The TARDIS landing sequence began.

The Doctor started out of a doze, hearing the subtle shift in the venerable old machine's drive.  Yawning, he went to have a  look. "What the...?"

The chronometer showed a timeline a mere century or so into the future and the navigation display showed him - Earth.

Again.

With a sinking heart, he ran a quick diagnostic.  Within seconds he found the first symptom, a wild variance in the chronometer's mean standard error calculation.  Lean fingers blurred over the controls. It looked like the entire nav system was feeding back on itself.

Muttering, the Doctor dove under the console to have a closer look.  At first, no obvious reason for this malfunction was visible.  Wires ran where they ought, there were no hot spots.  He found his screwdriver and took off the number two panel.

"Oh no!  Not again!"

With great care, he plucked the fractured crystal from its dinurium bed. Fortunately, the latter was not damaged.  Earth had a nice supply of crystalized carbon.  Dinurium was another
matter altogether.  With luck, he had landed near a commercial district.  He could pick up a replacement crystal and be on his way.

There was nothing about twenty-second century earth to which the Doctor objected.  Quite the contrary.  It was a good place, bustling, vital, temporarily at peace - one of the few eras the planet could honestly term as Golden.  In his current mood, alas,  bustling and peaceful just did not seem very interesting.

Adjusting his cravat, he gave the viewscreen control a flick with his elbow. It showed him the nearby remains of a large building - ruined bulk stark against a brightening sky.  Beyond the building were others in similar condition.  For the first time, a sense of apprehension intruded on the Doctor's impatience.  This should not be. By now Earth had eradicated slums.

The Doctor checked his pockets and headed for the door.  Opening it carefully, he peered out.  A broad, broken expanse of disintegrating asphalt surrounded the TARDIS.  The rising sun revealed an old parking lot -  and from its size and construction, the low ruin on the other side was a warehouse or factory.

The Doctor stepped out into the dawn.  The air was damp and smelled faintly of swamp. Not liking this a bit, he walked slowly around the TARDIS.  He had materialized in the midst of
an abandoned industrial district.  The buildings were large and utilitarian, and most in a sorry state of repair. There was no sign of current habitation, no sound but that of his own footsteps.

The Doctor stood for several moments, indecisive.  Nothing about this place felt right. The silence was most baffling.   No whine of jets or hovercars - not even the subliminal hum of
Earth's electrical grid.

As he stood wondering what to do next, a distant clang broke that unnerving silence.  It came from the direction of the warehouse.  The Doctor hastily locked the TARDIS and went to
investigate.

It was surprisingly difficult to get into the ruin.  Holes in the walls were obstructed by fallen steel and concrete.  Some of the debris looked as if it had been placed there deliberately.  He spent several moments hunting before he found the inconspicuous break in the north wall.

At first he thought the building was empty.  Hazy sunlight pierced the broken roof to puddle at his feet.  Crushed crates, ductwork and fragments of concrete littered the floor.  But the still air held a lingering, subtle scent of wood smoke, and further toward the center of this echoing chamber the dust was marred by footprints.

The Doctor went cautiously.  He circled a heap of smashed concrete block and froze.  In an open area on the other side were the remnants of a small fire.  Beside it lay a pale, naked form.  Forgetting caution, the Doctor ran to it.

The young man looked dead.  Blue lips pulled slightly back from excellent teeth. His skin was grey and, as the Doctor searched for a pulse, cold. There were bite marks on his mouth
and shoulder.  Something had left a livid bruises on his arms.  They stood out, stark against the bloodless flesh.

Then, beneath the Doctor's fingers, something stirred.  The Time Lord nearly dropped the boy's wrist. To his astonishment, he found a pulse! It was thready and weak, but getting stronger even as the Doctor sat there, fingers against the warming wrist.

Outside, a piercing whistle broke the stillness.  Iron-shod hooves rang on pavement.  The Doctor was across the room in seconds.  Through a gap in the wall he saw another figure, this one conscious and female.  She stood some distance away, her head tilted, looking up at a great, red gelding.  Fiery hair fell around slim shoulders and the profile visible to him was as close to human perfection as anything the Doctor had ever seen.

She flung a saddle onto the beast's back, tightened the girth with rapid, efficient movements.  The horse tossed his bright mane, and she laid a calming hand upon its muzzle.  Unexpectedly, as if sensing his eyes on her, she turned.  The Time Lord caught his breath. Their gaze locked and briefly held.  The next instant, she flung herself up on the horses' back and they were gone.

The Doctor, more shaken than the encounter warranted, took a moment before returning to the unconscious youth.  The lad's pulse was almost normal now.  The Doctor retrieved the blanket
and draped it over him, fearing shock.  It was then that the Time Lord noticed a glittering beneath the fringe of dark hair across the young man's forehead.  Moving it aside, he was startled to see a multifacted jewel, black as midnight, embedded in the skin.  Satisfied that the youth was in no immediate danger, the Doctor turned his attention to the objects nearby.  The
clothing was unremarkable, old and threadbare.  There was a battered leather pack containing a coiled length of rope, another bag, waterproofed with some oily substance, a metal box holding nine or ten bullets, more clothing, some first aid supplies and a wicked, long-bladed knife. There was, as well, a small, battered notebook tied up with twine.  Curious, the Doctor sat down on a nearby box and opened it.  At once, a piece of paper fell out.  As the Doctor bent to pick it up, he saw the revolver lying a few inches from his boot.  He ignored it in favor of the paper -- a photograph, very old and faded.

The photo was of  a young man with features very similar to the youth who currently lay at his feet.  He was standing in front of a large, shiny automobile.  That and his clothing suggested early twenty-first century.   Standing next to him, a proprietary hand tucked into his arm, was a girl with a pretty smile and a very short skirt.  Great grandparents, perhaps?

The notebook was an old diary, ink faded to near illegibility.  He made out a date that placed it in the same general time period as the photograph.

"Ooohhh..."  The boy's eyes opened.  Beneath the blanket, his slight, sinewy form shuddered violently.  The Doctor leaned foward, elbows on knees, and watched as dark eyes focused.
For a moment, the boy did not move, only stared in a bemused, half-comprehending fashion at the Time Lord.  There was another convulsive movement as panic replaced confusion.  He
tried to get up, but had only strength enough to roll over and pull himself to hands and knees.

"Don't be afraid!  I'm not going to hurt you."

Fearing a seizure, the Doctor extended his hands, open and empty.  The boy's swollen mouth twisted in patent disbelief, but he sank back into a crouch and, for the moment at least, made no further attempt to flee.  From the shaking of his limbs, it was unlikely that he had the strength.  A spasm of pain twisted his features.  The next moment, he was retching violently.

The Doctor leaned forward to assist, but the youth flinched away.  Resigned, the Doctor waited until the bad moment passed.  Bare arms wrapped around his belly, the boy lifted a white face.  Wary eyes caught the Doctor's and held.  After a moment, some of the worst suspicion faded.

"Who -- who are you?"  His voice shook as badly as he did.

"I'm the Doctor."  The Time Lord reached into his pocket, ignoring the boy's reaction, and pulled out a crumpled paper bag.  "Feeling better?"

The young man's color was returning with heartening speed. The bruises were fading, literally before the Doctor's eyes.  Drawing several long, deep breaths, the boy suddenly stiffened, aware for the first time of his unclothed condition.  He looked wildly around, clutching the blanket to
him.

"If you're looking for the young woman, she's gone.  Are you sure you're all right?"

The youth looked completely at sea.  "Woman?  What?"

Not only was his color returning, the bruises had all but vanished.  Accelerated healing was not the norm in humans.  More curious by the moment, the Time Lord extended the bag.

"Jelly baby?"

The young man stared at the bag with deep suspicion. "I -- no, thanks."

"Are you sure?"  The Doctor popped a red candy into his mouth.  "You look hungry."

The boy swallowed hard and again shook his head.

"What's your name?"

There was a long pause.  "Danner.  Danner Renwolf."

"Hello, Danner.  What's that thing in your head?"

This took the young man by surprise.  Temporarily bereft of speech, he regarded the Doctor unblinkingly.  Then, absently reaching for the still-proffered bag:

"Are you kidding?  You don't know?  Who are you?"

"I'm a traveler."

"Yeah? So?  I'm supposed to believe you don't know what a blackstone is?"

The Doctor shrugged.  "I'm from very far away."

"Must be."  The young face was wary again.  He ate his piece of candy, eyes never leaving the Doctor's face.  "How far is far?"

"Another galaxy?"

"Uh...sure."

"Two hearts," the Doctor said brightly.  It had worked with Grace.  "Would you like to listen?"

Danner's mouth twitched.  "Um...no.  That's all right."  He hesitated a moment.  "You
sure you're not a perv or something?"

"I'm not," the Doctor replied confidently, although he was not sure what the boy meant by perv.   "At least, I don't think I am.  What is a blackstone?"

"Could I have another of those jelly baby things?"

It appeared that this remarkable young man was now almost completely recovered.  The Doctor handed over the entire bag, watching as his companion crammed a handful into his mouth.

"A blackstone," the young man said stickily, "is a plague carrier."

His chin lifted slightly at these words and he narrowly watched the Doctor's expression.

"Plague?  This is Earth?"

"Of course."

"What plague?"

"I dunno.  THE plague."

The jelly babies were gone.  Danner shook the bag upside down hopefully, but in vain.  "If you haven't heard of it, than maybe you are from other planet."

The Doctor responded only with a smile.  After a moment, the boy shrugged.  "It had a name, but I don't remember it.  They say it started in South America - came out of the Brazilian
rainforests.  Within months it had spread to the U.S. and Europe.  People were dying like flies.  Some of us were lucky."
 
Danner crumpled the bag and tossed it aside.  He did not sound as if he believed his "luck."

"We got these when the fever passed."  He tapped the black jewel in his forehead.  "My docs called it a biocrystal, but they never had time to find out what it really was.  Most of
them died within days of treating me.  By the time I walked out of the hospital, it was a morgue.  At least, that's what my diary says.  It's hard to remember what happened so long ago."

The voice trailed off, leaving silence.  A bird shrilled somewhere in the ruins outside, then another. He frowned.

"How old are you?"

Another shrug. "A hundred and eighty, give or take a decade."

Stunned, the Time Lord considered the unlined face before him. Danner returned the gaze, defiant, daring contradiction.

"What happened next?" the Doctor prompted gently.

"Mostly everyone died.  Those that didn't decided the plague had to be somebody's fault...so they blamed blackstones."

"You?"

"Sure.  God's punishment or some such crap."

Danner pulled on his shirt, shook dark hair loose across his shoulders.  He gave the Time Lord a pointed look.  Obligingly, the Doctor pretended interest in a fallen girder while the blackstone pulled on his pants.

"It looks like being a plague survivor has some advantages."

"What?  The healing?  Heh. Sure.  Hell of an advantage. Where's my gun?"

"Is this it?"  Distastefully, the Doctor nudged the weapon in Danner's direction with the toe of his boot.

"Yeah, thanks."

The blackstone hefted it in his hand, then slipped the safety and pointed it at the Doctor. "Now, if you don't mind.  I'll be one my way.  If I don't see you following me, I won't shoot
you."

"I told you," the Doctor replied patiently.  "You don't need to point that thing at me.  I'm no threat to you."

"Everyone is a threat to me."

Keeping his eyes and the gun steady on the Doctor, Danner bent and retrieved his pack.  "You know what I think?  I think you're probably a cop, a particularly clever cop."

"You're wrong ..."

"I have no intention of walking tamely into your trap.  I know this place. You don't."

"Please...I've nothing to do with the police..."

A shrill, ululating cry interrupted him.  The effect on Danner was immediate.  The blackstone whirled around, the weapon aimed at the ruin's single entrance.

The sound had come from outside.  They heard it again, this time from another direction.

"What is that?"

"Loonies.  SHIT!  I thought those bird calls were weird."

"Wait!  What are loonies!"

The blackstone was paying no attention.  He jammed the gun into his belt and ran to the north end of the warehouse.  The Doctor was right behind him.  Dodging around a portion of fallen roof, he saw the blackstone hauling at a trap door.

The cries were all around the building now, a cacophony of mewlings, shrieks and mad laughter.  The Doctor could hear scrabbling at the walls and the rattle of bricks as something sought entrance to the place.

"I told you to stay put!" snarled Danner and leveled the gun at him again.

The Doctor froze.   "How do I defend myself against these 'loonies' then?  Is
there another way out?"

"Your cop friends..."

"Please, Danner - I'M NOT A COP!"

The gun wavered.  For the first time, the Time Lord saw doubt in the grim face.

A tiny cascade of dust and crumbled asphalt sifted down from the roof.  Danner and the Doctor looked up.  A grotesque face filled the opening high overhead, matted beard, blazing eyes, a wide, broken-toothed grin that had nothing of sanity in it.

"Oh, hell!  Come on!  Help me with this!"

Danner was struggling with the heavy panel.  Spurred on by the cackling din, the Doctor, too, seized hold of its steel ring and together they pulled.  The trap did not budge.

"Stuck," hissed Danner with another frightened look overhead.  "It's been too long since I..."

"Out of the way!"

The Doctor dug into his pockets and found the sonic screwdriver.  Danner's eyes widened slightly.  Pushing him impatiently aside, the Doctor dropped to his knees, turned the device to full power, and ran it around the edges of the trap door.

"Now!"

This time, the heavy panel gave way,  falling over with a thunderous crash.  A foul, fecal stench poured up from the dark shaft beneath it.  The smell, however, was not half as unpleasant as the body that hurtled down on them with a wild shriek.  The Doctor dove one way, Danner the other as it landed with a splat beside the hole.

"Here they come..."  Danner jumped over the flaccid corpse and scrambled down the hole, shouting: "Come on, Doctor!  Hurry!"

The Doctor spared a brief, horrified glance at the broken corpse and jumped down after the blackstone.  Together, they hauled at the chain affixed to the panel's underside.  Adrenalin made closing the door much easier than opening it had been.

At once, they were engulfed in utter darkness.  The Doctor, standing ankle deep in malodorous liquid, heard some scrabbling from Danner's direction, then the sound of a steel bolt being pushed into place.  A moment later they heard pounding on the trap, rhythmic and insistent.

"Hold on."  Danner's disembodied voice was practically at his elbow.  "Got a light in here somewhere."

A pinprick of flame illuminated their sanctuary.  The blackstone held a small lamp aloft, revealing curved walls of crumbling ceramic pipe with more of the same heading off in several different directions.

"What were those things?"  The Doctor discovered that he was shaking.

"I call 'em loonies.  They began to show up after the plague."  The blackstone was matter-of-fact.  "Maybe the virus had genetic effects.  I dunno.  I was never a scientist.  Coming?"

"Do you still think I'm with the police?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You touched me," Danner said simply.  "A cop wouldn't do that...not without gloves."

"And do you believe I'm from another planet?"

"Don't push it, Doc."  For the first time, a genuine smile touched those somber features.  "You coming?

The students filed into the lecture hall, taking their places along the front rows.  Anna found a seat at the very back.  As a postdoc, she was no longer required to take formal courses.
However, it politically expedient to make at least a show of interest in the Project's activities now and then - especially when it was the Director speaking.  The four other postdocs in Plague Studies were here as well, though they had chosen conspicuous seats at the front.  Fine.  She was not one for kissing ass.  Her performance and publication record made that kind of posturing unnecessary.

Bill Farris was a fussy, self-important little man and not the sort she would have pegged to run as prestigious a project as Plague Studies.  His grip on science was tenuous; administration was his forte  Anna was forced to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he administered well.

Farris stepped up to the podium and looked down on the two dozen or so first year bioscience grad students.  The low murmur of voices died away as expectant faces turned toward him.  This was to be a welcome talk, very brief and very general.  Anna sincerely hoped so, at any rate.

"Good morning, gentlemen.  I am Dr. William Farris, Director of the Plague Studies Project.  It is my great pleasure to welcome you all to this special advanced course.

"I should start by explaining that the PSP is a unique, independent research unit set up by the Regents of the Universities Consortium.  Our original mandate was to put together a group of investigators from various disciplines to study the plague and to prepare a report giving as concise and complete a picture of the disease and its social consequences as is possible.  Unlike most other Departments, we look at the total picture."

He paused to make sure everyone was suitably impressed.

"The PSP," he continued, "is made up of researchers from all areas of the Consortium:  Immunologists, psychologists, geneticists, anatomists, endocrinologists, sociologists,
historians and internists.  Although the report will be submitted to the Regents this coming July, we sincerely hope that you will not consider it to be the final word on a complex, deadly and wholly intriguing phenomenon.  There will be plenty of room for new discoveries and new researchers in the area.  Hopefully, some of you will find this course sufficiently interesting to pursue Plague Studies as a postdoctoral fellowship.

"Today, since this is merely a course introduction, I will limit my talk to a brief overview of the Plague's history.   Although many of you already know a great deal about this, you
may find some of what I say here to be new.

"The plague -- or as it is more correctly known, neuroblastema, appeared simultaneously in most of the major urban centers of this country, concentrating primarily along the east and western coasts.  There is some support for the theory that it originated somewhere in the Amazon basin.  Unfortunately, at this time, that remains only speculation.

"The first patients presented with the classic NB prodrome -- high fever, disorientation, nausea and a mottled flushing of the skin.  Make particular note of the discolorations of theface. . ."

He paused and groped for the projector control.  On the white screen behind him, a picture appeared, the close-up of a man's face.  The skin was freckled with bright red splotches.

"The entire time-course, from the appearance of symptoms to death, is about three days.  This progression has remained relatively unchanged through all the virus' subsequent mutations.

"Within a week of the first recorded cases, a sudden rash of them were reported everywhere in the country, and in other countries, as well.  In all instances, the victims died.  My next slide is an early statistical report on fatalities presented by the United States Centers for Disease Control.
Please note the distribution between socio-economic groups.  To no one's surprise, the so-called economic underclass of the time were especially hard hit, most likely because of poor
nutrition, health-maintenance and adverse environmental factors.

"Two weeks after the CDC's initial report, it was estimated that almost ninety-million Americans were stricken.  Hospitals were quickly overwhelmed.  Health professionals were as vulnerable to the virus as anyone else.  The breakdown of the country's infrastructure had began."

The slide that came up next was not in very good condition.  Blotched and marred by a series of gray bars down one side, it showed a broad street littered with automobiles that had apparently been abandoned.  Bodies lay everywhere around them.  In the backdrop was a vast city -- Boston, perhaps.

"About that same time came the first reports of a recovery.   Two patients, males, one at UCLA and another at Mass General, actually survived beyond the convulsion stage.  Instead of
dying, they went into a coma.  This, too, has proved to be an unvarying pattern."

Another slide: another man in a hospital bed, but this time, no blotches except for one in the center of his forehead.

"The coma lasts, on the average, four days.  During this time, unusual neurological activity is observed."

Another slide; an EEG printout.

"Notice the spikes there...and there.  This particular pattern is almost always associated with high mental activity -- not generally a feature of comas."

There were some titters from the crowd.  Anna's eyelids were drooping.

"On the fourth day, the area of skin still discolored begins to swell.  Within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the blastema or, as it is popularly known here, biocrystal, broke through bone and skin and the first blackstone was born, so to speak.

"By now, the chaos worldwide was staggering.  Without the necessary manpower to run key utilities, electricity, the instantaneous communication systems, transportation - society was in complete disarray.  Governments were collapsing.   Fatalities everywhere continued to mount, especially among females.  Although there were no more formal, reliable reports on the subject, it is estimated that by now there were almost a hundred and fifty million dead in America alone.  What reports were still coming in suggested things were as bad or worse elsewhere.

"Those who survived turned toward whatever hope or explanation was offered.  A strong wave of religious fundamentalism swept through the far-flung enclaves of survivors.  It was a black time for Universities and any organization dedicated to learning and science.   Many were looted and destroyed, books, computer disks, all sources of information burned.  Demagogues pointed accusing fingers in all directions, claiming NB was a product of military research gone wrong, a
punishment from God, just about any nonsensical theory was entertained by terrified population.

"Blackstones were also a popular focus of hatred and fear.  Easily identified, thanks to the blastoma, considered to be highly infectious, they were relentlessly persecuted and murdered."

Another slide - a fuzzy still of a great bonfire with a figure bound to a stake within the flames.  There was a crowd of people around it, faces turned away from the camera.  In spite of its poor quality, the picture was deeply disturbing.  Anna had seen it many times; it never failed to sicken her.

"Fortunately, there was a glimmer of sanity in all this madness.  In the weeks prior to the final collapse of the infrastructure, members of the intellectual community had been in close communication with each other via phones, computers -- eventually even runners.  A small group of far-seeing individuals, predicting this collapse, had set up a rudimentary network dedicated to preserving as much of mankind's knowledge as possible.  In spite of the chaos and the danger, they managed to carry off and successfully hide tons of books, disks, videotapes, even some equipment.

"They lay low for almost thirty years before returning quietly to those universities not destroyed by the wave of post-plague hysteria.  In subsequent years, the Consortium has restored and built upon much of the early knowledge and technology.  Included in the renaissance has been the renewed focus on neuroblastoma.  I'm sure I don't have to tell you that Igan is the Consortium's founding institution?

"The Consortium has focused attention and resources on this research since the virus was finally isolated ten years ago.  Since then, we have learned a great deal that our great grandparents never had the time to discover.  We know that the biocrystal is a endocrine tumor...that the virus stored within it manufactures a chemical whose effects, in preliminary studies, seem to be at least indirectly responsible for the anti-aging and hyperimmune responses in blackstones. We have
made great strides in our understanding of NB, but many  questions remain unanswered.  What is the "relapse" phenomenon?  How close are we to a vaccine?  Why is the disease always fatal in women?  Is it possible to isolate the biochemical byproduct of the virus and develop a drug that would give Norms the physical advantages possessed by blackstones?  This is a dynamic area of study.  I think it extremely exciting and I hope that you will find it to be equally so."

He paused and looked around the hall, smiling.  "That's it for today.  You have your syllabus?  Please refer to the first readings - the next lecture will be presented by Dr. Wayne Phillips of the Department of Internal Medicine, whose article is at the beginning of your coursepack.  Good afternoon."

The was light applause, and students filed out, the low buzz of voices more animated that usual.  Anna pulled together her notes and relieved that it was over, left the hall.  Damn, what a waste of time.

Ron Sheridan was waiting for her in the corridor outside, leaning against the wall.  In his black security uniform he was an impressive and faintly ominous sight.  The students, shooting him uneasy looks, gave him wide berth as they hurried past.

"God, they get younger every year."

"Old joke, Ron.  What are you doing here?"

"I had a few minutes between meetings; thought I'd buy you a cup of coffee.  Got some hot info, darling."

He relieved her of her heavy notebook, a bit of male condescension of which she heartily approved.

"Sounds nice, but I have to get back to the lab."

"The information is really good," he wheedled.

She stopped, nearly oversetting two students directly behind them.  They muttered and went around.  "All right," she said.  "And it had better be."

Laughing, Ron put an arm around her and steered her toward the commissary.   He was, all things considered, an excellent catch.  Still young, he was rising up through the ranks of the powerful Security department with meteoric speed.  Very smart, handsome, and with a good grasp of Consortium politics, he would likely make Commander before he was through.  But Anna was just as aware of the fact that, as one of thirty women at University, she was an equally good catch.

"Five minutes and then I have to be back."

The commissary was a large room in the basement of the medical science building, cluttered and always crowded.  There was a small cafeteria along one end where a few quick foods were
sold at prices the average impecunious student could afford.  Ron and Anna joined the line and Ron bought them both coffee and a roll.

There was a prime section at the very back where the tables and chairs were in slightly better condition than the rest, a section usually reserved for faculty and staff who dared
venture into the students' domain.  Ron headed directly to that spot.  Two postdocs she vaguely recognized from other labs saw Ron coming and hastily vacated a table in their path.

"Nice," she said drily.  "Abuse power much, Ron?"

"See how I debase my principles to please you, my darling?" he grinned.  "The power of love."

"Mmmm," she said, uneasy as she always was when he said such things.  "What's this information?"

"Come with me to Die Fledermaus?"

"Wait a minute.  What is this?"

"I hear the production is excellent.  Friday night?"

"I'm having coffee with you," she laughed.  "Don't push your luck."

He sighed in mock despair.   "What a hard heart you have, Dr. Taylor!  Here I am, willing to sacrifice myself on the altar of culture..."

"Stifle it.  The famous info?"

Deciding he had pushed her patience as far as he safely could, the young officer leaned back and grinned.  Anna took a sip of the coffee.  It was predictably awful.

"Look at these." He pushed a series of photographs across the table at her.

She glanced at them, then gasped. "I don't believe it!"

"Believe it, my lovely.  We've got people in the field as we speak to confirm the finding, but what do you think?"

There were six photographs, all of the same man.  He appeared young, but the presence of the biocrystal meant appearances could be deceiving.   It was one photo in particular, however,
a zoom shot that caught him full in the face, that had her heart pounding.

"Well?  First generation?"

"Can you blow this up any more?"

"No, but you can see it well enough.  You're the one with the facet theory.  This guy's crystal must have hundreds of 'em.  Come on.  Is he first generation or not?"

"I -- I don't know.  Is this from Deet?"

"Yeah."

"Has Max seen them?"

"No, ma'am.  They're hot off Security's printer."

She stared at the photograph, mind reeling. "I want him."

"And I thought it was my body you were after."

"I already have your body,"  she grinned.  "Seriously - I've never seen a blackstone with a blastema this developed.  He has to be first-g."

"Do you think Max will authorize a snatch?"

"You're talking about *abduction?*"

Ron shrugged.  "How else are we going to get hold of him?  Wait until he decides to take a trip outside Deet and wanders through the B.Z.?  Hell, with the blackstone life span that could be in a hundred years!"

Anna hesitated.  This was an aspect of the Project that always bothered her.  Most of their blackstone subjects were volunteers, men happy to contribute to anything that might free them from their curse.  Some of the Project's experiments, however, were not so benign, and their subjects never "volunteered."   Fortunately, these studies were few and far between, approved only after months of acrimonious discussion in the Regulatory Committee.

"Oh, come on!  What's the big deal?"

"Why not just talk to him about it?  He might actually be willing to come.  Life for blackstones Outside is hardly a picnic."

"You know we can't do that.  What if he says no?  What do we do then?  Let him go on his merry way, spreading the information that we exist?  We'd have the damned Church guard
on our borders, hot to destroy the devil scientists.  Besides, if he is first-g, Wayland will want him...and get him eventually."

"Wayland."  Anna imbued the name with loathing.

"How else will we find a vaccine if we can't test it?  Animal studies are out - only humans get this thing."

An eminently reasonable response.  Anna swirled the dregs of her coffee in the cup, still unhappy with the idea.  She did want - badly - the chance to study a first generation blackstone.  They were so rare that some people refused to believe they existed.  A first-g would theoretically be
carrying the original form of the virus.  There were men in Immuno who were convinced that the original virus alone was contagious.  A first-g would have a unique historical perspective, perhaps resolve some of the many questions that still lingered from the dark days of post-plague chaos.  And how did someone that long-lived deal with the compounding of memories?  A first-g would be anywhere from one hundred to one hundred and seventy years old.  The human brain was finite in its storage capabilities.  At what point would an immortal's memory exceed its capacity?

"Max will probably approve a snatch," she said finally.  "I just don't like it, Ron.   It brings up all those uncomfortable questions about ends justifying the means."

"Leave that for Philosophy," her pragmatic lover suggested.  "You just concentrate on saving the world - and on me, of course."

  Next

  Home    Fan Fiction Archive