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statement, but Bridget could tell he had filed it away for future use.

Beryla smiled. "As I said, I think we understand one another."

"It would seem so," Cree replied.

Bridget's brows flew upward at the soft, capitulating agreement. The man hadn't given

in but he had admitted he dared do nothing to Dr. Dean. That, in itself, was a victory of

sorts for Beryla.

"Then I suggest you go back to your room and rest," the Director told him. "Tomorrow will be long and tiring for you." When he started to turn, Beryla cleared her throat,

gaining his attention again. "And please do not vent your anger on the man who comes to

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fix the camera, Captain."

Cree's jaw clenched. He glanced at Bridget, let his hawk-like scrutiny rake down her

once again, then spun on his heel with military precision. The guards barely had time to

move out of his way and fall into step with him as he marched toward his cell.

"I wish he wouldn't do that!" Bridget hissed. "I hate the way he looks at me!"

"It was just that kind of look that caught our attention a year ago, Bridie," the Director reminded her in a whisper, lowering her head so the camera just above their heads would

not see her lips moving. "Otherwise, he wouldn't be here."

"I don't like it," Bridget said. She nodded at the engineer who passed them on the way to repair the camera in Cree's cell.

"You don't have to like it, dear," the Director suggested. Her own attention was caught and held by the guards accompanying the engineer. No one wanted to take a chance of

the Reaper attacking the poor technician as he replaced the broken camera.

"He gives me the chills," Bridget shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Beryla Dean smiled. "They don't call him the Iceman for nothing!"

"HE LOOKS exhausted," Bridget commented as she watched the Reaper walk

toward them.

"He is," the Director answered. "He's had no sleep and the anxiety which is usually controlled by the triso has put him in an even worse mood."

Cree didn't acknowledge the good morning from the Director as he joined her and

Bridget at the door to Treatment Suite Seven. He ignored Bridget entirely and fixed his

unwavering attention on the red enamel door leading into TS-7.

"Ready, Captain?" Dr. Dean asked. When she received no answer, she nodded and

Bridget punched in the access code to the suite.

When the door slid open, Cree faltered. The room beyond was darkly lit and smelled of

chemicals that made his flesh crawl. An X-shaped metal table sat in the center of the

room; several carts holding strange-looking instruments were grouped around the table.

An odd buzzing sound waxed and waned as a door shushed open and four women

technicians entered the suite. At the far end of the room was a Siliplex viewing box filled

with onlookers.

"I wasn't aware there was going to be an audience to my torture." "Ignore them, Captain," the Director advised. "They are Court-appointed witnesses and should not

concern you."

"The more the merrier."

Bridget exchanged a look with Dr. Dean. They both knew the man was jittery as hell,

but trying his best to conceal his nervousness. Reapers were not allowed to show

weakness of any kind.

"If you will lay down on the table, Captain, we can begin," Dr. Dean told him.

Cree had a wild urge to turn and run, to get as far away from the room as he could. It

wasn't just the way the other women—the ones he had never seen before—were staring

so avidly and expectantly at him, it was the very atmosphere inside the treatment suite

that seemed to pose a threat. From the huge cauldron-like lights over the table to the

rolling carts with their gleaming instruments, he felt the emanations of danger.

"Captain?" He turned and looked at Dr. Dean. Behind the tortoise-shell frames of her glasses, the woman's eyes were kind, gentle, and for some reason that infuriated him.

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"What is it you want me to do?" he snapped.

"Lie down on the table," the Director repeated.

Cree looked at the table, hesitated for a fraction of a second before going to it and

hopping up. The stainless steel platform was ice-cold beneath the thin fabric of the

pajama's bottoms, colder still on his naked back. As he stretched out—made even more

uneasy since his arms and legs were spread-eagle on the table—he felt a quiver of dread

tighten his groin.

"We are going to restrain you, now, Sir," one of the women said.

Cree lifted his head as two of the women snapped wide metal bands in place around

each of his ankles. Moving up the table like mirror images of one another, they clasped

more bands across his knees and upper thighs.

He sat up. "Is this necessary?" he asked but neither woman answered.

"I'm afraid it is. Please lie down, Captain," Bridget told him.

For just a moment he considered refusing, but he knew gods-be-damned well it would

not do him any good if he did. He was already trapped, his legs bolted to the table like

twin jet propulsion units. With his jaw set, his teeth grinding, he lay down and had to

keep from howling out his frustration when the same two women imprisoned his wrists

and forearms to the table.

"Where the hell do you women think I can go?" he bellowed, his temper rising. He

didn't like being restrained. No Reaper did. To be restrained was to be helpless and

Reapers could not afford to be helpless.

"I know this seems excessive, Captain," Dr. Dean agreed, "but assault therapy causes severe convulsions. We don't want you to break an arm or a leg." She looked at Bridget.

"Will you attach the monitor leads, Bridie?"

Cree stared at Bridget as she came to stand beside him. He felt her hands on him and

flinched as she snapped a metal band into place across his chest. The band was tight, too

tight, but he would be damned if he'd tell her so. He realized she was looking intently at

his chest, at the spot beneath which his heart lay, and he snorted angrily.

"Worried I'll have a heart attack and ruin your fun?"

Bridget had been staring at the Reaper insignia tattooed on his left pectoral. The

crimson drawing of a stylized scythe had been made with a laser brush and had to have

been extremely painful. Burned into Cree's chest, there would be no way to remove it

other than by shaving off a layer of flesh.

"I wouldn't worry about having a heart attack, Captain," Dr. Dean answered for

Bridget. She could tell the younger woman was troubled by the tattoo.

"You aren't the one who'd be having it, now, are you?"

Bridget laughed softly. Being restrained as he was, not knowing what to expect,

already so tense and jittery the graph on the monitor attached to his chest was fluttering

like crazy, the man was still trying to maintain the aura of his invincibility, displaying his disdain for what was going to be done to him.

"I'm glad you find this so gods-be-damned funny!" Cree glared at the one called

Bridget as she leaned over him. He could smell her perfume and found it disturbing. Had

he tried, he could have looked down the front of her uniform top, but her hands were at

his throat, buckling into place another infernal restraint.

"Take your places ladies," the Director ordered, "so we can begin."

Cree clamped his teeth together and tried to breathe slowly and easily through his nose,

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but he felt the terror mounting. He heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears and felt the

sweat oozing down his breastbone despite the chill of the treatment suite. When Bridget

moved to the head of the table and rested her hands to either side of his head, he strained

to look up at her, but the pressure on his throat would not allow him. He cursed and

wished he hadn't for the weight of the restraint on his larynx was painful.

Bridget felt an inexplicable urge to stroke the shiny thickness of the Captain's hair to

try to calm the anxiety that was making the EKG traces leap across the monitor screen.

His sleek dark curls intrigued her. His hair looked soft as a kitten's fur and just as lush; it gleamed in the glow cast from the overhead operating light. The DNA mix that had

created this warrior had done an excellent job of arranging the Reaper's genes.

"We will begin now," Dr. Dean said and nodded at Bridget.

"I know you aren't going to like this, but I'm only trying to prevent you from

swallowing your tongue or biting through it when the convulsions begin."

Before he could demand to know what she was talking about, Bridget thrust something

between his lips, into his mouth, and partway down his throat before anchoring his jaw

closed, pressing his chin upward as she braced his head against her belly. He grunted with

fury, his eyes flashing brown fire, but she shook her head.

"It's necessary, Captain. I'm sorry." She shrugged at his snort of contempt. "You'll have to endure it."

"This is an artificial neurotransmitter being inserted in the hypothalamus," the Director explained, furthering unsettling him. He felt something cool on the skin just below his

elbow then the sting of a needle being inserted into his taut arm.

"Do you have him, Bridie?" one of the women asked.

"Yes."

"He's all yours then."

The women stepped back from the table.

THE FIRST thing Cree felt was the heat. Intense, invading, blistering heat. It

flashed across his face, curled along his neck and lapped at his chest. It ran down his

outstretched arms, scorched his fingertips, pulsed down his chest, spread to his abdomen,
then shot down his legs, singeing the hair. Felt the blood inside his veins boiling, his skin
peeling away, exposing cartilage and bone, heard the very marrow inside him breaking

open and sizzling. So instantaneous was the sensation, so penetrating, it felt as though he
had been dropped into the gaping maw of an inferno. The pain was unlike anything he

could have imagined. The heat took his breath away as his lungs began to bake inside his

chest.

"Stage One complete," he heard the computer announce.

After the heat came the most frightening feeling he had ever had in his life. Along with

the suffocating feel pressing in on his lungs, he began to experience a sensation of

impending doom. He was being drawn toward a precipice over which he knew he would

be thrown, tumbling, pleading, screaming to his death, his body broken and exposed on

the jagged rocks below as it hit, laying the very core of him open to view. The imminent

sureness of his death came lunging up at him with the speed of an asteroid hurtling

through space and he screamed behind the constriction of the mouthpiece stuck between

his teeth.

"Stage Two complete."

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He was drowning, water flowing down his nose, his air cut off by the invading

thickness. He was sinking beneath a wavering, frigid surface, ice floes hovering just

beyond his reach. The water was filling his lungs, inflating them to bursting, filling his
body cavities with the freezing liquid. The harder he fought to reach the surface and the
cleansing air that would free his blocked lungs, the deeper he plunged beneath the white

surface until all light was blocked out. He screamed again, his eyes wide and bulging, yet
seeing nothing.

"Stage Three complete."

"Blood dripped from wounds on his arms and legs. His jugular had been ripped open

and the dark crimson arterial blood shot out in pulsing jets. Flesh ripped from his body,
teeth clamped down into bone, grated, then the lower part of his right leg was torn away.

He was growing weaker by the moment as fangs sank into his organs, spreading poison,

killing him. Claws ripped into his belly, drawing out his intestines and his bloodcurdling
scream was only matched by the howl of the monster that was devouring him, inch by

bloody, painful inch. Something pulled free of his lower torso and he watched in horror

as his manhood disappeared behind the wicked teeth of his killer. His eyes rolled back in
his head and he pitched into darkness.

"Stage Four complete."

Bridget eased her hand from Cree's chin and gently removed the wedge of rubber.

There were teeth marks deep in the surface, strings of phlegm clinging to the wedge. She

took a cloth from Dorrie Burkhart, one of the techs, and wiped the thin stream of saliva

that had dribbled from the corner of the Reaper's mouth.

Cree came awake almost as quickly as he had passed out. He stared blindly up at the

woman bending over him checking the reaction of his pupils. The light hurt his eyes, sent

jagged bursts of pain through his head. He tried to turn away from it, but found he could

not.

"He's stable," Dr. Dean pronounced after checking the computer readings. She