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against the siliplex wall. She turned to the computer monitor and bit her lip for the line

remained flat across the screen, it's harsh, prolonged beep sounding ominous in the

treatment room. "Come on, Cree," she said urgently. "Don't check out on us now!"

"Do not leave me, beloved!" He heard her pleading with him. "I need you!"

Once more Drewe thrust his dagger into Cree's chest and icy fluid filled his heart. He

stumbled away from the shepherd lieutenant and held out his hand to her, straining to

touch the fingers she stretched toward him.

"Come, beloved! Come with me!"

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"Blood pressure is falling!" Dorrie yelled. "We're losing him!"

He had almost reached her hand; he could feel the coolness of her fingertips. He saw

her smile and answered it with one of his own.

"Beloved," she sighed. "I am here for you."

The monster was closing on him. He could hear its metallic scream. He knew he had to

get to her, touch her. If he did, he would be safe.

"I have a hitch!" Tina shouted.

Who is that man? He asked, tearing his gaze from her to the faceless being who had

appeared behind her. He opened his mouth to demand that the male leave, but before he

could, the mysterious being had swooped down and taken the woman, Cree's woman, into

his arm and was flying away with her!

"No!" Cree pleaded. "Don't take her away from me! For the love of the gods, don't
take her away from me!"

Dr. Dean spun around and strode to the gallery. "Once a day!" she shouted at those

assembled behind the Siliplex barrier. "Once a day and no
more
than that!"

"Three times a day was what the Tribunal ordered." Onar hissed.

"Once a day and no more than that!" the Director shrieked like a madwoman. "I will not allow you to kill Drae Cree's son!"

There was a long pause as the people in the gallery stood and stared. Finally, the lone

woman spoke for them all. "Twice a day will be sufficient, Madame Director."

"No. Not acceptable! Once and once only!" came the enraged reply.

Again there was a long pause, then the people in the gallery huddled together, seemed

to be discussing the problem. One or two seemed to be arguing strenuously, most of all

the woman, but when Onar stormed from the gallery, another man flung up his hands as

though in surrender. Eventually, he shrugged, turned away and motioned the others out.

The woman looked at Dr. Dean and nodded slightly, inferring agreement with the

Director's demand.

Dr. Dean swore beneath her breath, turned and strode angrily to the table. "Get that

thing out of his mouth, Dunne!" she ordered Bridget.

Bridget eased the wedge from between Cree's lips and wiped away the black flecks of

blood from the corner of his mouth. He came awake with a start, coughed, gagged, and

strained to get up. He was trembling, his body wracked with desperate shivers.

"Remove these!" Bridget demanded, leaning over to begin unbuckled the restraint

bands. When the one anchored across his chest came off, he turned partially over on his

side, gagging violently.

Dorrie, who was wringing out the cloth Bridget had used to wipe his mouth, noticed

the look of helplessness on his pained face. "It's all over for today," she said, wondering at the gentleness in her voice. "They're just going to do one session a day from now on.

More sessions than that are just too much for your heart."

"One?" came the pained gasp. His tone said such news could not possibly be true; that the promise of only one torment a day was a torture in itself.

"Just one," Tina reiterated. "You can handle that, can't you, Captain?"

"Where did she go?" he whispered.

"Who, Captain?" Tina inquired.

"Why does she keep leaving me? What have I done to make her leave me?"

Dorrie exchanged a look with Tina.

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"Stop talking and let's get him back to his room," Bridget ordered.

For the first time since he had begun the reinforcement treatments, Dorrie and Tina

walked behind Cree's gurney and helped Bridget settle him in his cot. Dorrie pursed her

lips in irritation as Bridget drew a syringe from her pocket. "What is that, Doctor?"

Bridget ignored the tech. "I'll stay with him until he falls asleep," was all she said.

"If that's a sedative, you could be further endangering his life."

"He needs to sleep," Bridget snapped, already preparing to give the injection to their patient, but Dorrie snaked out a hand and grabbed her wrist. With fury leaping in her

green eyes, Bridie turned on the tech, but Tina stepped between them.

"Dorrie's right. You'd better damned well know what you're going to give him isn't

going to stop his heart again!"

Bridget hesitated. She really hadn't thought of that. She looked from Dorrie to Cree.

"He is near burnout. We need—"

"He needs triso," Dorrie interrupted. "That's the only safe thing to give him right now."

"And just where the hell am I supposed to get that?" Bridget countered.

Dorrie smiled. "I think I can find some." With that, she turned and left the room.

Cree had been listening intently to the exchange between the women. He felt as though

he had been standing at ground zero when a megaton plasma bomb had exploded. His

entire being hurt and he was having trouble focusing. When Dorrie returned, and pushed

Bridget aside, he stared up at her blankly, unable to remember who she was.

"Make a fist for me, baby," Dorrie said. When he couldn't comply, she pulled a length of elastic tubing from her lab coat, lifted his limp arm and tied the elastic just above his

elbow, then slapped the vein in his arm until it rose. Satisfied with the accessibility of his vein, she uncapped the syringe with her teeth and proceeded to inject the purple-tinted

chemical into his vein.

"Don't let her leave me," Cree begged, trying to push up from the bed. He was too

weak and fell back.

"Bridie will stay with you," Dorrie told him.

By the time Bridget moved into place by the bed, he was fast asleep, his tired, pale face

even more heart wrenching.

So innocent-looking, she thought with a pang of regret. So vulnerable and so helpless

lying there. As dangerous as he was, in this condition, he looked defenseless. Idly, she

wondered if Reapers were allowed to dream or if they had been programmed not to. Her

gaze roamed over his face, taking in his finely sculpted features: the firm jaw and high

cheekbones; the dark brown eyes which—when not glaring murderously—were beautiful

and soft. The length of his thick lashes played a part in mellowing those demon eyes and

she knew of at least a hundred women who would kill to have lashes as long and sooty as

his. He had very sensuous lips, she realized, behind which startling white teeth hid. A

fine, straight nose gave his face a boyish cast that was very endearing. A wide chest,

firmly muscled and thick with a crisp pelt of dark curls. A rock hard, flat belly with

rippled abdominal muscles. Long legs, lean hips, a neatly curved rump and slender,

aristocratic feet. All in all, a very handsome man.

But a man no woman on FSK-14 would ever dare want. He was a Reaper, after all, and

the most deadly of his kind. His kills were rumored to be numbered in the thousands.

When he went into Transition....

"Bridget."

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She jumped, staring down at Cree as he whispered her name again. She watched him

turn over to his side and draw his knees up, looking more like a little boy than ever as he

flung his left hand off the edge of the cot.

She took his hand and laid it on the cot beside him. He was warm, too warm, and she

realized he was feverish again. Leaning forward, she stroked his lank hair back and felt

his forehead. His sweat made her palm slick. Studying his shoulder-length brown hair,

she envied him the thickness and sheen although at the moment, because it had not been

washed in nearly two weeks, it was oily and in dire need of a good combing.

"Bridget, don't leave me," he whispered again and she was intrigued with the slight Chalean brogue that reminded her so vividly of the Highland brogues of Scotland.

"I'm here, Captain," she answered though she knew he was talking in his sleep. Her

hand moved down his lean jaw.

Had she thought no woman would want him?

She caressed his cheek and acknowledged that there just might be one.

SUICIDE!

"The taking of one's own life is the ultimate betrayal, you understand," the woman in the gallery was instructing. "It is the ultimate shame for a warrior. The ultimate guilt."

He ran the sharp edge of the dagger blade over his left wrist and watched the black

blood pumping furiously from the wound. It dripped down his forearm, pooled on the

floor and continued to spread in rivulets around his feet.

"Why, beloved? Why?" She cried, her sobbing loud in his ears.

He transferred the blade to his other hand and slashed at his right wrist, smiling

grimly as the flesh gaped open, blood welled, the spurted.

"Kamerone, why?"

"You left me," he told her sadly. "I could not bear the loneliness."

Shame, such overpowering shame, at his own weakness, his inability to control his life,

washed over him as his life's blood began to drain away.

Guilt, soul-wrenching guilt, had gripped him, embraced him, brought him into the

waiting arms of death. He was pressed against that carrion body like an abandoned

lover. Death's perfume of the grave filled his nostrils and blotted out the lemony scent of
her hair.

"Oh, Kamerone!" She sighed so forlornly.

Defeat, crushing, sustained defeated had tripped him up; had brought to him the

startling realization that he was a coward dying a coward's death.

Fire...noose.

"Stage One complete."

SPACE...POISON...WATER.

"Stage Two complete."

ROCKS...DREWE...DISEASE.

"Stage Three complete."

SAND...COLD...BLOCKS.

"Stage Four complete."

He hardly knew he was sobbing as Bridget removed the wedge from his lips. Tina was

stroking his arm, saying something he could not hear. Dorrie was unclipping his

restraints, letting her hands linger on his thigh; actually smiling at him. Dr. Dean patted

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his shoulder and told him he would be able to sleep again; reminding him that it wouldn't

be long now.

The orderlies rolled him back to his cell. The injection. The soft touch of Bridget's

hand on his brow. Her intoxicating scent easing him into sleep, blessed sleep.

DR. BERYLA Dean and Dr. Hael Sejm sat across from one another as they ate. The

two women had known one another for many years and were the best of friends. Having

graduated University together, they shared a common bond not only in their love of

science and medicine, but in their steadfast devotion to the Resistance. Both were leaders

of the primarily female force that fully intended to free all women from the Rysalian

Empire's subjugating yoke. They often came to Rysalia Prime to spend an afternoon in

this safe house sat up by the Resistance, where the walls did not have eyes and ears;

where they could speak freely without having to fear their words and actions would be

reported.

"There was nothing I could do, Beryla," Hael stated. "I argued until I was blue in the face, but Onar would not relent."

Dr. Dean made an undignified snort and took up her goblet of Ionarian wine. She took

a healthy swallow then set the crystal goblet down. "I am not blaming you, Hael."

"Unfortunately, I have not been allowed access to the final treatment medications," Dr.

Sejm told her. "I can't guarantee what Sorn will do."

Once more Dr. Dean snorted. "That bitch would double the dose if she could get away

with it!"

"We can only hope and pray she does not," Hael responded.

The mention of Delyn Sorn took away Beryla's appetite and she picked up her napkin,

wiped her lips, then threw the linen on the table. "Of all the physicians he could have

chosen, why in God's name did he pick that bitch?"

Hael had no love for the Diabolusian doctor, either, and said as much. "Because he

knows she'll do exactly as he says. You, on the other hand, infuriated him yesterday and

since you did it in front of other Tribunal members, this is his way of punishing you."

"That bitch was in the gallery every day watching us," the Director hissed. "Enjoying the whole sordid mess!"

Hael shrugged. "She watches all the reinforcements; you know that. The woman is not

only a voyeur, she's a perverted voyeur."

"Let's hope she isn't a murderous voyeur."

Hael toyed with the remainder of her Chalean brandy. "How dangerous could it be for