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."
"I was."
"Are. Your test results and Mira's evaluation will put you back where you belong. On the other side of the line." He leaned down, kissed her. "I'll miss you."
It made her smile. "You manage to wiggle in, whichever side of the line I'm on. Let's get this data on its way. Then we'll watch the cleanup on-screen in a day or two, like normal citizens."
"Wear your coat this time."
"My coat's trash," she reminded him as they came down the stairs.
"You have another." He opened a door, took out a long sweep of bronze cashmere. "It's too cold for your jacket."
Eyeing him, she fingered the sleeve. "What, do you have some droids in a room somewhere manufacturing these?"
"In a manner of speaking. Gloves in the pocket," he reminded her and shrugged on his own coat.
She had to admit, it was nice to be wrapped in something warm and soft against the bitter air."Once we dump this data, let's come back, get naked, and crawl all over each other."
"Sounds like a plan."
"And tomorrow, you go back to work and stop hovering."
"I don't believe I've been hovering. I believe I've been playing Nick to your Nora, and quite well."
"Nick who?"
"Charles, darling. We're going to have to spend time educating you in the entertainment value of classic early-twentieth-century cinema."
"I don't know where you find time for that stuff. It must be because you don't sleep like a regular human being. You're out there piling up billions and buying small worlds and – which reminds me, we need to discuss this idiotic idea of yours about stuffing money in some account for me. I want you to take it back."
"All five million plus, or less the half million you're donating to the Canal Street Clinic?"
"Don't get smart with me, pal. I married you for your body, not your bucks."
"Darling Eve, that's so touching. And all the while I thought it was my coffee connection."
Love could swamp her at the oddest times, she realized. "That didn't hurt. Tomorrow, you do whatever it is you do to zap it back out and close it down. And next time you… Louise. Oh Christ. Head to the Drake! Head there now! Damn it, how did this slip by us?"
He punched up speed, clipped the curb at the corner. "You think they'll go after her?"
"They took out Jan. They can't let Louise talk." Ignoring jams and privacy, she used the car 'link and tagged Feeney on his communicator.
"Get to the Drake," she told him. "Get to Louise. I'm on my way, ETA five minutes. They'll go for her, Feeney. They've got to go for her. She had data."
"We'll head out. She's under guard, Dallas."
"It won't matter. The uniform won't question a doctor. Contact him, Feeney, tell him not to let anyone in that room."
"Confirmed. Our ETA fifteen minutes."
"We'll be there in two," Roarke promised her as he flew across town. "Waverly?"
"Current president of AMA, chief of surgery, organ specialist, board member. Affiliated with several top-level centers worldwide." She slapped a hand on the dash to keep her balance when he swung into the garage. "Cagney – he's her uncle, but he's chief of staff, chairman, and one of the most respected surgeons in the country. Hans Vanderhaven, international connections. God knows where he is right now. If not them, there are others who can walk right in and get to her without anyone blinking twice. There must be a dozen ways to off a patient, then cover the tracks."