A Small Degree of Hope. Lyndi Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ upper hand in the investigation, unlike his business administration degree. This case gave her an opportunity to shine. She’d studied very hard at the academy, graduating third in her class despite her father’s efforts to keep her out of SIRT. He’d have preferred her hostess his corporate parties like her sister or her mother.

      But he wouldn’t get what he wanted this time. Even if it meant spending all day with her hands buried in stinking, half-preserved entrails.

      She entered the morgue building, the distinctive smells not much disguised by the heavy balsam-scented cleaning fluids used by the janitorial staff. Her footsteps echoed down the empty white halls. Usually by mid-morning, the place was crowded with medical students and others hoping to catch a glimpse of something with a “creepy” factor, but no one hung around today. When she arrived at Dr. Astrid’s lab, the entire observation gallery over her table was filled. People packed in three deep to watch the dissection of the lizard women.

      Great.

      Kylie changed into worn blue scrubs and hung her clothing in the staff locker room. She also switched her boots for a pair of cheap sneakers. More than one autopsy had included suddenly erupting innards launched at her shoes.

      As she was about to grab a yellow scrub cap, she saw a memo from Astrid indicating no one should enter the quarantined rooms unless they were in a biosuit. NO EXCEPTIONS. Made sense, especially until they discovered the source of the metamorphosis. The suit pulled at her clothing and stretched around her elbows, but finally she checked the valves on the oxygen tanks, satisfied she’d keep breathing, and sealed the front of the suit before she went into the chamber. Dr. Astrid was already there, a land-bound astronaut in her own heavy gray suit.

      “Welcome to the jungle,” the doctor said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

      Kylie couldn’t help a glance up at the hungry, gawking faces. “Audience, huh?”

      “All these years I’ve been slaving down here, thinking it was the bottom of the ladder. I hadn’t realized this would be my opportunity to be a star.” Her green eyes twinkled through the thin faceplate.

      “Right. That’s why we’re doing this. For fame and fortune.”

      Glad the basic autopsy had been done the night before, Kylie looked forward to the next steps. Maybe the tissue and fluid specimens would provide more answers. She readied glass slides for the microscope while the doctor prepared for chemical analyses.

      Dr. Astrid adjusted the recorder at tableside then spoke clearly so it picked up her soft voice. “This morning we begin the toxicological screens in SIRT case ALBA-25, with an eye toward determining the mutagen that initiates the transformation of human to reptile.

      “We’ll begin with the vitreous humor, performing parallel tests to double-check our results.”

      Kylie sliced, spread and pipetted over the next five hours, using her very best technique to sample the tissues and fluids. She wanted this to be her best work ever, because she owed these victims no less. She even submitted genetic samples to the planetary database in an effort to identify their victims, hoping that the mutation hadn’t yet reached the DNA. Lizard cells were likewise submitted to see if they could be matched up with a known alien species.

      By the time they finished, their eager audience had faded to a couple of diehards. Their extensive analyses yielded nothing significant. Whatever had changed those women had been completely absorbed by the body in the transformation process.

      “Maybe it’s not a poison in the way we think of poisons, as in a toxic substance meant to kill.” She rubbed her forehead through the thick suit. “Since the reproductive organs are altered too, maybe what we’re looking for is more like a hormone.”

      Dr. Astrid stepped back from the table, stretching her arms, rotating her shoulders. “That’s a good idea.”

      Kylie sympathized with the doctor’s stiffness. Even in her sneakers, and with padded mats on the floor, her feet hurt and her muscles ached from the close work. She was definitely going to need a few drinks when she got out of there.

      “That’s a good idea.” The doctor cocked her head, thinking. “We’d want to test for FSH, estrogen, androgens. Maybe testosterone.”

      “We need more than the human hormones.” Kylie used a sterile plastic blanket to cover the sad remainder of what had once been a vital, breathing woman.

      The doctor sighed. “Exactly, dear. I’m going to run that question by some of the eggheads upstairs, and we’ll try again tomorrow. We may have some sort of virus at work that only affects women. I can’t even imagine how they contract it.”

      The doctor led the way to the decontaminant showers, where both women stripped down and scrubbed themselves clean before changing to their street clothes.

      “Feel free to share our inquiry with any of your SIRT team that might be helpful. At this point, every avenue bears exploration. We’ve exhausted the standard routes. Let’s open our minds to new possibilities. You did good work today,” the doctor assured her, with an encouraging hug and a warm smile. “Let your subconscious chew on it overnight.”

      “I’ll try,” Kylie said, though she’d rather crash and spend ten hours out cold. She put on her coat then followed the doctor to the street with its chilly autumn breeze. She shivered and hurried to her car then climbed inside and locked the doors. Her fingers sought out her music deck, finding something with a hard rock beat and a strong female voice belting out a song about betrayal and love being poison for the soul, and she turned it up loud. She laid her head back on the headrest, eyes closed, letting the music soak into her bones. After the second verse, her mind began to wander.

      Had these women been betrayed? Had a lover done this to them?

      She imagined how a woman might feel when she first noticed her skin changing, the internal changes that surely had to be painful. Did they wonder what was happening? Did they know what was coming? Had they agreed to the experiment, or had it been done without any consent or knowledge on their part?

      Answers to these questions, too, would fuel the investigation. “Geez, Ky, when do you stop working and just be a person, hmm?”

      Maybe if she wrote it down, she could let it go. She dragged out her pad and made notes. Search out clues in the BDSM community, subs willing to change to please a dom with sick tastes. It’d be worth a look.

      Tomorrow.

      Tonight, a bottle of Happy Jack waited with her name on it, elixir to erase the day’s smells and visions from her mind for a little while.

      The thought of sitting in her tempartment alone didn’t appeal to her.

      Most of the guys shacked in a hotel when they were deployed, not wanting to clean up after themselves or have responsibilities. She preferred to rent a furnished efficiency by the week, gaining a little more privacy, and space to bring some personals to make it feel more like home. But it wasn’t home.

      She knew where she could find a comfortable place to go, though, where she could just relax in the presence of others who understood her life. She gunned the engine and headed for Hawthorn’s.

      * * * *

      Hawthorn’s watering hole was a favorite of law enforcement types. The tables and barstools were placed so no one had their backs to the single door. Robby J, СКАЧАТЬ