm's way. But there was none of the hellish, coruscating energy that had maimed and vaporized the survivors of Tropical Isles Flight No. 17. Instead, two gelatinous blobs floated in the cell - one near Franklin, the other near Mason. What the hell are they? Franklin thought, staring curiously at the pulsating, purplish things. Their color faded to transparency as he watched, revealing some sort of clear fluid within the blobs. The pulsating increased in frequency and intensity, setting off warning klaxons in Franklin's head. This doesn't look good, he thought, backing away warily. POP! POP! "Argh!" Franklin screeched as the blobs burst, splattering him and Mason with their contents. The co-pilot wiped frantically at his face and abdomen, but it was useless - the substance was everywhere. It felt hot against his skin, a heat that soon became internal as his body absorbed the liquid like a sponge sucking up water. "Congratulations, numbers four and eighteen," Tyrekk said, his hologram appearing briefly within the partition. "You've just been infected with a unique pathogen. Your transformations will begin shortly." Franklin paled. "Transformations?!" A strangled gurgle drew his attention to Mason; his eyes bulged, shocked at what he saw unfolding before him. "This isn't happening," he muttered disbelievingly. More forcefully. "THIS. ISN'T. HAPPENING." Mason's skin appeared to be literally pulsating as he writhed on the floor, gurgling and moaning. His hands clenched and unclenched as, before Franklin's bewildered eyes, the meaty appendages became smaller and more graceful, long red-painted nails pushing out from his fingertips. Mason howled, the cry starting out deep and manly, then gradually rising higher and higher as his vocal cords warped, tightening into a new configuration. "Wh ... what's happening to me?" Mason quavered in a new, high-pitched voice, his hands on his buttocks' rippling, warping flesh. He felt his ass cheeks changing, softening and pillowing out into oddly familiar proportions as new layers of fat were deposited. "Uhh," he moaned, falling back on his newly padded behind. His voice was an odd mixture of fear, disbelief and growing pleasure. "Uhhhhhhh." Franklin was no better off as his world spun around him - he stared, dumbfounded, as his hands thinned and softened, the fingers becoming daintier. His pale complexion smoothed, and mottled patches of olive-colored skin quickly merged into one seamless whole as he lost height and weight. His mouth, shaped in an "O" of surprise, grew fuller and more pouty, with just a touch of bright, wet red lipstick slicking its corners. His fingers tingled as his own nails grew, stretching beyond the tips of his feminine digits. "Ooh, how will I ever fly an airplane with these?" he cooed, admiring his new, inch-long red nails. A look of horror crossed his face in the next instant. "What the hell did I just say?!" He knew his mind was being altered on some primal level, but a growing part of him didn't care. Franklin's sexy new mouth, now glistening wetly with red lipstick, turned up in a sensuous smile, a smile that faltered as he rallied once again against the alluring tidal wave threatening to sweep him entirely. "Matt? Seren?! Tritt?!?" he cried out. "AUGH!" A series of painful, wrenching cramps rolled through his abdomen - a mass of cells there began multiplying and differentiating, developing into an organ unique to women: a uterus. His focus slipped, an overwhelming desire to spread the gift she was receiving gaining a foothold in his/her mind. He zeroed in on Mason in that final, desperate moment, ignoring the exotic sensation of other internal changes. "Don't forget who you are," he cried beseechingly in a voice no longer his own, tasting the sweet, luscious lipstick slathering his mouth. "Oh, God, this feels so goooddd!" "To resist is futile," Stanton's voice boomed. His hologram was even more imposing than Tyrekk's. "The pathogen within you will not be denied - cannot be denied! Its work will be finished shortly, and the two of you will be infectious, sex-crazed bitches of the Sisterhood." The eternal scientist's voice grew deadly earnest. "Fortunately, you will also be contained." Mason was beyond resistance. He stared mindlessly at the scientists' holograms, his long-nailed fingers massaging his nipples as they reacted to the genetic commands of his pathogen-altered DNA. The sensitive points darkened and grew erect, doubling in size as, around them, aerolae expanded, darkening and thickening into circular disks more than an inch across. Tiny bumps of soft flesh emerged beneath Mason's prominent nipples, pushing them ever so slightly out of his soft, hairless, sweat-slicked chest. "Mason? Franklin?" It was Matt, getting as close to the forcefield separating them as possible. God, he thought, I'm not a counselor. This is going to be so corny ... but I need to do something! "I know you're still in there somewhere," he murmured. "Your bodies are changing ...," he gulped as Franklin turned his gaze toward him, licking his seductive, painted lips with a delicate pink tongue, "... I don't want to see either of you go this way! Fight, damn you, fight!" Mason tore his gaze away from his female nipples, focusing on Matt long enough for the pilot to see the struggle playing out in his mismatched eyes - one hazel, the other emerald green. "I ... I ..." He never finished, gasping as the flesh beneath his nipples began growing. The budding breasts pushed out aggressively, driven by the hormone-laden blood pounding through his veins. Their increasing weight dragged Mason forward as they rounded and bulged out, topped by quivering, sensitive nipples. The ragged man - well on his way to becoming a voluptuous woman - straightened out, focusing on Matt one last time. His remaining hazel eye was shot through with green. Mason ... Maso ... Ma .. Maci smiled, running her tongue over her lipstick-slathered lips. "Just a little more, honey, and I'll be ready for you," she cooed, waggling a finger at Matt. "But first things first." She turned toward Franklin and locked lips with him, their pink tongues dueling. *** Emotions can be such a hindrance sometimes, Mobius thought as the scene played out below the lab he occupied. Over the years, the baron had lost count of the men he had seen transformed into women - many against their will, but not always so. You've seen this time and time again, he told himself, don't let it distract you from your duties. You haven't gotten as far as you have, lived as long as you have, because you're squeamish. Data streamed before his mind's eye as the sleeper agent carried out his orders, hacking into the outpost's computer system and copying data, literally, into a special part of his mind. He had to be careful, for the mental discipline and skills he possessed - while a source of great pride - were also the very things that would endanger him if the Patriarchy ever learned of them. He knew the Champions would kill to acquire those abilities for themselves, but he had no intention of becoming a lab rat. His placid green eyes hardened. This mission shall succeed, he thought. Too many years, too much blood, sweat and tears have gone into it for failure to be the outcome. "Schit." The curse came involuntarily. Mobius re-checked the offending data and muttered another invective. I've struck gold, but I wish I hadn't, he thought darkly, suddenly seeing the current round of experimentation and its subjects in a new and entirely different sort of light. I should've known something major was up the instant that eternal scientist arrived. *** Tritt watched the transformation of Franklin and Mason with an odd sort of detachment, one borne of years spent in the pursuit of knowledge. If that pathogen was ever let loose on Earth, it would upend society as we know it, he thought as manes of jet-black hair spilled, lush and thick, past their narrowing shoulders. He looked away as Franklin's chest joined Mason's in bulging out, the co-pilot's fat, dark nipples and expansive aerolae crowning his still-growing C-cup mammaries. Tritt sighed. It's hard to imagine this all started out with a trip to verify and transport some archaeological findings, with a little vacation on the side. *** "Yessss." Franklin undulated, caught up in the throes of pure pleasure as Maci suckled hungrily on his new, D-cup tits. Her sassy, wet mouth released an erect nipple whose dark tip beaded with a droplet of clear, hot fluid. "Ahhh." "Join me," Maci commanded, looking into Franklin's icy-blue eyes. She blew a lock of black hair out of her face. "Your body says it all, sister-to-be." Her words resonated within Franklin. His tits. His long, black hair. His lipstick-smeared, pouty mouth. His nails. His soft, padded buttocks and hips. They all added up to an undeniable fact - I'll never pass for a man again, he thought. I'm a woman now, and belong with my other sisters. He gazed lovingly at Maci, his blue eyes giving way to beautiful, emerald-green orbs. Franklin ... Frankli ... Frankl ... Frank ... Frances pushed Maci to the floor and straddled her. The women ground their pubic regions together, their shrunken, flaccid penises shadows of their former proportions as empty ball sacs pulled tight between their owners' fat-marbled, curvaceous legs. Their scrotums fissured, splitting and fusing into outer labial lips. "Oh!" Maci cried out, the head of her penis becoming much more sensitive as nerve endings multiplied. "Oh! Oh!" Her penile shaft, what little of it was left, withdrew into her developing pussy, taking with it its now-bright pink mini-head. The delicate, moist folds of her inner labial lips parted ever so briefly, offering a glimpse of Maci's engorged clitoris, protected by its newly formed hood. She moaned as her Venus mound took shape, pushing her pussy fully into Frances' own developing mound. Lubrication began, and clear, hot fluid glistened between her new nether lips. An inverted triangular patch of dark fur erupted from an area of reddish, irritated-looking skin just above the entrance to her new reproductive system. Maci's body quivered as the final physical touches heralding her birth - including dark, feminine eyebrows and a dusting of natural eyeshadow - graced her form. Above her, Frances quivered as well, her transformation complete. In less than an hour's time, the pathogen had sculpted and reshaped two men into gorgeous women of the Sisterhood. No longer just satisfied with each other, they separated, their furry mounds sticky with each other's fluids, turning to the four men beyond the forcefield. Maci and Frances stared hungrily, the urge to mate with the males - to share the gift of womanhood with them - growing stronger, more insistent. After all, the more sisters there were, the better it would be for all involved. *** "There you have it," Tyrekk muttered contemptuously, staring at two women where, not so long ago, two men had stood. "Two more mindless sluts, so typical of the Sisterhood." "For now, perhaps," Stanton agreed, his tone amiable. It hardened in the next instant. "But they won't be mindless sluts for long. Once they've had sex, had a chance to instinctually spread the pathogen, they'll become normal members of the Sisterhood: Rational, intelligent and fully capable of controlling their primal urges and pheromones." Softly, "You would do well not to underestimate them, youngster." Tyrekk reddened. "I spoke in haste. Please accept my apologies, eternal scientist." Sometimes it's really annoying having an 800-year-old plus colleague in the same lab, he thought. Stanton saw right through Tyrekk's "apology," but it didn't bother him. If Tyrekk became a liability to the Patriarchy - and underestimating a foe was a very big liability - he had permission from the Council of Champions to terminate him. In fact, he had permission to eliminate just about any scientist at or below the rank of senior if he saw fit. Age and experience had their advantages. Nonetheless, it was a perk he rarely executed, and even then only if a colleague had screwed up more than once. "Very well, then," Stanton said. "Carry out the next phase of your experiment, Tyrekk." His eyes narrowed. "Creating sluts is one thing, but protecting males from the pathogen's effects is quite another. If this succeeds, you're all but assured of claiming eternal status." I'll be granted cloning privileges and receive a promotion! Tyrekk thought excitedly. He envisioned centuries of life, gaining knowledge and abilities, transferring his essence into cloned bodies as necessary. I'll be just like the Champions! But first things first ... Tyrekk entered a command into the system, setting the second phase into motion. *** Matt, Tritt and the others tracked the machine's movement as it glided almost silently into their part of the arena. Once again the portal in its silvery underside whooshed open, and a barrel emerged. Matt tensed, glancing over to where Franklin and Mason - or, rather, the women who had once been them - stood. There was no mistaking the hungry look on their soft, oval-shaped faces. A hologram sprung up. "Don't move," Tyrekk commanded. "You will not face the same fate as prisoners four and eighteen if all goes to plan." "And there's his get of jail free card, folks: 'If all goes to plan,'" Matt said sarcastically. "You don't have a choice, serf." Tyrekk put emphasis on serf. "But if you want to play the smart-ass game, go right ahead. We'll bring down the forcefield between you and the bitches, and the moment they jump your bones, you'll begin turning into mindless sluts." His eyes narrowed. "It's no loss to us, since we have forty-four other prisoners to play with." Matt's eyes blazed. He strode defiantly into the heart of the shadow cast by the machine. The others did likewise. "Such spirit," Tyrekk commented. "Mobius wasn't exaggerating in his after-action report." His hologram gestured. A fine, golden mist filled the arena. The men jerked slightly as a tickling sensation settled across their bodies. The pleasurable feeling gave way to heat that started out external, but became internal as the aerosol was absorbed, entering their bloodstream and, from there, spreading to the rest of their tissues and organs. Within minutes of exposure, the protective element in the aerosol had inserted itself into their genes. The men felt no ill effects. Up in the lab, Tyrekk nodded approvingly. "It's looking good so far, eternal scientist," he commented, examining status holograms. "Our version of the pathogen has already encoded itself into their genetic matrix - and there's no transformation taking place." "Even more impressive is the fact that its behavior is matching your prediction models," Stanton observed. "Give it another five minutes or so, then release the bitches into their midst." His anticipation grew. "It should be interesting seeing the pathogen go up against another version of itself. We'll find out just how adaptive it really is." *** Matt and the others exchanged looks. Aside from the initial tickling and heat-like sensations, everything seemed to have returned to normal. Then the forcefield between them and Frances and Maci vanished, and normal went out the window. The women - their intensity bordering on fanaticism - made a beeline for the men. "Ungh!" Matt went down beneath Frances' weight as she straddled him, stroking his penis. It swelled instantly, hardening to its full length. Another of the men reacted, trying to push Frances off of her conquest, but she cupped a magnificent breast and squirted hot, clear fluid in his face. He fell back, coughing and splu