Sorry for the long posting delay. I've acquired a fresh respect for people who write for a living and have to meet deadlines. Those of you who read the first chapter of 'Conference' can safely skip Chapter 1, since they're nearly the same.

Boulder, Colorado
Central Headquarters, International Operations
March 2006

Ivana had called an unusual Saturday morning conference for ten AM. Not that morning meetings, even on Saturdays, were unusual; IO was a seven-day, twenty-four-hour operation, after all. But all the Shop's heavy hitters had been called on very short notice. Usually a meeting with this much senior staff took a week to put together; a lot of schedules had been hastily rearranged, Colby was sure.

The conference wasn't scheduled to start for another fifteen minutes, but he'd been summoned early; it didn't take a cop's instincts to guess why. The details of Friday's fiasco might have been suppressed and all the participants warned not to talk, but there was no way to hide the results; too many local men missing off the duty roster, and Medical looking like a MASH unit. The whole complex was shaken and buzzing with rumors. And it had all started with him ditching his surveillance detail.

When he'd returned to the mall from his clandestine meeting with Lynch, his instincts had warned him of trouble. He hadn't even gotten inside before two Security types he'd never seen before had appeared, steering him towards a black Suburban, and his heart had raced, sure he'd been caught. He'd been a second from taking them out and running when one of them had started to explain. Of all the rotten luck. All the places I could have picked. Why didn't I lose them downtown, instead of in Lynch's backyard?

Colby stepped through the paneled double doors, sweat trickling down his ribs, and surveyed the dark furnishings. The conference room was laid out in what he thought of as 'SPECTRE' décor: gleaming, cold, and ultramodern. He remembered the conference room at the old headquarters in Maclean, Virginia: wood paneling with photos on the walls, upholstered antique chairs, and a table made from honey-colored oak; it had looked like it belonged to a very successful family business, not an international crime syndicate. Craven was every bit as ruthless as Ivana, but the man knew how to foster teamwork.

A long dark table, as shiny as black chrome, stretched away from him, filling the center of the space; each place at the table had a high backed leather swivel chair, a manila folder, a tumbler of water – and a laptop computer, tethered to the table like a bank pen. A row of plainer seats lined each of the long walls, and a billboard monitor filled the far wall opposite the door. In front of it, at the head of the table, Ivana was already seated, with a couple of her cronies standing in attendance. Her Security Adviser, Gerry Ruche, said, "Frank. Good to see you didn't get lost on the way here."

He had no use for Ruche; the man's sole talent seemed to be the ability to figure out what Ivana wanted to hear, and say it. No, that wasn't fair; he was shrewd, a keen observer, and had a habit of making good guesses in a business where you always had more information than you could use, but never had all you needed. But he'd never been on a team, never even been in the field; he had an office weenie's contempt for the men in the trenches. Ruche's smartass remark made Colby want to grab him by the lapels of his Saville Row suit.

Colby hadn't made it to the second slot in Operations by telling people like Ruche what he thought. Nonetheless, he couldn't let the man's comment slide. "I was never lost, Ruche. Your boys just got lost following me. They need better training." He couldn't help adding, "As evidenced by the number of them in traction right now."

The man's face darkened; he would have said something, but Ivana interjected. "Frank, I didn't call you in here early to trade insults with Gerry. I know you've been making a game of losing your security detail. I've let it slide, because you are teaching them better fieldcraft – the smartest ones, anyway. But it has to stop now. By the end of this meeting, you'll understand why, and I'll expect you to start cooperating. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am. Though I can't for the life of me understand how they lost me on a shopping trip in a mall … and what happened after."

"As I said, you'll understand before you leave this room; I expect all of us to have a better understanding of what happened, and a plan for dealing with it. The others will be here in a few minutes, Frank. Why don't you take a seat, and pick up one of the briefs. Perhaps a head start will give you a chance to trim some fat from the discussion." She was at her urbane best, he saw; the mask was firmly in place. But he wasn't fooled, and she knew he wasn't fooled; she knew he wasn't ditching his surveillance for fun, and she would find out the real reason. And if she didn't like what she learned, he was going to be very sorry.

He took a seat about a third of the way down the long table, and picked up the brief that lay in front of him. He was surprised to see that it contained mostly photographs: Lynch's girls, and another he'd never seen. One photo was a blowup of the unknown: another petite like the Spaulding kid. Mid-twenties, short, light blonde hair, elfin features, beautiful blue eyes; almost other-worldly. He studied it for several minutes, and then put it down. "This isn't much of a brief. I presume we're going to find out who this is at the meeting?"

"Frank," she said heavily, "We'll be going over everything at this meeting, but that brief is all the printed material you'll be taking away. As little of it as we can manage will leave this room; it's that sort of situation."

Ruche took a seat at Ivana's right hand as the other conferees sidled in, nervous as mice in the kitchen. They all took note of his and Ivana's early presence, but no one spoke to him, and the seats next to him were the last to fill. We're representatives of one of history's most powerful organizations, governments included, meeting to make life-or-death decisions, and they're acting like they're back in high school. If Lynch was running this show, or Miles Craven … But no. I wonder if she really got a leg up the company ladder by sleeping with Craven. It would explain why women who get into 'relationships' with senior IO staff always seem to have something wrong with their efficiency reports, and why no other female has ever made it past department head.

"All right, people," Ivana said, "Let's get started; we have a lot of ground to cover. I hope nobody's got a tee time this afternoon." A few chuckles at that, but since it was only ten in the morning, her point was made: this discussion was top priority for IO's most senior people. And it had all started with him ditching his surveillance detail.

"Mr. Santini is still seeing to training issues at Maclean, so Mr. Colby will be sitting in for the Director." As if Santini could spend five minutes in a meeting with Ivana without igniting fireworks. IO still maintained some offices in their old Virginia location, as well as the training facility for the Operations Directorate. Ivana had effectively ceded the Maclean facilities to Santini, and they saw each other as little as they could manage. It's a good thing his loyalty to the Shop is beyond question.

The laptop in front of him lit up, and Ruche started his spiel. "First, some ground rules. This is an open discussion, and a brainstorming session; any idea has to be considered at this point. But if you have a question or something to say, join the queue by clicking the appropriate button on your sidebar display."

Colby clicked on the button, and saw his name and job title appear at the top of the queue.

"Yes, Mr. Colby? A question already?"

"Gerry, do we all see the same information?" He saw the man was clearly affronted by the use of his first name in a meeting. Tough. If he can use mine while he's trying to slam me in front of the boss, he can put up with it from me while he's trying to lord it over his fellow bureaucrats. "I thought the presentation might be tailored to individuals; the terminals have that capability." Though I doubt you ever use it for anything but e-mail and Power Point.

Indulgently, Ruche said, "No, Frank, we all see the same thing on our displays, so we know what we're looking at."

Good; now I know you can't get away with erasing someone's name from the queue, at least. "Thanks. Sorry to interrupt."

"No problem. Okay, a little background. All of you have some knowledge of Project Genesis and its significance in our operations, but that knowledge has been compartmentalized to the point that it may make understanding of our present situation difficult."

Colby fumed inwardly at the man's self-serving explanation. Translation: you've got so many overlapping and conflicting security restrictions on Project Genesis, who really knows what is anybody's guess.

"Genesis started as a Research project to develop people with special talents for covert assignments, and as a Research project it succeeded beyond all imagining." An obvious tip of the hat to Ivana's former department. "After ten trial generations, we moved from lab animals to human test subjects, and our troubles began. We needn't go into clinical details of the eleventh and twelfth trials-"

Meaning, we needn't make anyone lose their breakfast...

"-but the experimental regime uncovered a high incidence of mental instability in the test subjects. Such people were deemed unsuitable for work that required cool heads under stress. But Genesis treatments affect the subject's DNA; it was learned that our test subjects were passing the potential for extranormal talent on to their offspring. Around puberty, these juveniles began showing amazing abilities – without any distressing side effects. So we recruited as many as we could find, especially individuals whose abilities hadn't yet manifested."

Harder than it should have been, but you didn't get much cooperation from the Twelves once you started kidnapping their children for their talents.

"What many of you may not know is that most of these Genactives dropped out of the program two years ago."

Escaped, that is. When he left, Jack shut down every neural dampener in the complex, destroyed all the kids' files, and sent them running with cash and a contact. He said it was the least he could do for the ones he couldn't take with him, but it also made a hell of a diversion. The Callahan kids are about all we've got left, and Ivana's scared to let them out of her reach.

"Since then, our top priority has been these wayward juveniles: locating them, sometimes to bring them back into the program, but especially making sure they don't use their powers to do harm to the country. There are ninety-one known specials at large; the number may be twice that high."

Colby's mouth tightened. Yeah, sometimes we bring one in; from what I hear, Ivana's not having much luck bringing them over to the Dark Side. The predisposition for madness is buried deep but still there; subject them to torture and drugs and mind-control tricks and instead of breaking, they shatter. The people in charge of Genesis have a lot to answer for.

"Up till now, our resources and organization have given us a big advantage. These people we're interested in are mostly pairs, isolated and on the run. The largest known group of Genactives consists of five Thirteens and a Twelve, and they've thwarted our every effort to locate and contain them." He added, carefully looking at no one, "Almost as if they had inside information."

The hairs on the back of Colby's neck rose.

"Lynch's kids." It was Ivery, head of Research Directorate after Ivana took over; he'd been one of her chief stooges on the Project, and she'd promoted him over half a dozen senior men.

"Please enter the queue for a comment or question, Doctor Ivery. But yes. Our former Director of Operations bugged out with five Genactive juveniles; what plans he has for them are unknown. But, as you'll see, letting them remain at large would be ignoring a threat to all mankind."

A montage of photos appeared on his screen: Lynch and all the kids, in pictures from before their 'recruitment', throughout their time in the complex, and some mostly low-quality shots that had been taken since they'd been on the run. He noted from the dates and locations that some of the best ones couldn't be Lynch's kids at all; rather, they must be doubles, part of the old man's misdirection campaign. They just seem too clean-cut and good looking to be dangerous. Then again, the Callahan kids are too, and the boy Matt is the scariest sonofabitch ever to walk the earth.

"At seventeen-forty yesterday, a member of an IO security detail observed this woman entering the Westminster Mall in San Diego." A mall security cam shot of Jack's redhead, Alex's girl, with the little brunette. "She was identified as Caitlin Fairchild, a member of Lynch's group. The rest of the detail was immediately reassigned to her." Might as well; they sure weren't going to find me. "She met another member of her group, Roxanne Spaulding, at the door, then went straight to the food service area, where she met Sarah Rainmaker – that's the third Callahan kid - and an unknown." The picture changed again, a food-court shot with all of them gathered around a table; the little blonde was there, clearly part of the group.

Ivana spoke; clearly, the queuing system wouldn't apply to her. "Curious. We chase all over the world looking for them, with no success. Then they suddenly appear, practically on our doorstep, right under the eyes of a watch team. Oblivious to any danger, apparently. At this point, they were pretty much in the bag, wouldn't you say? They're in a box, with all the exits covered, and people watching their every move. We have a team watching the parking garage, and several more in the lots, just in case they get out of the building and have more than one car. And their capture team is less than an hour out." Her voice hardened. "Even if they spotted a tail before we followed them home, these four, at least, should be in holding areas in the basement right now. Instead … What's the summary from Medical, Mr. Ruche?"

"We have eleven people in the hospital; four won't be leaving any time soon, and we're looking at one medical retirement at least, maybe two. One death."

Ivana's lip curled. "So, how did this … cheerleading squad … manage to evade, brush aside, or take down fifty agents, and disappear again? Without chipping a nail, I might add. Without dropping their shopping bags."

Ruche answered crisply. "I think we need to look right here." The little blonde's picture filled the screen again. She had large eyes, gray-blue, very cute and innocent. "We thought the fourth girl might be a normal, just an acquaintance. When she split off from the other girls, we almost didn't tail her."

Amateurs.

"The original Lynch group left to catch a film, while this one entered a clothing store – for two hours."

"Meeting someone?"

The man who spoke, Bradley from Legal, was at the top of the queue; he just hadn't waited for permission to speak. He saw Ruche glance at his screen and remove Bradley's name from the top of the list. "No, shopping. They'd been in the mall since three. They spent thousands of dollars in less than three hours, very conspicuous behavior for a bunch of people on the run. Now, look at this." Security cams again: the little blonde, all made up now and in a very different outfit, stepped out of the store, made a big show of remembering something, and turned back inside. The video froze just before she disappeared into the doorway.

"She made her tail." Again, it was Bradley who spoke.

"Worse," Ruche said. "She'd been in that store for two hours, making another huge purchase. See her carrying any bags? We think she stepped out the door to make sure her tail was still there." The scene changed: a tiled hallway, looked like public restrooms. A man lounged against one wall.

"I give you one Michael Hale, age twenty-seven, combat veteran, Marine, one tour in Iraq, another in Intelligence. Recent recruit breaking in on an easy detail, just watching the bathrooms and a door to the dock." The little blonde rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. "We're playing this at half speed, so you can see what happens."

What happened was that the girl floated towards the guard in slow motion, smiled at him, and struck like a snake, a blur even at half speed; suddenly she was all over him, one hand on his crotch, the other around his waist. They kissed, spoke briefly, then kissed again; still wrapped around each other, they slid sideways into a restroom and disappeared from view. Just two horny kids with a taste for cheap thrills, grabbing a quickie in a public place.

"That's some hello. They know each other?"

"Dr. Ellis, the queue, please? No, they're strangers. And there's more to this clinch than first appears." Ruche replayed the scene. "Look at Hale's hand. He was going for his gun when she grabbed him. In the debrief, he said it was like being in the grip of a bear. He couldn't clear his weapon."

A ribbon of text appeared at the bottom of his screen.

Frank, keep your name in the queue at all times. I want all your input on this person.

He did, and happened to be next in line. "What about his bio monitor?"

"Went offline as soon as she touched him, spoofed it somehow. She took it away and strapped it on her own wrist; it read seventy- two the whole time she … did what she was doing." This time, when he submitted, he was third in line.

"And what was she doing?" It wasn't quite a leer. He checked the name: Simmons, from Accounting. What the hell is Accounting doing at a meeting like this? This mother-may-I routine starts to make more sense, with knuckleheads like this butting in.

"Beating the stuffing out of him, with her bare hands. She strangled his testicles and gave him a concussion before she bothered taking his piece. Then she really got to work. Half the bones in his hands crushed, elbows too; his knees will have to be replaced before he walks again. He may not be siring children, either. One ear half torn off, along with some broken bones in his face; three broken ribs; some nasty bites on his arm, but he did that himself. Quite a mess. We have pictures, if you have the stomach for it. She was after information, and she got it. The boy cracked like an egg, in thirty minutes."

Simmons wasn't looking so cocky, suddenly; maybe the schmuck would keep his mouth shut for the rest of the conference. He hoped.

"That's bad, but I've seen people take worse than that without breaking. I've seen people take beatings for days without giving up anything." Colby recognized him: Mike Diehl, presently in Personnel, but a former Team Two member, and an old buddy of Santini's. This guy would say something worth listening to. "This kid was no pushover; he had training and experience. How'd she do it?"

"The PsyOps boys would love to know. Somehow, this little pixie that we almost overlooked screwed with that man's head so thoroughly, we had to pull all female staff out of earshot of his room; the sound of a woman's voice sends him into fits."

He was up. "How much did you get out of him in debrief?"

"Everything. He couldn't shut up about it at first. It took a lot of sedation to quiet him down."

He looked at the two rows of chairs against the walls: some were occupied, presumably by people with information the principals might want. "Is the officer who debriefed him present?"

A man stood: mid-forties, thinning hair, but fit and hard; he and Colby sized each other up with cop/troop eyes, and approved. "Here, sir. Phillips; I'm his team leader. I handled it myself."

So this is the man in charge of my security detail, the man whose people I've been embarrassing for years. "How is he doing, really?"

It was clear by the man's face that the Assistant Director was the first official to ask. He gave Colby the smallest of head shakes. "I can't guess. I've seen men held captive by fanatics for weeks who weren't this messed up."

"Gerry, can we see that hallway scene again?"

"Frank, the queue's getting pretty long."

"Mr. Ruche," Ivana put in, "I think Mr. Colby is on to something. I'm sure that Mr. Ellis and the people from Transportation will be willing to wait." She looked around the table. "Or even remove their names from the queue, to expedite the discussion." The list on the sidebar suddenly shrank by two thirds.

The scene replayed, again at half speed. "Stop," he said at the second kiss; the scene froze. The camera quality was unusually good: he could even see her tongue going into his mouth. Someone coughed. "Mr. Phillips, how did he describe this? The second kiss."

Someone at the table snorted. The team leader stared at the man, his face a stony mask. "She told him the first one wasn't any good; if he wanted to keep his balls, he'd have to do better."

The room got quiet enough to hear the ventilation.

"The first kiss was enough for the camera," Colby said to no one in particular. "The second had another purpose." He looked at the screen. "This wasn't an interrogation. It was a rape."