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Vegas By The Professor "Have you ever seen anything like it?" The man who asked that over my shoulder was the last person I would have expected to say that. Lt. Matt Henshaw, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, had probably seen more strange things than most people could ever imagine. I didn't answer him, because if I said yes, I'd be compromising classified material, but in fact, this wasn't the first time I'd seen anything like it - or rather pictures of it during my training. The naked body was only a few steps inside the casino perimeter, and perhaps ten feet away from the actual entrance to the casino at the Elysian Hotel. The poor victim had probably not realized that the magic suppressors set up a field a few feet beyond the casino entrance and had run right into the field. If his body hadn't been in the middle of a transformation, he would have been fine, but I estimated he had been changed to the point that he was about one-third female. His internal organs, protected by the transformation spell, were too much in flux to survive the loss of the magic spell. It wasn't a pretty way to die. "Do you recognize him?" Matt asked. "No," I lied. "I thought since he had that class ring in his hand..." I examined the ring. It was a US Air Force Academy ring all right. The star sapphire in the setting reflected the overhead lights in the nearly-deserted casino. I looked at the year on it: 1994 - six years earlier than my own Academy ring proclaimed. "We'll check it out," I told Matt, doing my best to keep the emotion out of my voice. I couldn't let him know who the victim was. As the old joke went, if I told him, I'd have to kill him. Except it wasn't necessarily a joke. Matt sighed. "Okay, we'll bag and tag him. I'll make sure you get a copy of the file - just in case he is one of yours." "I'd appreciate that, Matt," I told him. Matt motioned to the two men from the Clark County Coroner's Office. They nodded back and began to get the body ready to go. "Hold on a minute!" someone called out from the police line in the lobby. I looked up in time to see Andy Wallace, an FBM Special Agent, flashing his ID to the uniformed cops at the perimeter. Leave it to Andy to be late. He was practically the antithesis of Matt. While Matt was always prompt to the scene of a crime, Andy tended to show up late - often after a more junior agent had already done most of the legwork. Matt did a lot of his own grunt work. Maybe that was why he tended to be lean and a little tired appearing while Andy was a little pudgy and unusually energetic for an FBM type. They were usually more laid back, but Andy was a good little puppy dog and wanted to get ahead in the Bureau. Shame he didn't have the brains for it. "The Bureau's already been here," Matt called out to Andy. "Talia left about thirty minutes ago." Andy smoothed his wind-ruffled blond hair with his fingers and gave Matt and me a friendly grin. "I'll just be a minute. Just need to check a few details." Matt nodded at the nervous casino manager waiting back by the craps tables who obviously wanted his casino reopened before the early risers got up to start the day. His casino had been closed since three in the morning - nearly four hours earlier - and given the cost of running the magic suppressors, he could see visions of big money flying right out the doors. Andy turned to me. "What are you doing here, Dan?" I shrugged. "The vic was found with an Air Force Academy ring in his hand. Matt thought he might be somebody missing from the base." "Was he?" I shook my head. "Not as nearly as I can tell." There - I'd lied again. Sorry, Martin, you deserved better than this, I thought. Andy knelt down by the body. "Jeez, this is a nasty one, isn't it?" "Bad way to go," Matt agreed. "What do you figure happened to him?" Andy asked. "We think he was kidnapped and was being changed against his will. Somehow he got away but stumbled too close to the casino entrance where the spell was stopped." Andy nodded and confirmed, "It looks like it." As an FBM Special Agent, I figured Andy had just about seen it all, too. He might not have been the brightest FBM Agent I had ever met, but he was experienced. Matt went on to update Andy with all the information he had already given me. I could have left and gone home to shower and change into a uniform before heading to my office at Nellis Air Force Base, but I decided to stick around and listen to Matt - just in case I heard something I'd missed before.. Matt related again how the victim had rushed naked into the casino, screamed in pain and fell to the floor. Security cameras showed that he had rushed into the Elysian from outside, but no one knew where he had come from. The streets are busy all night in Vegas, but believe it or not, a naked man running down them might easily go unnoticed. At least from the security cameras, it was known he had been running north to south along the Strip, but that didn't help much. Beyond the Elysian to the south was mostly dessert. "You think he came from one of the other casinos?" Andy asked. "Have you checked their security cameras?" Matt gave the FBM agent an exasperated look. "Hey, Andy, do you think you're dealing with amateurs? Of course we checked them. Wherever he came from, it wasn't one of the other casinos." I wasn't learning anything new. "Gotta go, guys," I announced. Matt and Andy both gave me distracted nods. I stepped out of the casino, glad to be in the fresh, clean air of a Nevada morning. It was one of the few perks of living in Vegas. And besides, I hated the stale, smoky air in the casinos. Thank god there were only four of them in town. I got my Mustang and drove back up the Strip, heading for my apartment near Nellis. Things were relatively quiet at that time of day in Las Vegas. I often wondered though, what the town would have been like in a world without magic. I knew it had been billing itself as the Gambling Capital of the World back before Webster and Kline had unwittingly released magic on the world. But of course, once people started developing magical powers, gambling became pretty much impossible. Casinos all over town had closed up. How could you have slots when Pushers could control the mechanisms? The same went for roulette wheels and even dice. Telepathic powers made poker and a host of other card games impossible. The promise of endless prosperity for Las Vegas right after World War II was over practically before it really got off the ground. So Las Vegas tried a different tactic. Overnight it became the Sex and Entertainment Capital of the World. Where casinos once stood, there were now big stage productions with naked or nearly naked girls (and in some cases boys). But they weren't just shows; they were smorgasbords. Customers could enjoy the show and then, for the right amount of money, cull out one of the entertainers for a little after-hours activity. Sure, stuff like that went on all over the world, but what was a business (the second oldest business, according to some pundits) elsewhere had become an absolute art form in Las Vegas. Every kink and fetish on the planet could be found in Vegas, and magic had even created a few new ones. And it was all perfectly legal: Las Vegas needed the income. Then five years ago, somebody developed the magic suppressor. The good news was that suppressors could nullify the effects of magic over an area large enough to house an impressive casino. The bad news was that a magical suppressor installation cost over ten million dollars, plus a substantial sum to keep running every day. Gambling had returned to Las Vegas, but the day of the small casino or restaurant with a few slots in the lobby seemed over for good. Of course, if anyone knew what was being worked on just a short drive from Las Vegas... But that was my job - to make sure no one did find out. Driving through the Main Gate at Nellis AFB was like taking a transporter to another world. Outside the gates, sleaze and sex prevailed. Bars and sex clubs advertised every imaginable sexual experience for the Air Force personnel as they left the base with good government money jingling in their pockets. I understood a couple of the larger clubs had even been casinos back before magic, so the shakedown of our boys in blue had been going on for a long time. Inside the gate though, nearly fourteen thousand men and women worked every day, keeping America safe. Three Air Wings and an assortment of other strategic commands kept the base humming. The desert air seemed somehow cleaner inside the gate. Have I mentioned how much I hated Las Vegas? But this was where I was assigned - or at least to all but a few in the know, it was where I was assigned. Nearly everyone thought I was Captain Daniel R. Benson, attached to Base Security. They would have been surprised to learn that not only was that not my real assignment, but it wasn't even my real name. Even though I was early, several of my people were already at their desks. TSgt Campbell looked up from his desk. Unlike me, he really was Base Security full-time. To him, I was just another security officer. He looked up at me, adjusting his glasses through the graying hair at his temples. "Good morning, Captain. Colonel Edwards asked you to see him as soon as you got in." Colonel Edwards - one of the few in the know - and I had spoken during the night. I had planned on seeing him right away, and he knew it, but issuing the requirement to see him through my section made it look normal - just another routine security matter to be discussed with the boss. "I'm on my way," I replied, taking a few seconds to drop my cover and my briefcase before walking down the corridor to Colonel Edwards' office. Colonel Edwards was in charge of all security on the base. He was two pay grades over the normal occupant of that post, and it was assumed by just about everyone at Nellis that he was a washed-up officer, his career stymied, on a twilight tour - the tour just before retirement. All the other senior officers from the Base Commander through the Wing Commanders left him alone. Ambitious officers on their way up usually avoided the ones seen as losers in the race for flag rank - their failure just might rub off. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Like me, Colonel Edwards was a cipher - neither his assignment nor his name were real. Oh, he was really my commanding officer alright, but his command was known (in the rare places where the name was even spoken) as Security Group Talon. As for his career, the stars of a brigadier general were already approved for him under his real name. The various officers on the base who were trying so hard to associate with the real winners would have done well to be noted by "Colonel Edwards," if only they had known who he really was. I briskly entered his office, closed the door, and snapped off a crisp salute. I had worked for Colonel Edwards for three years now, and although we were relatively close, I realized he was a stickler for military protocol, hence the salute. "At ease, Captain," he told me from behind his desk after returning the salute and motioning me to a chair. When I was seated, he asked, "You're sure it was Ralston?" "Yes, sir," I replied. "The changes had already started, but there's no doubt that it was him. I even examined his class ring." "Damn!" "Yes, sir." Major Martin Ralston was one of Talon's top agents. He had been successfully infiltrating operations hostile to the United States for ten years. His magical talent was as a Persuader. It was an unusual talent, considered secondary by magical scientists. Unlike Whisperers, who could force unsuspecting victims to do their exact bidding, Persuaders were like con men - they could make you more willing to believe you were who they said they were - a perfect talent for infiltration. And infiltration had been Major Ralston's assignment. He had been placed in Las Vegas masquerading as a potential weapons technology buyer. We had been investigating a security breach for months - one that could potentially do great damage to our country. Major Ralston had uncovered a conduit right here in Las Vegas and had been trying to nail down all the involved parties. The only thing we had been able to pin down is that one of the four city casinos was probably involved. "Do we know which of the casinos is the most likely suspect?" the colonel asked. I shook my head. "No, Major Ralston's last drop said he was going to check out something at the Versailles, but that was three days ago." The colonel snorted. "That would make sense. That bastard Rothman who runs the Versailles is rumored to like changing anyone who crosses him into a chorus girl and whoring them out. Ralston must have crossed him and been captured. It looks as if Rothman planned to change him into one of his little whores. If he hadn't gotten free before the transformation was completed, we'd have never known." "Yes, sir." I agreed with the colonel, and I realized why he was so frustrated. Rothman was a crook and an ass, but without ironclad evidence, he was bullet proof. Although he didn't own the Versailles, he ran it for a group that was said to secretly involve several powerful men - including a US Senator and a former state governor. He had been one of the men responsible for the magical suppressors sprouting up around Las Vegas. No, he hadn't invented them; instead, he had bought them from the French, who had built them with technology stolen from us. We had cooked them up at Area 51. Rothman was believed to be behind the theft of that technology - although, of course, no one had been able to prove it. "We could have the Vegas police bring him in for questioning," I suggested. Colonel Edwards shook his head. "What good would that do? You told me earlier that Major Ralston had not been seen coming out of any of the casinos, so there's nothing to connect his capture to Rothman. Besides, he owns the Las Vegas police." "Lt. Henshaw seems like a good cop," I pointed out. "If you say so," my boss allowed grudgingly. "Even if they brought him in, he'd be out the minute his lawyer showed up." I had to admit to myself that he was right about that. As I said... bulletproof. "So what can we do, sir?" The colonel's eyes bored into mine. "Get some hard evidence on this Rothman. I don't care how you get it. Use this Henshaw if you want, and coordinate with the FBM. But don't let any of them know what this is about." "That will probably stifle the investigation," I pointed out. Colonel Edwards drilled me with his gray eyes. "Captain, no one outside Talon is to know anything about the wand. Is that clear?" I knew better than to argue. I rose and saluted again. "Yes, sir." I started to walk out, but Colonel Edwards called me back. "Mike..." he began, using my real name. I turned. "Yes, sir?" "The wand is due for a test at Area 51 within the next three or four weeks. If we're right, and there is an information leak regarding the project, Rothman may be behind it, and he needs to be stopped. If anyone gets their hands on the wand, there'll be hell to pay." Back in my own office, I spent the next fifteen minutes just staring into space. I knew we were close on tests of the wand, but hadn't realized just how close. Protecting any knowledge of its existence was our highest priority, and already, it had cost one of our number his life. Personally, I hoped the wand didn't work. Most of the world had shied away from us back when Webster and Kline had unwittingly released magic on an unsuspecting world, but at least most of the talents had been limited. And over time, everyone outside North America realized that a lot of magical talents were reduced as Americans, Canadians, and Mexicans most affected by magic traveled to Europe and Asia and beyond. Then along came magic suppressors - expensive, but at least foreign governments and businesses could install them and be assured of safety from magical eavesdropping or interference. But now, potentially at least, there was the wand... The wand was literally that - it looked like something the Good Witch of the North might carry around, and it made magical power both stronger and infinitely portable. Slip a wand in your suitcase and your magic would be stronger in Paris or Moscow than it would without the wand back home in Pittsburgh or Dallas - at least ten times as strong if the math proved right. And if used in North America, where magic was strongest, the power of a spell would be almost incalculably higher. It was the atomic bomb of magic. That's just what we needed, I thought to myself, more amateurs with enhanced magical powers. Even my own weak Pyro powers, good mostly for starting fires at barbeques without lighter fluid, would be strong enough to torch entire buildings with the wand in my hand. That sort of power wasn't good for anyone. Like my power, too many magical abilities that were relatively benign would become downright lethal. Of course, the government had no intention of unveiling the wand to the general public, but then again, they hadn't intended to release the suppressor technology either, but Rothman and his fellow casino owners had glommed onto it somehow. "Sir?" I looked up to see one of my administrative people at the door. She looked hesitant to disturb my reverie, but as upset as I was getting with the whole idea of the wand, I was just as happy to be interrupted. "Yes?" "There's a Lt Henshaw from LVMPD at the front gate. Shall I have him escorted in?' "By all means." Maybe Matt had something to get me out of my gloomy mood. He did - sort of. When Matt came into my office, he looked like he hadn't taken a break since I had seen him early that morning. He badly needed a shave, and his sport coat looked as if someone had driven over it a few times - with him in it. As for his tie... well, he might as well not have worn one. It was loose around his neck and looked like it was ready to melt. In spite of his appearance, he was upbeat as he tossed a file on my desk. "We got it figured out," he announced proudly. "It was Rothman." I looked up without opening the folder. "You sure?" He nodded. "Look through the file. There's pictures of your boy running down the strip from the direction of the Versailles." I thumbed through the pictures. It looked like Colonel Edwards had been right on the money. The pictures weren't great, but how good did they have to be? All of them showed a naked person running through the sparse early morning tourists on the strip, and the first one in the series clearly showed him running near the entrance of the Versailles. "Do you have any shots of him actually coming out of the Versailles?" I asked. Matt shook his head. "No, but the security cameras around there glitched for a few minutes." That wasn't good. "So you're going to arrest Rothman?" I asked. Matt plopped down in my uncomfortable government-issue guest chair. "Yeah, soon. We just want to put together a few details so we have Rothman dead to rights. If we don't have everything put together right, his lawyers will have him sprung before the ink is dry on his arrest papers." That was probably true, I realized. Rothman covered his tracks pretty well. At the moment, all Matt really had was a record of someone running from the vicinity of the Versailles in the process of being transformed. There was nothing, other than the open speculation about where Rothman got his girls, that could tie him to this case. "His lawyers will argue that you don't have conclusive proof that the vic came out of the Versailles," I noted. "Yeah," Matt agreed, "but it looks pretty clear that he was coming out of there." "So when will it go down?" I asked casually. Matt shrugged. "Probably not until tomorrow. The DA wants to check everything over before we make the bust. You want to come with when we do?" I shook my head. I didn't want to seem too interested in the case or Matt would wonder what was up. I wanted him to continue to think that we were just mildly interested parties because of the Academy ring. Matt studied my expression. Like most detectives, his power was psychic - in his case, a very low-level telepathic ability, but not enough to make him a full-fledged Teep, but enough to get a decent read from an untrained mind. Fortunately mine was well-disciplined, so there wasn't much for him to see. The Air Force spends a small fortune training Talon agents to discipline their minds against magical mental encroachment. I could see Matt's frustration. He hadn't been able to sense anything from my mind. So he tried the direct path. "Ever find out who our vic is?" "Not a clue," I responded smoothly - I'd had lots of practice when it cam to giving convincing lies. "We're not really looking, though. There's no evidence he was Air Force - except for the ring." Matt grunted. As convincing as I had tried to be, I don't think he believed me. He got up and tried unsuccessfully to neat up his wilted tie. "I'll call you when we've got Rothman," he promised. "Thanks." Rothman was in and out of police custody in less time than it took a sucker to lose all his cash in the Versailles casino. Matt didn't even have to call, because I saw it all the next day on TV. In the news report, I could see Matt and a couple of his people in the background, while Rothman's attorneys did their spin for the media. Rothman himself stood behind them, a smug little smile on his pudgy face. I wasn't surprised. Then the station interviewed Andy Wallace to get the FBM slant on the story. It seemed, according to Andy, as if Matt's team had blown the investigation, and the FBM was on the case. Matt wasn't going to be very happy with Andy about that. Neither was I. That was going to produce some problems for me. Sure, we were both Federal agencies, but our agendas were significantly different, especially when you took into account that Andy knew nothing of Security Group Talon or my real mission. He would have official jurisdiction on the case, since it appeared a magical felony had occurred. I had no way of asserting my authority (which was actually higher than his) without betraying the National Magical Security Act, as well as a few other choice Federal laws. In other words, Major Ralston's name and mission couldn't be brought into the forefront. If it was, the general public would learn of the wand and all hell would really break loose. There was only one thing to do: call Andy and see if I could work with him. I wasn't very hopeful, though. Andy, like most FBM Special Agents, didn't play well with others. Hell, he didn't even play well with his own people. "I've been expecting your call," Andy sighed when I was put through. "And the answer is no. This is our case, Dan. The crime didn't happen on Air Force grounds. According to Nellis, nobody's missing from the base. And even if the vic was former Air Force, this doesn't have anything to do with you." "I just want to help if I can," I replied disarmingly. "Things slow out at the base?" "A little." If you didn't count the case I couldn't tell him anything about. "Then just relax," he suggested. "Get in some golf, or drop a few bucks on the Strip." He hung up, leaving me on the outside looking in. There was nothing to do then but see my boss and try to convince him to open the kimono for the FBM. But I knew what his answer was going to be. "No," he said bluntly once I was seated in his office. He wasn't in a very good mood. He had just gotten back from identifying Major Ralston's body, so I couldn't blame him. "I don't see how I can proceed without compromising the group," I pointed out. Colonel Edwards thought about that for a minute. At last, he said, "Maybe there is a way..." I perked up at that. "What, sir?" "Maybe you should take Andy up on his suggestion," the colonel began. "I think you should hit the casinos and see what you can learn - especially at the Versailles." "But they know me in all the casinos," I pointed out. He smiled and shook his head. "We can change that. All we need to do is change your appearance a little." "You mean magically?" I tried to clarify nervously. I didn't like where this conversation was going. "You're going to call in a Shifter?" The colonel shook his head. "No, this won't be complicated enough to require flying in a Shifter." Shifters were fairly rare. They could turn themselves or other into different men in a matter of minutes. As a result, all Shifters were required to work for the government. Their powers were considered too dangerous to be unregulated. "Our local techs will be able to do everything we need done." "So we're not talking about big changes...?" "That's right; nothing too big," he nodded. "It's not that bad. I've been changed a couple of times in my career. This will just be a few easy spells done by our techs. We can just make a few minor changes, and then change you right back after the mission." He was right. It wasn't that big a deal. Males could be changed from identity to identity with impunity. Something about the Y chromosome allowed it to happen. A man could be tall, thin and Caucasian and in just a couple of hours made to look short, dumpy and Afro-American by a true Shifter. Lesser techs could change you, but not so radically. . That didn't mean I liked the idea. Even a simpler process wasn't without some risks. Every now and then, the change back didn't work right. Deformities and even in rare instances deaths were real risks. Colonel Edwards was an Empath, so he quickly added, "Mike, complications are very rare - you know that. Usually, the problems only occur when a Shifter is used. You're safer getting altered this way than you are flying from here to Los Angeles." I realized there was no way around it. After all, it was my job. That's why the Air Force paid me the little bucks. And so by nightfall, I wasn't exactly feeling like myself. Once the techs got done with me, I had a broader face, darker hair complete with a receding hairline, a moustache of the same color, and a nondescript look that would allow me to blend in with all the tourists from Las Penis, Texas, or some other dump. "Do I really have to wear the damned aloha shirt?" I growled as they dressed me in khaki shorts and sneakers. "You're right," Colonel Edwards agreed, inspecting me with a certain amount of perverse glee. He looked over at one of the techs. "That might stand out too much. Just give him that tan polo shirt so he'll blend in more." "Blend in? I'll disappear," I remarked, but not unpleasantly. That was, after all, the idea, wasn't it? I could wander around the casinos unnoticed, so long as I behaved myself. "Okay," I added. "What exactly am I looking for?" "NSA reported that an arms dealer is interested in the wand. That dealer is willing to pay an obscene amount of money for it. Whoever is leaking the info on the wand at 51 has a go-between who's supposed to be meeting with the dealer this week." "And Rothman is the go-between," I surmised. The colonel nodded. "We're pretty sure he is. All of Ralston's intel before he was killed supported that. Of course, we are also watching the other casinos as well, just in case." The colonel motioned to a non-com who whipped out a portfolio and opened it crisply on the desk in front of me. Inside were the pictures of about twenty men - and women. They ran the gamut from scruffy-looking, nondescript men of every imaginable ethnicity to a couple of absolutely stunning women, one an upscale blonde and the other an African-American woman who looked like a young Tina Turner. "I hope I see one of them," I commented pointing at the two beauties. "No you don't," Colonel Edwards told me. "The black woman is Clarice Burrows. She's an Omni with several magical powers - some of which, if you read her file there, have yet to be identified. As for the blonde... that's Dominique Marceau. She caught one of her lieutenants skimming from her a few years ago and had him changed into a woman with a sex drive so strong that the rumor is she literally fucked herself to death." "That sounds like bull to me," I scoffed. "Maybe," he allowed, "but take my word for it - she's as dangerous as a rattlesnake. She may even be the worst of the lot." I nodded and began a detailed study of the file. Worst - best - either way, it didn't matter. Any of the dealers in the file would have cheerfully sold their own grandmothers and thrown in free delivery if the price was right. It might seem that memorizing the faces of twenty potential dealers was hard, but when your life might depend on it, it got a little easier. So the mission was in place. I would spend my days and nights wandering around the casinos, looking for suspicious behavior that our in-place agents at those casinos might have missed. Of course, the in-place security agents were not Talon; very few of us were. Still, they had been given orders to look for the same people Talon sought, but not why. As plans went, it wasn't much to go on, but it was all we had. I started the first evening at the Elysian. I had booked a room there as well. Since Ralston had run into the Elysian, it seemed the least likely of the four casinos to be involved. I planned to spend a couple of hours there before moving on to the Tropicana, London Tower, and finally our most likely suspect, the Versailles. So why didn't I start at the most likely spot? The answer was simple: orders. Colonel Edwards wanted to make sure we hadn't missed anything at the other three casinos before moving in on our prime suspect. I didn't really agree, but orders were orders. Frankly, the whole thing was something of a fool's errand as far as I was concerned. The likelihood that one of the arms dealers would be meandering through the public areas of any of the casino hotels was pretty small, and my chances of spotting any of them were even smaller. My best chance - and it was pretty slim also - was to get at one of the hotel terminals without being spotted and find out if one of them was registered. Even if one of them was registered, I realized, it was likely he - or she - was not registered under a true name. We knew some of their aliases, but they could always have come up with a new one. Besides, one of the male ones could be disguised magically just as I was, in addition to having a new alias. And even the women could be disguised the old-fashioned way - wig, different makeup, and so on. But what else could we do? I kept reminding myself. With Ralston dead, we were back at square one. There was nothing to do but wander around and hope that we tripped over something worthwhile - it was the old "even a blind chicken can sometimes find corn" philosophy. I made short work of the Elysian - there was nothing suspicious and midweek business was a little slow - and moved on to the Trop. It was the only survivor of the pre-magic era. It had survived by the skin of its teeth and was owned by some New York company. As I expected, I spotted no one. Things there were even slower than at the Elysian. It seemed that in spite of the Chamber of Commerce's optimistic talk, gambling had sort of left the American mainstream after Webster and Kline. The next night, I tried London Tower, but no one worth talking about was there, either. At least a couple of decent stage shows there seemed to be packing them in, but that was about it. I did manage a look at the hotel registrations, though. Don't ask how. That's classified. Let's just say the government has devices capable of tapping most everyday computers. It's a little bit science and a little bit magic, but that's as much as I can say. Finally, about ten that evening, I was in the casino at the Versailles. I planned to make a night of it there. Although I still had little hope of success, the Versailles was the most likely suspect. It doesn't take much imagination to picture the Versailles, even if you've never been there. Gaudy imitation crystal chandeliers, crappy gold paint, and lots of phony French Provincial furnishings were everywhere. Word was that Rothman went to France just before deciding to build the casino on a mission to buy his magic suppressors and was impressed with what he saw. He might be ruthless and crafty, I thought, but that didn't mean he had good taste. He was on the casino floor for much of the night, but none of our suspect dealers were in evidence. Since he was somewhat overweight, he seemed to almost lumber across the casino floor. His only companion was Frieda, his Nordic-looking bodyguard. Despite his weight, Rothman cheerfully made the rounds, chomping on an expensive cigar and nodding to the big losers, the chandelier lights reflecting off his hairless head. Frieda, on the other hand, watched for enemies everywhere, her nearly-white blond hair, swinging back and forth, just barely staying out of her ice-blue eyes. About midnight, I was about to give up when a new patron caught my eye. No, it wasn't one of the arms dealers; I should have been so lucky. Instead it was someone I knew well. Andy Wallace sauntered into the casino. He was dressed casually, so I figured he was off duty. Even FBM agents had to have a personal life, I guessed. He just wandered around for awhile, dropping a dollar or two in the slots here and there - all very innocent. Or at least it was until I realized he was slowly but surely approaching Rothman. He whispered something to Rothman as he passed him. Most people probably wouldn't have even noticed, but I wasn't most people. Rothman looked surprised for a moment, then looked around the casino as if looking for someone. He then whispered something to Frieda. She nodded and walked quickly to the casino exit. His message delivered, Andy casually left the casino. So Andy was dirty, I thought. Well, it wasn't the first time. Las Vegas has that effect on people. It's just that I had always thought the FBM guys were pretty straight arrows. Unfortunately, while Andy might have incriminated himself, Rothman had done nothing wrong that evening. This hanging around the casinos on the hope of catching a glimpse of one of the arms dealers simply wasn't working. I decided to go back to my hotel room, get a decent night's sleep, and contact the colonel the next morning. This stakeout was getting us nowhere. I supposed I had let down my guard. I was genuinely surprised as I left the casino and one of the security men sidled up next to me. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely, showing me his ID. "Could I see you for a moment?" The security man was pretty big, but I think I could have taken him. Of course, that was if he lacked any magical powers. And even if I could have taken him, it didn't take a Talon agent to see two other beefy security men watching to see what I might do next. So I shrugged and said, "Yeah, no problem. What's this all about?" "Just follow me, please, sir," was his reply. He turned around, expecting me to follow him. Since the other two security goons fell in behind me, I sort of had to do it. I wasn't really too worried. I suspected Andy had tipped Rothman off that there was a government agent in the casino, but so what? I didn't think they were certain that I was the one they were after, and even if they were, I hadn't seen anything. Odds seemed good that they'd just lean on me for a little while and let me go. All I had to do was keep my cool. Unfortunately I had guessed wrong. Instead of a small, nondescript interrogation room, I found myself in the spacious office of none other than Leo Rothman. He was situated behind a desk half the size of my entire office, leaning back in an expensive leather chair while Frieda stood at his side, smirking at me. "Good evening, Captain Benson," he said cheerfully. My heart skipped a beat or two, but I decided to bluff. "Sorry? I don't know a Captain Benson..." He shrugged. "I suspect Benson isn't really your name anyway, is it?" "Sir," I went on, "I'm Fred Wilkerson. It says so right on my driver's license. I'd be glad to show you..." "I'm sure it does," he chuckled. "But did you know, Captain Benson, that magical changes to the human body are detectable for up to seventy-two hours?" Actually, I did, but the talent to detect them was rare. Knowledge of the talent outside classified circles was even rarer. It seemed there were more security leaks than we had realized. "One of my men here," he continued, nodding at the security man who had shown me his ID, "has such a talent." He nodded for the men to leave, then motioned at a comfortable chair in front of his desk. "Although he only verified what we already knew. You see, you were spotted the minute you entered the casino." That meant Rothman might not have been talking to Andy about me, since he already knew what I looked like. So what had he been talking with him about? "I don't know what you're talking about," I said. It even sounded lame to me, but what else could I do? "Please, Captain, let's dispense with the games. I know who you are and why you're here. What I don't know is who is trying to set me up." I sat down. "Set you up?" He nodded. "I didn't have anything to do with that unusual death at the Elysian the other night, but someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it appear that I did, even tampering with my security cameras somehow to deprive me of visual proof of my innocence." He was right. It was time to lay down our cards. I dropped any pretense of ignorance. "And why should I believe you?" "Because, Captain," he replied menacingly as he leaned forward, "if I had been responsible for transforming that poor unfortunate the other evening, he would not have gotten away." Strangely enough, I tended to believe him. But I wasn't ready to say it just yet. "And this all has to do with the wand, doesn't it, Captain?" That was more like it. So he was involved in the attempt to get the wand. "Who are you selling the wand to, Rothman?" I asked in response. To my surprise, he laughed, and Frieda even smiled, too. "I have nothing to do with the wand," he told me. "Of course, I know about it. You foolish intelligence agents think you can keep secrets in a time where magic exists. I would say that everyone in Las Vegas who has any connections at all knows at least of the existence of the wand. Frankly, it's too hot a property to interest me, but I know you and your superiors would never believe that." He was right about that. No matter what happened tonight, he would remain our prime suspect. He had the contacts and the resources to acquire the wand and sell it to the highest bidder. He was also the most ruthless of all the casino bosses. "In any case," he continued, "I've made arrangements to get your people to back off my operation." He nodded as Frieda, who nodded back and walked over to the door. When she opened it, two men entered. One was wearing a suit, but he didn't look like Rothman's goons. Instead he was slight and wore glasses. He looked familiar, and in a moment, I recognized him. He was one of the techs from the base who had transformed my features for this assignment. So maybe Rothman didn't have anything to do with the sale of the wand, but that didn't mean he didn't have resources at Nellis. I should have realized. If he could have an FBM agent on the payroll, why not an Air Force techie? The other man was about my height and weight and... He looked enough like me to be my brother. "Mayfield here," Rothman explained, pointing at my would-be sibling, "is being transformed into you. As you can see, he's not quite there yet, but he will be before you're missed." That didn't sound good at all. "Missed" undoubtedly meant "disappeared." Rothman's beady eyes twinkled. "I see you understand, Captain. Yes, you'll be replaced, just as we've already replaced your FBM friend. See? You didn't even know that, did you? Under magical interrogation, we'll get all the information about you that we need to replace you, and then with you and the FBM in our employ, we'll be able to move your investigation in a different direction." I was more worried that I would be moved in a different direction as well. I fully expected to be killed. I should have been so lucky. Well, I had expected to be taken to an interrogation room first thing. When it hadn't happened, I hadn't been disappointed at all. Now though, my initial expectations were being met - in spades. Frieda led the way, talking to me over her shoulder in that soft, sexy accent so many Scandinavian girls seem to have. Somehow though, being practically dragged by two bozos each about the size of a small SUV sort of made the accent seem more menacing than sexy. "I think we have an interesting surprise for you," she told me as we walked down a poorly-lit, industrial corridor somewhere beneath the Versailles. "I'm sure your training has included resisting magical interrogations..." She was right about that. "...but I don't think you'll be able to resist Alex. Are you familiar, Captain, with the term 'Ripper'?" My blood ran cold. If I had been the simple security officer they thought I was, I wouldn't have had the foggiest notion what a Ripper was. It was a term reserved for the intelligence community, and referred to a type of magical power that was, fortunately, extremely rare. While the knowledge about Slavers was working its way slowly but surely into the minds of the general public, Rippers were still a big secret. A Ripper could pull information out of a person's mind like a gardener pulls weeds. Like a weed, the information sometimes "grew back", but not for some time. Even then, the Ripped thoughts would usually be returned only to the subconscious. Few Ripped people ever got their memories back in any usable fashion. It was thought that the more disciplined a person's mind was, the greater the chance of recovering from a Ripper's intrusions, but no one knew for sure. How do you measure a "disciplined" mind anyhow? Then the Ripper could transfer that information directly into the mind of another person. It was a tricky process, though. Pull too much information and transfer it and you ran the risk of making the recipient into a mental duplicate of the victim - not usually a desired result. Instead the successful Ripper would blend the information into the recipient's mind, so that the individual retained his original mind and loyalties, but could draw upon the new data whenever needed. I don't want to go through all the details. Actually, I couldn't if I wanted to. Those memories were so close to the surface of my mind that their removal was apparently permanent. The Ripper was... well, I don't even remember what he (or she) looked like. That information was ripped completely out of my head. I just remember sitting in an over-lit room looking into the eyes of... someone. I do remember my duplicate blurting out, "Holy shit; he's Talon!" But soon after that, everything receded into a dreamlike state. I think I was walked back to a cell where I fell down on an uncomfortable cot and dropped into a troubled sleep. I'm not sure when I awoke. It could have been an hour later or a day. With effort, I could remember who I was. I was a man named Mike... Mike... My last name eluded me. I remembered that I once wore a uniform of some sort. Was I military? Yeah, I thought so. Air Force, I thought, but I wasn't really sure. So why was I in a cell? That was obviously what it was. There were white cinderblock walls, a metal door with a slot and a peephole in it, a cot, a toilet and sink in one corner, and strangely enough, a full-length mirror. I rose up from the cot, holding my head. I needed a couple of aspirin in the worst way. Yeah, I vaguely remembered being mentally assaulted by the Ripper, and I knew somehow that my head would probably be throbbing for at least another day, no matter how many aspirin I took. It took me a moment to clear my head enough to recognize that I was completely naked. I had a couple of bruises on my arms, too, so apparently I hadn't been passively thrust into the cell. My entire body ached a little as well, as if something wasn't quite right. Where was I? I asked myself as I sat there on the edge of the cot rubbing my temples. I didn't think I was in jail. As far as I knew, jailers didn't take away all of their prisoners' clothes on a regular basis. Some of what had happened to me began to sift back into my memories. Slowly but surely, I began to remember who I was and what my assignment had been, but it was very spotty. Faces, names, conversations, situation, were all there (or at least I thought they were all there), but they were jumbled, like dreams. I finally got up and walked over to the mirror. At least my beard stubble might be an indication of how long I had been out cold in the cell. Looking at my image, I thought it looked about normal, but... Weren't my eyes supposed to be blue? I distinctly remembered having blue eyes, but the eyes which stared back at me were brown - very, very brown. Had they been made brown when I was given my disguise? I couldn't remember. Come to think of it, my hair had been lighter in color, too, even with my disguise - now it was darker than I remembered, and a little too long for an Air Force officer. As for the color of my hair, if it was getting darker, wouldn't the same be true of my beard? Instead of my fairly light beard, even a few hours in captivity should have produced a five o'clock shadow worthy of former Vice President Richard Nixon. But no, there was no five o'clock shadow. As I ran my hand along one cheek, I found there was no stubble at all. If it hadn't been what the Ripper had done to me, I would have already known what was happening to me. As it was, my recollection of meeting Rothman slowly returned, and with it, my memories regarding what my boss had said about him: anyone who crossed him might find himself changed into a woman - a chorus girl and whore, no less. I looked again at my image, panic arising within me. Was I being changed into a woman? It was too early to tell, but something was happening to me, and whatever it was, I didn't think I was going to like it. In another few hours, I had my answer. I had napped, my body tired from its ordeal, and probably exhausted from trying to resist what was being done to me. I had been fed once - a halfway decent meal, no less, thrust silently through the slot in the door. Although I wasn't hungry enough to eat much of it; my entire digestive system seemed to be in an uproar. After the meal, I looked in the mirror again. I wasn't entirely surprised with what I saw. My hair had continued to darken until it was nearly black, and it had grown perhaps another inch or two. The contrast against my natural skin would have been significant, but that, too, had darkened. It was now more olive than usual, and my nipples were swollen and darker still. My memories were still scrambled and incomplete, but I wasn't so off balance that I couldn't understand what was happening to me. I seemed to remember a man - heavy-set and hairless... smoking a cigar. He did this sort of thing to his enemies, didn't he? Was that what Rothman looked like? Was I his enemy? I wasn't sure. I was, however, sure that I was being turned into a girl. I was taking it all fairly calmly, I congratulated myself, considering that something from my Ripped memories told me that once the process of magical sexual change into a woman had begun, there would be absolutely no going back. I suppose being Ripped had robbed me of my sense of identity. As my memories returned - if my memories returned -I would probably become more upset at what was being done to me. Not that I wasn't already upset - I was, but I was still in control. I wasn't lying on the floor, bemoaning the approaching loss of my manhood. The calmness seemed almost a learned trait, as if there was something I had been taught over time that allowed me to suppress consternation over what was being done to me - especially if there was nothing I could do to prevent it. After all, I was still alive. If my captors had wanted me dead, I was sure they had had ample time to kill me. So I was alive and likely to remain so for the time being. Where there is life, there is hope, some eternal optimist once said. That being said, my mental identity was that of a male. The idea of having my sexuality literally turned inside out wasn't a pleasant one. As a girl, I would undoubtedly be smaller and weaker. I would also probably be more a victim of my own emotions. I know that sounds very sexist, but in my experience, women were more ruled by emotions than men. These were not traits that would serve me well - I was certain of that. I know, I know. I obviously saw my impending change of sex as a bad thing. Being a woman, in my mind, meant I would be significantly less than I was as a man. That was just the way I saw it. If you don't like it, sue me. But what sort of a woman would I be? It was too early to tell, but I was certainly not being turned into a blonde. More than likely, my skin would continue to darken, until I was ethnically either Mediterranean or African-American. Oriental wasn't entirely out of the question either, although I had noticed no change in the shape of my eyes. I still had my dinner plate - a flimsy disposable one. I tore off a small corner of the plate and jammed it as near to head high as I could manage into the narrow gap between the mirror and the frame. That would give me a reference point for how much height I had lost. I couldn't say why, but it seemed to me as if this information might be important. It made me wonder once again who I had been in my male life. Whoever I had been, I must have been very self-disciplined. Perhaps rather than a military officer, I had been a police officer, or some other position in law enforcement. I resolved to hold on to as much of my old identity as possible, and that meant maintaining my self-control. I disposed of the plate and the remaining food, shoving them back through the slot in the door. Then I took a piss, grimly realizing it was probably one of the last times I would do so standing up. That out of the way, I sat on the floor, trying to ignore its hardness and coldness. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes in meditation - a technique I seemed to know well. Dropping myself into a mild trance, I tried to start putting my memories back together. I seemed to remember from my training that Ripped memories are easier to bring back if the Ripee remains calm and mentally disciplined.. Memories are contained in more than one part of the human mind. That's why victims of serious head injuries often get back lost memories over time. The mind somehow sorts archived memories back into the Ripped slots unless disturbed by panic. The technique worked quite well, and by what I estimated to be that evening, I remembered my assignment and who I worked for, although my personal memories were still vague. I supposed it was because the more recent memories were stronger, while memories of my personal life stretched back over perhaps thirty years (I wasn't too sure of my age, either). I remembered being some sort of military security man. My job required me to be a good fighter with a keen, steady mind. No wonder I was already regretting my loss of strength and size, and concern that as a woman, my emotional side would affect my reasoning abilities. Of course, memories of being a man were further hampered by what was happening to my body. I knew from somewhere (probably my training again) that sex-change spells tended to take two days to a week to accomplish. The difference was cost. Cheap spells took a long time to complete themselves, while expensive ones acted quickly. From my appearance just before I went to sleep on the cot, this one was designed to work quickly. A final evening glance in the mirror showed a boyish but undeniably feminine shape. I now had small breasts, with nipples pushing outward. I was probably about as developed as the typical thirteen year old girl. My waist was indented, and my hips had flared outward. Except for my head and a patch of dark, curly hair nesting my shrinking penis, I was hairless. When I stood up against the mirror, I could also see that I was shorter by perhaps three inches from when I had placed the marker in the frame. Of course, I had probably already shrunk down some before I had marked my height by the mirror, so say I had been asleep for at least as long as I had been awake, that meant I had lost around six inches in height. How tall had I been before all of this started? I seemed to remember being perhaps six three or so. Tired from the stress of transformation, I flopped down onto the cot. I didn't really want to sleep, for I knew that the biggest changes often came when the body was at rest. However, there was no avoiding it, and in a few minutes, I was fast asleep. The next morning (or at least I assumed it was morning), I was awakened by something tickling my nose and cheek. My mind was still muddled - both by sleep and by the memories which had been Ripped out of my head. It took me a few moments just lying there, batting at what I thought to be an insect, before I woke up completely. To my dismay, I realized that what had been tickling me were strands of long, nearly black hair. I arose from the cot, nearly falling out to the floor as a ponderous weight on my chest shifted suddenly. It was so unexpected that even the flow of long hair over my shoulders and down my back went almost unnoticed. Almost. Looking down at my chest was like gazing down a long, narrow canyon. I had resigned myself to waking up with female breasts, but nothing had prepared me for this sight. Inches form my face were two golden brown hills, crested with even darker brown nipples which rose up when exposed to the cold air and sudden movement. Just how big was I? I swung myself off the cot - carefully, mind you, since my entire sense of balance had been altered. I could feel flesh pooling in my hips and ass, and the two large breasts on my chest got even more pronounced as they shifted into standing mode... and I do mean standing. I hurried over to the mirror, feeling my hips guide my steps more one in front of the other than I would have done as a man. Once in front of the mirror, I gasped, hearing the sound of my voice for the very first time. I couldn't help but think that the gasp sounded almost like a woman's voice when being penetrated. It was a bedroom voice. Before me stood one of the most exotic women I had ever seen. She - I, I supposed now - was fairly tall for a woman. Checking the marker I had placed on the mirror frame, I thought I must be about five-five or so. My figure was a little exaggerated, but only a little. Although my breasts felt monstrous to me, I could see that they were roughly proportional to the rest of my body. My legs were slender but actually a little muscular, as if strengthened by running or dancing. My arms were slender and lacked the muscular definition I had enjoyed as a man. I doubted if I could pick up twenty pounds without straining. As for my skin, it was smooth and brown, and coupled with my long, almost black hair and deep brown eyes, I was a perfect candidate for Miss Mexico. I didn't get much of a chance to continue the visual exploration of my new body, for at that moment, the cell door opened. I assumed I had been under observation. I'm sure more than one guard had had to excuse himself to go to the restroom and whack off at the sight of me. I turned away from the mirror to face a blonde woman who was appraising me as diligently as any man would have. After a moment of searching through my fuzzy memory, I recognized her as Rothman's bodyguard, Frieda. I thought for a moment about trying to run past her until I noticed two goons standing just outside the door. "My, you turned out very nicely," she commented, favoring me with a cold Nordic smile. I said nothing. I knew my voice would be sweet and feminine, so any threats I made would be laughable, considering the body I now wore - and would wear for the rest of my life. "I thought you'd like to know that your... replacement has taken over for you with no problems. You won't have to worry about being missed." No, I wouldn't be, I realized. I had no family still living that I was aware of. It was one of the requirements for being in Talon. Yes, I had remembered the name Talon. My boss, Colonel Edwards was the name I seemed to remember, probably knew me better than anyone else, but with the Ripped memories now ensconced in my duplicate's head, he was not likely to be any the wiser. "Now," she went on, "would you like to know what we have planned for you?" She didn't wait for me to reply - I wouldn't have in any case - so she went on, "As you've probably already been briefed on, my employer - our employer now - has a particular interest in showgirls. You'll be joining his International Review over in the Marseilles Room." I vaguely remembered the show. It consisted of about thirty women from an equal number of foreign countries in sort of a Las Vegas version of the Miss World pageants. Of course, there were important differences. In the Miss World pageant, I was pretty sure the girls weren't whored out after the show. "I can't dance," I pointed out. Sure enough, my voice was all sweet and girly. For emphasis, I added, "And I don't plan on learning how." Frieda laughed. "Oh, that's not going to be a problem. Do you remember Alex?" I must have looked puzzled. Who was Alex? It seemed as if I should know who he was... "Oh that's right," Frieda grinned maliciously. "Alex always removes all traces of his identity after he's finished Ripping. But you'll meet him again, dear. He has a whole new life planned for you - one in which your dancing skills will be just fine." Okay, now I was frightened. It was bad enough to be turned into a buxom Hispanic girl probably ten years younger than I had been as a man, but it was quite another thing to be manipulated by a Ripper. I knew what could be done - and probably would be done - to me. A talented Ripper could pull memories out of one person and overlay them over another person, of course. He had already done that with my doppelganger. But with my duplicate, the memories had obviously been compartmentalized to keep him from becoming so much of me that he was no longer Rothman's tool. But that was just the beginning of what a Ripper could do to his victim. That's right; Talon had utilized Rippers as well, so I knew what I was talking about. A Ripper could overlay a false personality so complete that the victim would lose all awareness of having ever been any other person. Given the body I now had, I was pretty sure that was about to happen to me, and I was even more sure that any new "personality" I was given wouldn't be a desirable one. Frieda's grin became, if anything, even nastier. "I see you get the idea, don't you, Captain? And you're right. We're going to make you into a sweet, obedient little muchacha. You'll be ignorant, horny, and subservient to our employer's tastes. But don't worry - you won't need to be well-educated or independent to do your job. And as for the horny part, you'll get plenty of help satisfying your sexual urges." My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would explode right through my new breasts. I wanted to defiantly tell her that I would never be what they planned me to be, but I knew that wasn't true. They had already made massive changes to my mind and body - what could stop them from making a few more? I was about to lose my identity - to become a mindless whore for the amusement of my enemies - and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it! The door to my cell opened, and the Ripper entered, flanked by two burly guards who were obviously there to see that I didn't cause any trouble. To this day, I don't remember what the Ripper looked like, or even if he was, in fact, the same one who had initially worked on me. I could probably sit right across the table from him and not be able to identify him. That was the way Rippers operated. No one ever recalled what they looked like. I have the impression now that he was a small man, almost wimpy, and partially bald. But for all I know, the Ripper may have been an athletic woman, blonde and six-two. The wimpy image might have just been planted in my mind by the Ripper to keep me from ever identifying him - or her. The experience of having a Ripper take things from your mind is a walk in the park compared to having him place new, false memories there. My duplicate had been lucky; he had been given only enough surface memories of mine to pass himself off as me. I, on the other hand, was getting the full treatment - I was being given an entire life. The feeling was as if someone was pumping water into my brain, causing my skull to feel as if it were bursting. Images, thoughts, feelings all rushed through my consciousness like a flock of frightened birds taking to flight. I fought what was being done to me, but my efforts were futile. The events of my life that I had so painstakingly managed to resurrect were taken from me again, but this time, new memories were jammed in to replace them. I was born male - no, female. I was Anglo - no, Hispanic - I was... I was... "Enjoy your new life, Lucinda," Frieda taunted, but I could scarcely hear her over my own feminine screams. I awoke to the feeling of silk on my cheek. I sighed softly, the silk covering of my pillow rubbing against my flawless flesh. I opened my eyes and looked out the window at the sunlight sliding across the floor. I knew the time of day from the position of the sun, and like a sleek cat, I slid over the silk sheets until a sunbeam rested on my bare shoulder. It was going to be a beautiful day, perhaps warm enough to lie out by the pool with some of the other girls. I might even find a customer to spend some time with, if the right man walked past my pool chair. I preferred things that way; it was better to select a man rather than having him select me out of the chorus line. When a man selected me from beside the pool, it was as if I were a precious treasure, unearthed by a man with full appreciation for an unexpected find. I always tried to give such men something a little extra. Then I remembered there might be no time for that. Today was the day I was supposed to meet Senor Rothman for lunch. Lunches with the boss were long - not that we ate too much, but the languorous sex would take at least a couple of hours. I giggled to myself. For an older man, Senor Rothman certainly had the stamina of a true stallion. "Mi caballo largo," I thought to myself with a shudder of pleasure. I loved Senor Rothman. All the girls did. He had done so much for all of us - especially me, I realized. Who else would have been so kind as to take in the skinny seventeen year old refugee from the poverty of Mexico and turn her into a beauty who loved to dance almost as much as she enjoyed fucking? My pussy twinged at the thought. I would spread my legs for Senor Rothman all afternoon, then dance that evening before the eyes of admiring men, and finally finish the day with one of them in my bed, demonstrating to them that the money they had spent to spend the night with me was a bargain at any price. In the two years I had been one of Senor Rothman's girls, I had experienced no greater joy than the days he had called for me. Of course, sex with all men was a great pleasure, but sex with Senor Rothman was something special - muy, muy agridable! I dressed very, very sexy for him - a snappy little red mini dress with built-in support that raised my already large breasts into something nearly spectacular. As I smoothed the dress down over my luscious thighs, I debated about whether to wear panties, finally deciding they would b