"Then Friend comes along," she continued. "Building and brokering organs has been the thing. It's tough to grow them for anyone over – I forget – like ninety because of the timing and the age of the tissue. Takes weeks to grow a new bladder and you've got to do molding and layering and stuff. A lot of work, a lot of money to order one up. But Friend comes up with this artificial material that the body accepts. It's cheap, it's durable, and it can be molded to order. Mass-produced. Applause, applause, let's all live forever."

He glanced up at that, had to grin. "Don't you want to?"

"Not with a bunch of interchangeable spare parts. But anyhow, he gets carried through the streets, the crowd roars and throws buckets of money and adulation at him. And the guys doing organ building and reconstruction research are shoved right out into the cold. Who wants to hang around peeing in a diaper while their new bladder's growing in some lab when they can pop into surgery, get a new, improved one, and be peeing like a champ inside a week?"

"Agreed. And that manufacturing arm of Roarke Industries thanks the full bladders everywhere. But since everyone's happy this way, what good will this little group of mad scientists prove by continuing their work?"

"You keep your own," she said simply. "Medically, it's probably some major miracle – regeneration – like the Frankenstein guy. Here's this half-dead, messed-up heart. Not gonna tick much longer. But what if it can be fixed, completely, like new? You got the part you were born with, not some piece of foreign matter. The Conservative party, which includes Senator Waylan, would dance in the street. Plenty of them have artificial tickers, but they like to stomp around every few years and talk about how it's against the rules of God and humankind to prolong life by artificial means."

"Darling, you've been reading the papers. I'm so impressed."

"Kiss my ass." And it felt good to grin. "I'm betting when Nadine gets in touch, she'll tell me Waylan stands against artificial life aids. You know, the 'if God didn't give it to you, it's immoral' line."

"NewLife routinely deals with protests from natural-life groups. I imagine we'll find the senator supports their stand."

"Yeah, and if he can make a few bucks running interference for a group who promises a new medical and natural miracle, so to speak, so much the better. It would have to be a quick procedure. It couldn't be risky to the patient," she went on. "They'd never outdo the implant unless what they do is as convenient and as successful. Business," she said again. "Profit. Glory. Votes."

"Agreed, again. I'd say they've been working with animal organs up until recently. They must have reached a level of success with that."

"Then they moved up the evolutionary scale. Kept low on it from their viewpoint. Scum, as Cagney put it."

"I'm in," he said mildly and had her blinking.

"In what? In? What've you got? Let me see."

Even as she dashed around the console, he ordered data on-screen. When he pulled her neatly onto his lap, she was too distracted for even a token protest.

"Neat as a pin," she murmured. "Names, dates, procedures, results. Jesus Christ, Roarke, they're all there."

Jasper Mott, October 15, 2058, heart sample successfully removed. Evaluation concurred with previous diagnosis. Organ severely damaged, enlarged. Estimated period until termination, one year.

Logged as donor organ K-489.

Regeneration procedure begun October 16.

She bypassed the rest, focused on her case, her first victim, Snooks.

Samuel M. Petrinsky, January 12, 2059, heart sample successfully removed. Evaluation concurred with previous diagnosis. Organ severely damaged, arteries brittle and clogged, cancer cells stage two. Sample enlarged, estimated period until termination, three months.

Logged as brokered organ S-351.

Regeneration procedure begun January 13.

She skimmed down the rest, out of her depth with the medical jargon. But the last line was easily understood.

Procedure unsuccessful. Sample terminated and disposed of, January 15.

"They stole three months of his life, then failed and tossed his heart away."

"Look at the last one, Eve."

She noted the name – Jilessa Brown – the date, the sample removed.

January 25. Preliminary regeneration successful. Stage two begun. Sample responding to injection and stimuli. Noticeable regrowth of healthy cells. Stage three begun January 26. Naked eye exam shows pinkening of tissue. Sample fully regenerated within thirty-six hours of first injection. All scans and evaluations conclude sample is healthy. No indication of disease. Aging process successfully reversed. Organ fully functional.

"Well." Eve drew a deep breath. "Applause, applause. Now let's fry their asses."

I have done it. Through skill and patience and power, through a judicious use of fine minds and greedy hearts, I have succeeded. Life, essentially endless, is within my reach.

It remains only to repeat the process again, continue the documentation.

My heart trembles, but my hands are steady. They are ever steady. I can look at them and see how perfect they are. Elegant, strong, like works of art carved by divine hands. I've held beating hearts in these hands, have slipped them delicately into the human body to repair, to improve, to prolong life.

Now, finally, I have conquered death.

Some of those fine minds will have regrets, will ask questions, will even doubt the steps that had to be taken now that the goal has been reached. I will not. Great strides often crush even the innocent under the heel.

If lives were lost, we will consider them martyrs to the greater good. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some of those greedy hearts will wheedle and whine, will demand more and calculate how to gain it. Let them. There will be enough for even the most avaricious among them.

And there will be some who will debate the meaning of what I've done, the means by which it was accomplished, and the use of the process. In the end, they'll shove and elbow their way in line, desperate for what I can give them.

And pay whatever is asked.

Within a year, my name will be on the lips of kings and presidents. Glory, fame, wealth, power. They are at my fingertips. What fate once stole from me I have snatched back tenfold. Grand health centers, cathedrals to the art of medicine, will be built for me in every city, in every country on this planet, and everywhere man races to beat death.

Humanity will cannonize me. The saint of their survival.

God is dead, and I am His replacement.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

How to do it was problematic. She could copy the data and send it to Feeney along the same route she had the other information. He'd have it in hand the next day. It would be enough for a warrant, for search and seizure, to drag high-level staff members into interview.

It was a way, a completely unsatisfying way.

She could go to the Drake Center herself, punch her way into the lab, record the data, the samples, pound on high-level staff members until they spilled their guts.

It was not the way, but it would have been very satisfying.

She tapped the disc she'd copied on her palm. "Feeney will close it within forty-eight hours, once he has this. It may take longer to round up everyone involved on at least two continents. But it'll stop."

"We'll put it in overnight now." He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaged the tension and fatigue. "I know it's hard not being there at the end of it. You can comfort yourself knowing there wouldn't be an end in a couple of days unless you'd found the answers. You're a hell of a cop, Eve."