Origin in Death

  Twenty classrooms with live and automated instructors.

  There was a single dining hall, where the food was well-balanced-tasty, and served three times a day, precisely at seven A.M., twelve-thirty and seven P.M.

  Midmorning and afternoon snacks were available in the solarium at ten and four.

  She'd loved the scones. She had good memories of the scones.

  The living quarters for the students were spacious and well decorated. If, at the age of five, you passed all the tests, you were moved into those quarters. Your memory of those first five years was... adjusted.

  In time, it was possible to forget-or nearly-the experience of be­ing a mouse in a maze.

  You were given uniforms, and a suitable wardrobe. One that was designed to suit your personality type and background.

  You had a background, somewhere. You'd come from something, though it was not what they gave you. It was never what they gave you.

  Instruction was rigorous. A Brookhollow student was expected to excel, then to move on to the college, and continue. Until Placement-She herself could speak four languages fluently. That had been handy. She could solve complex math theorems, identify and date ar­chaeological artifacts, execute a perfect double-gainer, and organize a state dinner for two hundred.

  Electronics were like toys to her. And she could kill with efficiency, using a variety of methods. She knew how to pleasure a man in bed and could discuss interplanetary politics with him in the morning.

  She had been intended not for marriage or mating, but for covert ops. In that, she supposed, her education had succeeded.

  She was beautiful, had no genetic flaws. Her estimated life span was one hundred and fifty years. Which might be considerably extended through continued advancement in medical technology.

  She had run at twenty, and had lived a dozen years in hiding, forg­ing her way underground, honing the skills she'd been given. The thought of living another century as she had to this point in her life was her constant nightmare.

  She did not kill coldly, however efficiently. She killed in despera­tion, and with the fervor of a warrior defending the innocent.

  For this death, she wore a stark black suit custom-tailored for her in Italy. Money was no problem. She'd stolen half a million before she'd run. Since then, she'd accessed more. She could have lived well, avoided any detection. But she had a mission. In all of her life, she had only one.

  And was well on the way to accomplishing it.

  The starkness of the suit only made her look more feminine, and it set off the bright red of her hair, the deep green of her eyes. She'd spent an hour that morning subtly changing the contours of her face. A slightly rounder chin, a fuller nose.

  She'd added a few pounds to her body, all of them curves.

  The changes would be enough, or they wouldn't.

  She wasn't afraid to die, but she was terrified of being taken. So she had what she needed in a capsule should she be identified and captured.

  The father had allowed her to come in, had granted her audience, had believed her claim of loneliness and regret. He hadn't seen his death in her eyes.

  But here, in this prison, they would know what she'd done. If they recognized her, her part was over. But there were others who would step forward if she fell. Too many others.

  If there was fear in the back of her throat, her face was calm and serene. She'd learned that, too. Show them nothing. Give them nothing.

  Her eyes met the driver's in the rearview mirror. She worked up a smile, nodded.

  They paused at the gates for the security scan. Her heart tripped now. If it was a trap, she'd never go out those gates again. Dead or alive.

  Then she was inside, winding through the lovely grounds. The trees, the gardens, the sculptures.

  The main building loomed in front of her, five stories. Soft, soft red brick bedecked with ivy. Sparkling windows and gleaming columns.

  The girls, she thought, and wanted to weep. Young and fresh and lovely, walking alone or in pairs, in groups, to other buildings. For in­struction, for recreation.

  For tests. For improvements. For evaluation.

  She waited for the driver to park, to come around and open her door. Offer a hand. And hers was cool and dry.

  She showed no reaction other than a small, polite smile when Eve­lyn Samuels stepped out of the great front door to greet her.

  "Mrs. Frost, welcome to Brookhollow. I'm Evelyn Samuels, the head of the Academy."

  "A pleasure to meet you at last." She offered a hand. "Your grounds and buildings are even more impressive in person."

  "We'll give you the full tour, but please come inside for tea."

  "That would be lovely." She passed through the doors, and her stomach curdled. But she glanced around, as a prospective parent might when visiting a school she considered for her daughter.

  "I'd hoped you'd bring Angel, so we could get acquainted."

  "Not yet. As you know, my husband has doubts about sending our daughter so far away to school. I prefer coming alone, this time."

  "I have no doubt that between us we can convince him that Angel will not only be happy here, but benefit from a superlative education and community experience. Our great hall." She gestured. "The plant­ings were developed and nurtured through our horticultural pro­grams, as are all our gardens. The art you see was created by the students themselves over the years. In this building, on this level, we have our administrative offices, our dining hall, solarium, one of our six libraries, the kitchens and culinary science areas. My day quarters are here, as well. I'd be happy to show you through now, if you like."

  Her mind was screaming to get out, to run, escape, hide. She turned, smiled. "If you don't mind, I'd love that tea."

  "Absolutely. One moment." She took out a pocket 'link. "Abigail, would you see that tea is set up in my quarters here for Mrs. Frost? Right away."

  As Evelyn guided her, she gestured, explained.

  How much the same she was, Deena thought. Starched and hand­some, boasting of her school in her cultured voice. Moving efficiently, always efficiently. She wore her hair short and soft now, and in a quiet brown. Her eyes were dark and sharp. The eyes were the same. Ms. Samuels's eyes.

  Eva Samuels's eyes.

  Deena let the words buzz in her ears. She'd heard all of it before, when she was a prisoner. She saw girls, neat as dolls in their blue and white uniforms, speaking in undertones as was expected in the great hall.

  Then she saw herself, so slim, so sweet, coming gracefully down the steps from the east wing. She trembled once-only once was allowed- and deliberately looked away.

  She had to pass the child, so close she could smell her skin. She had to hear her voice as she spoke: "Good morning, Ms. Samuels. Good morning, ma'am."

  "Good morning, Diana. How was your cooking class?"

  "Very good, thank you. We made soufflés."

  "Excellent. Mrs. Frost is visiting us today. She has a daughter who may join us at Brookhollow.”

  She made herself look, made herself look into the deep brown eyes that were her own. Was there calculation there, as there had been in hers? Was there the rage and the determination, bubbling, boiling under that serene surface? Or had they found a way to smother it?

  "I'm sure your daughter would love Brookhollow, Mrs. Frost. We all do."

  My daughter, she thought. Oh God. "Thank you, Diana."

  There was a slow, easy smile, and their eyes held one more instant before the child said her good-byes and walked away.

  Her heart bounded. They'd known each other. How could they not? How could you look into your own eyes and not see?

  As Evelyn led her away, she glanced over her shoulder. So did the child. Their eyes locked again, and there was another smile, a full one, a fierce one.

  We'll get out, Deena thought. They won't keep us here.

  "Diana is one of our treasures," Evelyn said. "Bright and questing, Quite athletic, too. While we focus on giving all our studen
ts the most well-rounded of educations, we do comprehensive testing and evalua­tions so we're able to showcase their strengths and main areas of interests."

  Diana, was all she could think with emotions cartwheeling through her. But she said the right things, made the right moves, and was shown into Samuels's quarters.

  Students were only admitted to this sanctuary when they were par­ticularly good, or had committed some major infraction. She'd never been through the door.

  She'd been very careful to blend.

  But she'd been told what to expect, had been given the precise layout and specifications. So she concentrated on it now, on what needed to be done now, and forced all thought of the child away.

  The suite was decorated in the school colors-blue and white. White walls, blue fabrics. White floor, blue rugs. Two windows west-one double window south.

  It was soundproofed, contained no cameras.

  There was security, of course, windows and door. And Samuels wore a wrist unit that held a communicator. There were two 'links, one for the school, one private.

  A wall screen, and behind the screen a vault that held files on all students.

  Tea was spread on a white table. Blue dishes, white cookies.

  She took the chair she was offered, waited until Samuels poured tea.

  "Why don't you tell me more about Angel?"

  Despite her efforts, she thought of Diana. "She's my heart."

  Evelyn smiled. "Of course. You mentioned she shows artistic abilities."

  "Yes, she enjoys drawing. It gives her great pleasure. I want her happy, more than anything."

  "Naturally. Now-"

  "What an interesting necklace." Now, she thought, do it now, before you sicken. "May I?"

  Even as Evelyn glanced down at the pendant, Diana was rising from her chair, leaning forward as if studying the stone. The scalpel was in her hand.

  And into Evelyn's heart.

  "You didn't recognize me. Evelyn," she added as Samuels gaped at her. Blood trickled onto her crisp white blouse. "You only saw what you expected to see, just as we thought. You perpetuate this obscenity. But then, you were created for that, so maybe you can't be blamed. I'm sorry," she said as she watched Evelyn die. "But it has to end."

  She rose, sealing her hands quickly, moving to the screen. She found the control where she'd been told it would be, opened it, then used the decoder she'd tucked in her purse to unlock the vault.

  She took every disc. She wasn't surprised or displeased to find a sub­stantial amount of cash as well. Though she preferred electronic funds, paper would always do.

  She relocked the vault, swung the screen back in place, secured it.

  She left the room without a backward glance, set the privacy mode.

  Unhurriedly, pulse galloping, she walked out of the building t: where the car and driver waited.

  She breathed, just breathed as they drove toward the gates. When they opened, the pressure on her chest lifted a fraction.

  "You were quick," the driver said softly.

  "It's best to be quick. She never knew me. But... I saw Diana, and she did. She knew,"

  "I should have done this part."

  "No. The cameras. Even with an alibi, you couldn't beat the cam­eras. I'm smoke. Desiree Frost is already gone. But Avril Icove." She leaned up in the seat, squeezed Avril's shoulder. "She still has work to do."

  T

  he push of his name, and the considerable billions behind it, bagged Roarke a ten o'clock meeting with the acting CEO of the Icove Center.

  "It'll be informal, and very preliminary," he told Louise as they were driven through ugly traffic. "But it gets us in the door."

  "If Dallas is on the right track, the repercussions are going to be staggering. Not only the technology that's been developed under­ground, the explosion of the Icoves' reputation, and of this facility and all the others involved, but for God's sake, Roarke, the ethical, legal, moral dilemma of dealing with the clones themselves. Medical, legisla­tive, political, religious wars are inevitable. Unless it can be buttoned up, covered up."

  He shifted to face her, lifted a brow. "Is that what you'd chooser'

  "I don't know. I admit, I'm torn. As a doctor, the science of it fasci­nates. Even bad science is seductive."

  "Often more so."

  "Yes, often more so. The debate on artificial twinning crops up from time to time, and while I'm opposed to it on a basic level, it's powerful stuff. In the end, too powerful. And too fraught. Replicating human beings in a lab, selecting traits, eliminating others. Who decides what are the parameters? What of the failures, as there must be in any sort of experimentation of procedures. And again, if she's on track, what of the temptation a man as reputable as Icove allegedly gave in to-to use those clones as commodities?"

  "And if, and when, it gets out," he added, "people will be horrified and fascinated. Is my next-door neighbor one of them? And if he is, and pisses me off, don't I have the right to destroy him? Governments will vie for the technology. And yet, should those responsible go into history untainted? There has to be payment, balances. Justice. That's what Eve will think."

  "First things first, I suppose. We're nearly there."

  "Will you know what to look for?"

  She moved her shoulders. "I guess we'll find out if I see it."

  "Would you want it?"

  She glanced over at him. "What?"

  "To re-create yourself."

  "Oh God, no. You?"

  "Not in a million. We tend to ... reinvent ourselves, don't we? We're in constant evolution, or should be. And that's more than enough. We change, we're meant to. People and circumstances, expe­riences change us. Better or worse."

  "My background, my blood, upbringing, early environment, all of that was supposed to-according to my family-predispose me for a certain kind of life and work." She lifted a shoulder. "I didn't choose it, and those choices and experiences I had changed me. Meeting Dallas changed me again-and it's given me the opportunity to work at Duchas. Meeting the two of you put Charles in my path, and our rela­tionship has changed me. Opened me. Whatever our DNA, it's living and being that make us. We have to love, I think-as frothy as that sounds-we have to love to be fully alive, fully human."

  "It was death that brought me and Eve together. And as frothy as it sounds, there are times I feel as though that was when I took my first breath."

  "I think that sounds gorgeous."

  He laughed a little. "Now we have a life, a complicated one. We're hunting killers and mad science-and planning Thanksgiving dinner."

  "To which Charles and I are delighted to be invited. We're both looking forward to it."

  "It's the first we've done something this. .. familial. You'll meet my relations from Ireland."

  "Can't wait."

  "My mother was a twin," he said, half to himself.

  "Really? I didn't know that. Fraternal or identical?"

  "Identical, apparently. With all this going on, it makes you wonder a bit. How much does my aunt share with her, besides the physical traits?"

  "Family relationships are like any other. It takes time to find out. And here we are."

  She flipped out a mirror, checked her face, fluffed at her hair as the car veered to the curb.

  They were met by three suits, expressed through security, then es­corted to a private elevator. Roarke gauged the lone female, thirtyish, brunette, sharp eyes, sharp suit, was in charge.

  His impression was verified when she took the reins.

  "We're pleased with your interest in the Wilfred B. Icove Center." she began. "As you know, we've suffered from a double tragedy in re­cent days. The memorial service for Dr. Icove will be held today, here in the chapel. Our administrative and research-and-development facil­ities will close today at noon, out of respect."

  "Understandable. I appreciate you fitting us in, on such short notice, and at such a difficult time."

  "I'll be available throughout your visit, to answer any questio
ns-or find the answers to them," she added with a brilliant smile. "To assist you in any way."

  He found himself thinking what he'd predicted others would: Was she one of them? "And your function here, Ms. Poole?"

  "I'm chief operating officer."

  "Young," Roarke commented, "for the position."

  "True." Her smile never dimmed. "I came to the Center directly from college."

  "Where did you go to university?"

  "I attended Brookhollow College, taking an accelerated course." The doors opened, and she gestured. "Please, after you. I'll escort you directly to Mrs. Icove."

  "Mrs. Icove?"

  "Yes." Poole gestured again, leading the way through the reception area, through the glass doors. "Dr. Icove served as CEO, with Dr. Will Icove retaining that position upon the death of his father. Now ... Mrs. Icove is acting CEO until such time as a permanent successor can be named. Even through tragedy, the Center will run efficiently, and serve the needs of its clients and patients. Their care and satisfaction is our highest priority."

  The doors to what had been Icove's office were open. Poole stepped inside. "Mrs. Icove?"

  Her back was to the room as she faced the wide windows looking out on New York and a sulky sky. She turned. Her blond hair was swept back from her face, rolled under at the nape. She wore black, and her lavender eyes seemed weary and sad.

  "Oh yes, Carla." Mustering a smile, she moved forward, extended her hand to Roarke, then Louise. "I'm very pleased to meet you both."

  "Our condolences, Mrs. Icove, on your recent losses."

  "Thank you."

  "My father was acquainted with your father-in-law," Louise put in. "And I myself attended a series of lectures he gave while I was in med­ical school. He'll be missed."

  "Yes, he will. Carla, could we have a moment, please?"

  Surprise flickered briefly over Poole's face, and was quickly masked. "Of course. I'll be outside when you need me."

  She went out, closed the doors.

  "Shall we sit? My father-in-law's office. Intimidating, I find. Would you like coffee? Anything?"