Split Second—the killer’s genetic fingerprints have come back from the lab. They contain multiple restriction polymorphic DNA sequencers. There’s more. They indicate that the killer has the DNA structures of all of its victims … and rat DNA. It rips out the hearts of its victims. Why? This something is loose ripping people’s hearts out of their chests and eating them so that it can take their souls back to hell.
Sara’s off-campus residence is a penthouse loft on Washington Street. Nine never comes here. There’s nothing Borg about. Everything is mundane and so human. Just like it was before she got made machine.
She’s dressed in a “What’s a Virgin in La La Land called?” T-shirt, a grey Sweaty Betty sports bra and matching thong, and DIY-Shredded-brand torn-ripped faded jeans. The destroyed jeans are tight. Her classic hi-top sneakers are by Converse—black and white Converse Chuck Taylor All Star 70s.
The three-word answer to the question posed on the front of her tee-shirt is on the back. Those three words are: A Deluded Whore.
No sternns and sternka to scream: “Sexually repressed!” in sharp contrast to her sexy grunge outfit. No eyeglasses, whatsoever. Her golden hair is worn in a classic French braid—a long, whipping braid that hangs down her back. Which has come to be her trademark whether she’s wearing her EXO or not.
They’re waiting for her when she enters her condo. Her place has been tossed. She closes and locks the door. Places her keys in a bowl atop a handmade foyer table.
Christine Clark is NSA. Fred Johnson is Military Intelligence. They were part of the six-person team that debriefed her on campus after the Phobos mission when she arrived back on-planet. This must be the unofficially debrief. Fred led the official one. Now, it’s Chris’ turn.
“I don’t know.”
Chris and Fred are human—100% flesh. But. They have been genetically enhanced. They’re Superhumans. A bleeding edge expression of advanced Homo Sapiens.
“We were watching you’ll on Europa via a keyhole [satellite]. Activating six chevrons on a Stargate means you’re going someplace in the same universe. Seven chevrons means you’re going someplace in another universe. Eight means another metaphysical plane. Eight lite up when Wen took Pan away.”
“You should ask Wen.”
“You’re still flesh. They’re metal. They will turn on you.”
“Are you so sure I’m still flesh?”
“You’re still twenty-percent machine. So, yes, I sure you’re still flesh.”
“Hopefully, for your sake, that percentage still means something. Else your plans to turn me against the machines and use me as your spy get dashed.”
While she’s talking to Chris, she notices how covetously Fred is looking at her. A married man, with seven kids, Fred is a known philanderer with a reputation for being hung like a horse. His type of “girl on the side” likes it rough, takes it up the ass, and likes to lick ass and suck anus. Girls for whom love making can easily be mistaken for rape. His wife likes it conventional, no head, no anal worship, nothing fetish, only the missionary position need apply—don’t bother me more than twice a week. Which is why he goes outside the home for his cherished depravity.
Sara would love to rip up his delicate anal tissue with her hung-like-a-horse strap-on. Not to mention shove that same oversized prosthetic cock of hers down his throat and make him gag. Giving him a taste of his own medicine. She wouldn’t do it to revenge his taking advantage of masochistic lovers who crave the abuse he craves dishing out. She’d do it for fun. Depravity, not radical feminism, being her motivation.
“You still dating that guy, who looks like a male model, on the side?”
“Why ask a question that you already know the answer to?”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes, my boyfriend is Oliver Queen.”
Oliver Jonas “Ollie” Queen, to be precise. A real hunk and a half, who has done his share of modeling. A buff pretty boy from a monied family, very old money, who’s hung like a proverbial horse. And he knows what to do with his wanton tongue and equine-ish schwang to send a girl into orbit. A skill set in the boudoir that would give any porn star a run for his money.
“Does Ollie know he’s a Cylon?”
The original Oliver Queen was killed in a skiing accident when he was a teenager.
“You know Oliver doesn’t.”
“Maybe we should tell Ollie what he really is, just to spite you?”
“Go ahead. Oliver won’t remember what you told him a minute later.”
“A minute of anguish and confusion after the reveal, and then ‘puff’, he resets?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re a cold, calculating bitch.”
“It takes one to know one.”