The sky was deep blue typical of late fall when Ian Moreau showed up alone at a derelict factory. But the long-abandoned assembly space wasn't empty. Decked out with lights and attendants, the main space had a handful of tables set up with crystal and silver over white linen, arranged in front of a makeshift kitchen. The visiting chef had earned a solid following for his haute cuisine, but because of its temporal existence, here one day, gone the next, the pop-up restaurant was an experience not to be missed.

The space was intimate, boxed in by mahogany faux walls and surrounded by arrangements of candles. An ambient temperature made just right from an outer circle of heat lamps invited sparrows chirping under the vaulted ceiling. It gave the contrast of the finesse versus the industrial, the new and old, the cherished and the abandoned. There was even a sparkling chandelier hanging from a rusted I-beam overhead. He could sit here for hours among the cavernous emptiness and swept concrete. There was a beckoning peace in this nave of slag and ruins that drew in adventurers. She would enjoy this pop-up surprise he'd heard so much about, he hoped. He'd pulled strings to get a table.

But Lisbeth's voice when they spoke sounded strange. She'd cut him off and didn't want to say more. A distinct urgency was apparent in her tone. Must be a hard day at work. For that, he had her favorite Beaujolais ready, chilled in a marble tub. And the cuisine was something to delight, he'd heard . . . and if things go right, the after-dinner dessert elsewhere.

Though he wasn't as prominent as she was, they agreed to be discreet and keep out of public scrutiny. A Fednik bureaucrat and TexPax technocrat in bed were an unwanted combination to many.

Though his commitment straddled the interests of PIP and government, his loyalty to TexPax was without question. As a technologist foremost, he shouldn't care about high-stakes power plays. But he wasn't naïve -- a healthy dose of politics was necessary to get things done.

That was before the disturbing rumors he refused to believe, that Carnivora might be scrapped, reasons unspecified.

They wouldn't dare mess with my lifework. Lisbeth would know. Yet she's late.

He had met her when she and Balkan scheduled a visit to a secluded Chesapeake Island, the hidden lair of Carnivora.

The National Park Service had labeled Crane Island and its placid beaches a nature reserve isolated from the public. Even then, there had been several incidents made by hapless hikers and kayakers stumbling upon its shores. Park rangers intercepted, fined them, and returned the trespassers to dry land, the hikers never once suspecting the rangers patrolling the grounds were sentries for a black site. Foreign espionage was the least concern -- Carnivora was the first of its kind, and its aims conflicted with many home-grown religious groups. The Program was messing with an ancient taboo that must never be exposed to the public, bringing man closer to the Beast than God.

"So, this is what we bought?" the powerful Balkan wasn't impressed the first time he landed on the bird island. Moreau had crossed paths with Balkan before when the latter was an ambitious third-tier Viceroy in TexPax. He didn't care for him then, much less now.

"You're in the rehabilitation ward, Mr. Secretary. As far as anyone in the world knows, this place doesn't exist." Moreau led the way, showing them around. Lisbeth trailed behind wearing a stunning red suit he couldn't ignore. It accentuated her femininity in ways he found utterly distracting. "With your support, we can pioneer new ways to achieve the ultimate soldier -- starting from the inside out. We've pushed every envelope known to military science. Past use of combat roids and enhancement drugs were failures. Yes, the soldier may function in high-gear for a short stint, but then he burns out, the net results negligible and whatever tactical gains he'd won is given back."

"Tell me," Lisbeth said. "Why adopt these measures when there are exoskeleton systems and combat-wares grafted to soldiers? They're proven."

"Turning man into machines?" Moreau disdained with a chuckle. "Cybernetic systems are crude, lumbering and unreliable. Here, we return to the basics and elegant design -- identify the best traits of nature's predators and gift them to humans. Pin-drop hearing, cat vision, canine smell, animal speed, and reflex. We boost the oxygen absorption of hemoglobin so a man can hold his breath underwater for over half an hour . . . And the piece de resistance," Moreau paused, his face brightened, "rapid healing."

The Director had gotten their attention with his boyish exuberance, which she found amusing. And not only her. He had won Balkan over with his passionate spiel.

Moreau continued, "Imagine what we would gain if we could improve the soldier himself. No more PTSD, no more walking wounded, no more broken families. Wounds heal in a quarter of the time, so a soldier can do his job without fear, a durable force with a singular purpose. Project Carnivora is my hope and dream. Come, let me show you."

Moreau led them to an enclosed wing. They stood outside a laboratory, peering through thick glass into an all-white cleanroom accessible only through scrubber locks. Zero contaminants. Only certain NASA facilities where a speck of dust may ruin a billion-dollar project or the viral containment levels of the CDC were cleaner.

Through speakers, they listened to technicians in gowns and masks huddling together under surgical lighting. A body lay on the operating table undergoing a procedure.

"Prepare incision."

"Blades optimized, doctor."

"Engage scanner . . . "

"What are they doing?" Balkan asked, not seeing beyond the huddle of white coats.

"Hemo-nanites delivery into the bone marrow -- that's where white blood cells come from," Moreau explained. "It's very tricky. We use computer models to track the nanobots zeroing down on the marrow and lymphatic tissues. The difficulties come when the T-cells start attacking our nanites. One in a hundred subjects may survive the leukemias."

"Jesus, how did people agree to this?" Lisbeth asked, horrified.

"No, no; we use primates during Phase One, the closest thing to the human makeup. To date, we've gone through two hundred chimps to find three hosts that didn't rupture during incubation or bleed out within hours of injection. What we've achieved is a workable baseline for the bots to re-purpose the cells and alter chemistry in response to threats to the body."

"When will it be ready for human trials?" Balkan asked.

"We're six months, perhaps a year away, in my estimation."

"How do you know it's safe for people, then?" Lisbeth pressed, unconvinced.

"When the monkeys stop dying. But more importantly, when they rejuvenate," Moreau clarified. "It's very promising. We shot all kinds of things at the three survivors, amputated limbs off one, irradiated two, and all three carried on, their wounds healed in half the time. That was two years ago."

"The limb didn't grow back, did they?" Balkan said, raising his brows.

"Of course not. I exaggerate."

"What's the expected rejection rate in humans, Mr. Moreau?" Lisbeth asked, containing her chuckle. "You burn through two hundred monkeys to get three live ones, those aren't good odds."

"Call me Ian." Moreau smiled disarmingly. "I won't lie to you, rejection will be high. We will endeavor to avoid human fatalities. We won't risk that."

"But there will be side effects? And long-term?"

"Unknown at this stage," said Moreau.

"But no one's gonna bleed out like the monkeys, will they? There's no guarantee, is there?"

"We won't rest until we get the human body to reconstitute to the new adaptation -- once it's safer to try."

"And whom will you find willing to do this?" Balkan asked, feigning ignorance.

"Men and women from the military, Secretary," Moreau said. "We need top-notch volunteers, those in peak mental and physical shape, and ones we can trust."

"You want me to open my doors, is that it?"

"Yes. We want the best specimens for the Program," Moreau affirmed. "Young people put their lives at risk for so much less, paying the price for the masses. This time, they get something in return, something miraculous."

"If they survive," Lisbeth interjected.

"High risk demands an immense reward, I can't think of anything more worthwhile."

"But they don't know it's an unproven procedure."

"I understand your concerns, ma'am," Moreau acknowledged.

"Beth." She smiled, her doubts still there, he could tell.

Moreau continued, "Whatever adverse effects there may be, the volunteers will have the best medical treatment available for themselves and their families. The Program takes care of its own. Drexel has given his approval, too."

"You're selling the age-old snake oil -- immortality. Who wouldn't pay for that?" Lisbeth said, studying the technocrat.

"You're wrong -- not immortality. Invincibility."

"Semantics."

"Not quite. Chop off their heads and the monkeys would die, but punch holes in their bodies and they would go on. And this resilience would breed a fearful confidence, like Achilles in battle."

"You forget about his heel," Lisbeth said, her frown turning into a smile that tugged on his chest.

"I'm impressed with the Director," Balkan said. "Aren't you, Lisbeth?" His words had undertones Moreau picked up -- jealousy?

The speakers overhead brought them back to the window.

"Delta Sector -- ten percent successful bonding."

"Start rehab. Run a system's check and log her condition."

"Open file on Subject 2506: First stage nano-grafting successful. Rejection observation to begin from baseline . . . at 1600 hours."

"That's the fourth subject to make it. Success numbers are going up." Moreau beamed, looking at the chimpanzee lying on the table.

"Let's see if she pulls through," Lisbeth said, unconvinced.

A clang reverberated and shook Moreau from his memories and he realized he'd been waiting an hour. This isn't like her.

A pair of diners in warm attire appeared and sat near him.

When Lisbeth arrived, at last, she scrutinized the surroundings before moving to his table, hard-soled footfalls echoing louder with each step.

"Can we move to a quiet corner?" she insisted.

Their waiter picked up the table and hefted it twenty yards away.

"I hope you'd like this place," Moreau said, now alone with her.

She barely acknowledged what he said.

"We could go elsewhere." He aimed to please. "I know a quiet little tapas place, real cozy. And they got a room in the back." He winked.

"Best we're not seen in public together," Lisbeth said with an uncustomary chill that took him by surprise.

"I know we agreed, but --"

"Risky these days," she said in a half-whisper, her brows pinched together.

Moreau sighed. "Okay then, I trust there's a reason for your bad mood?"

Lisbeth took a deep breath, looking ahead. "I'll lay it on the table. Then you decide, darling."

Her endearment came with a price, he sensed. "Decide what?"

"They will shut down Carnivora."

"Impossible -- " His voice edged higher. "Drexel wants it. The Feds want it. Nobody's gonna stop it."

"Balkan has ordered termination."

Moreau offered a hint of a smile that didn't appear in his eyes. "He can't just close my program and fire my personnel. There're significant investments and stakeholders involved."

"You don't understand, Ian, not fire. Terminate, as in six-feet under -- he means to bury those people in the video."

Moreau shook his head, incredulous of the implication. "What? Cerberus? He wouldn't dare."

"Balkan could and he would." She looked away not meeting his eyes.

Moreau slammed a fist on the table, rattling the glasses. "That's my project! Hell will freeze before I let him kill it." He puffed his chest with desperate bravado. "I'll call Regent Lazard myself and whip Balkan's ass in line. See how a former Viceroy would do against a sitting GR. If he thinks he could mess -- "

"You need to know," Lisbeth eked out her words, her voice cracking, "your TexPax Chairmark himself called Balkan this afternoon . . . Balkan will be nominated as the new POTUS this coming Conclave."

Moreau fell back with his mouth open. His fingers unconsciously loosened his collar as a tightness gripped his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"In return, Carnivora must go. Drexel insisted; Balkan is only carrying out his order."

"Can't be."

"I was there. I heard everything." She reached out for his hand. "I'm sorry."

He pulled back, jaw clenched.

"What I'm telling you would get me twenty years to life. You should appreciate the risk I'm taking to warn you."

"I won't let it happen," he repeated, gritting his teeth, not hearing her. "This is my life's work. Innocent lives are at stake."

"Be sensible, please. Walk away. They won't touch a man of your standing and importance . . . Unless you force them."

"What, shut me down too?" His neck stretched toward her, veins plump, skin hot, a mad foreplay, just not the way he'd imagined this evening would go.

"Like that." She snapped her fingers. "Turn you off like a light switch."

He hurled resentment at her. She was part of this machine that had turned on him.

She sat back calmly and eyed him -- all traces of warmth had evaporated. "You're a smart man. So be smart. I came here to warn you. If you play hero, you're on your own, Ian. I mean it."

"Then I guess I'll do it alone."

"Do what?" she asked with a cold sneer.

"I'll take my project elsewhere."

"Which biotech giant would listen? Avalon Genomics? MicroBioSys? They're all under the PIP umbrella. They would never talk to you."

"You're thinking small." He cut at her. "There are four other fiefs to choose from on this continent, not to mention overseas patrons. I have options."

"You have nothing." Her face went from apathy to a tight scowl. "You can't take this route."

"Why not?"

"Think." She chuckled with contempt. "Any rival fief would regard you a turncoat or even a spy. Breaking your sworn Affiliate oath to a fief is a social death sentence in itself. TexPax will throw you to the feds who then label you a Disrepute, a pariah. But stealing Carnivora -- that makes you a criminal or even a terrorist. At best they'll lock you up, Ian . . . Don't try it."

Moreau kept a somber attitude. "I take it you won't help me?"

"Abet you in intellectual larceny, espionage, and treason? I'm fond of our time together, but orange isn't my color."

Moreau shook his head, his mouth upturned. "Then I guess there's nothing left to say."

"That's unfair." She reached out for his hand one last time. "You're being headstrong and stupid."

His smirk was awkward as he pulled away. "Maybe I am." The director got up and left the pop-up venture, leaving Lisbeth by herself.

A minute later, a waitress who had loitered about filling water glasses, removed her apron and followed him out. She had a striking dragon tattoo on her neck.