"Stephanie!" Jackson's voice boomed. "Come in here, I need you! Now!"

With a sigh, Stephanie shut down the IRC chatroom, disappearing abruptly as she always warned the others she might at any time be required to. She glanced in the mirror she kept on her desk beside the computer screen; her makeup was in place, everything looked fine.

Everything except the slightly haunted look in her eyes. But she could count on Jackson not to notice that.

Years had passed. Much had changed, much had stayed the same. Mindy and Fran, pacing their wins carefully, were still alive and fighting, and she remained close friends with the former tennis player. Raoul, her lover for a brief time, had not beaten the odds, he'd died in the arena during his second tournament fight. Mindy's friend Kathy O'Brian had not paced her wins carefully enough, and she'd gone down in her first final, the tendons in the back of her right knee cut through by a sword stroke. Following Mindy's ideas, she'd allowed her opponent to help her get into a kneeling position, and she'd winked at Mindy and Stephanie--who were in the tunnel--just before her opponent, a large and powerful man like Raoul, drove his sword down between her breasts, shattering her breastbone and slicing through her heart. The gladiators had fully accepted her as one of their own, and she'd had several lovers among the men. All had been short-term affairs; all those men were now dead. The IRC channel #injustice continued to grow, more and more people being added all the time; she was acknowledged there as one of the leaders of the movement they were trying to start. Progress--if there was any progress--was very slow; young women continued to be arrested, in what Prof assured them were ever-increasing numbers. They continued to die, too. In the arena; on TV; in live-action extravaganzas; and in the Preserve. At work, Jackson was not as demanding as he once was; at times days passed without a demand from him for sex. She welcomed this but she also worried about it; it seemed to her as likely that he'd send her to death row as free her if he tired of her.

But nothing alarming had been said or even hinted at. More and more, Jackson seemed distracted, overly busy--and more and more, he ignored her.

Not today, apparently. Trying to keep herself mentally distant from the tasks she was forced to do, she rose and went into the inner office. To her surprise, the TV was not on. She glanced at her wristwatch; it was nowhere near time for "Slaughterhouse!" Standing in front of Jackson's desk, she gave him a questioning look.

"It's about time," he told her, "that you started earning your salary around here, Stephanie," he said.

I believe I have been doing that, she said silently. I'm not even a very well-paid whore, as a matter of fact. "Excuse me?" she said noncommittally.

Jackson pushed a thick file folder across the desk toward her. "You're supposed to be my administrative assistant," he replied. "You haven't been doing your job."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson, I've been doing whatever was asked of me, no more and no less..."

"Save it, I don't wanna hear it," he snapped. "You aren't going to be lazing around here anymore, doing squat and collecting a nice paycheck." He jabbed a finger at the file folder. "Pick it up," he commanded. She did, and she started to open it. "Don't do that," Jackson told her. "Not yet. Listen first."

She held the folder closed. "Yes, sir."

"What's inside that folder," he told her, "is classified. Every word of it. Whatever you read in there you are not to breathe a word of to anyone except the people I say you can talk about it with. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wanna be sure."

"I understand, Mr. Jackson. This material is secret. I'm not to talk about it, except when and with whom you tell me."

"'Kay." He leaned back in his chair. "What's in that folder are the details of a program we put into effect a couple of years back, a program that we expected to increase government revenues. It involves us, the IRS, and Health and Human Services. I've been overseeing it personally until now, but I just don't have time, I have too many other things to look after. I wanted to pass it off to HHS, but the woman running HHS is a ditz and none of us trust her."

"She's one of President Bussman's appointees, isn't she?"

He twisted his face. "Yeah. One he got forced into taking, back in the days when congress wasn't as solid as it is now. He's with us on this, she's a goddamn ditz. He'd like to get rid of her but the analysts all say it'll look bad. Anyway, that's neither here nor there, she's gonna stay a while and we have to work around her."

"I see."

"I doubt it." He pointed to the folder. "So," he went on, "I'm gonna put you in charge of this program, you're gonna be responsible for it. I don't wanna have to do that but I don't have many choices left. The top sheet explains what it's all about and what you're gonna be expected to do. You'll find a few CDs in there that have the databases on them you're gonna need." He paused and glared. "Now, I'm gonna say this just once, Stephanie. What you read in there you keep your fuckin' mouth shut about. I ever get a whisper that you've gone talking about it with your gladiator pals or anybody else and you are gonna find yourself on death row, and that's gonna happen so quick it'll make your head swim. You understand me?"

Stephanie blinked. "Yes, sir."

"Okay." He waved his hand in dismissal. "Get to work on it." He turned back to his computer.

"Yes, sir," Stephanie repeated. Carrying the folder, she went outside, sat down at her own desk, opened it, and started reading the top page. It was titled, "Volunteerism."

The more she read, the more she could hardly believe what she was seeing. Even with her experience, this was shocking. According to the document, analysts in the Justice department and in the IRS were in agreement that the supply of Class-A and Class-B women for the hunting preserve at Isla de la Muerta and for the Corporate Program--Stephanie had never heard of the "Corporate Program" and had no idea what it might be--was chronically short. The new laws passed, it said cryptically, should help alleviate this somewhat, but it would not be enough. This confused Stephanie--she wasn't aware of any "new law" that might have been passed that would affect the fate of the inmates of the preserve, and the document did not explain it.

It went on to suggest that the best, easiest, and in the long run the cheapest, solution to the problem was to encourage women to volunteer for the hunt. Such volunteerism, it noted, was not unknown. Sometimes the women were suicidal, sometimes psychotic, and sometimes they had what they felt to be overriding financial concerns--it explained that, even though a very substantial stipend was paid for a volunteer, the government could expect to realize, on the average, a five hundred percent profit margin. But such volunteerism was, the document said, entirely too rare.

"Recently," the document went on to say, "a program was put into effect in government clinics which has proven to be reasonably successful. Selected physicians in selected areas have been instructed to inform certain female patients who are, in their opinion, Class-A or Class-B that their condition represents a terminal illness. In some cases, the physician may prescribe medications which emulate such illnesses. Once the patient is convinced of terminality, the representatives in the physician's office or even the physician himself may suggest that volunteering for the hunt may be the best solution to the patient's problems. This has proven to be especially effective with low income young mothers, for whom the consideration paid for the hunt can be presented as a way of leaving a legacy for their children.

"Suitable cases," the document went on to say, "are, however, too rare. The presenting condition must not significantly impair the woman's ability to perform physically, cannot in any way disfigure her appearance, and should be vague enough to allow for multiple interpretations of the symptoms. Chronic pain is the presenting condition most easily used for this purpose.

"Much of the problem lies in the tendency of many patients to seek a second opinion when it is suggested that their condition is terminal. This results not only in the loss of a potential volunteer but can be an embarrassment for the physician and clinic involved. Suggestions that laws be passed making it unlawful to seek a second opinion after a diagnosis has been rendered by a government clinic have not been met with favorably in the congress."

Well, aren't they principled, Stephanie thought. Stunned--and already dreading her own possible role in this new horror--she read on:

"While little can be done to control the patients' choice of physicians, it would help alleviate this problem if more physicians, including those not practicing in the government clinics, were involved. A recommendation is made to check the backgrounds of physicians. Those with questionable histories, especially those with histories that, if exposed, might result in the loss of their license to practice, are clearly the ones who should be approached first. Secondly, the expansion of the program beyond the selected clinics mentioned above is to be implemented immediately. Thanks to the non-disclosure laws concerning employment at the government clinics, the cooperation of the physicians staffing these can be expected.

"Thirdly, it seems reasonable to consider a program which might be used to bring more suitable candidates into the clinics. The research facility in Wilmington, Delaware, has reported some very encouraging results with the drug 4-hydroxy-6-quinoalathene (4HQ). Chronic exposure to very small doses of 4HQ has been shown to produce severe and persistent uterine/ovarian pain in virtually 100% of the women tested when delivered intravaginally, and the symptoms tend to persist for more than a month on the average. The impregnation of tampons with 4HQ has been shown to be very effective in creating a pattern of symptoms consistent with a diagnosis of uterine/ovarian cancer. That the symptoms tend to disappear spontaneously and completely after about six weeks is not only not a problem, but an advantage. Presumably by this time the patient will have signed a contract with the government and their subsequent performances in the Preserve will not be impaired. It is suggested that the government, through a blind subcorporation, begin marketing and aggressively advertising a line of very high quality and very low cost tampons available exclusively by home delivery and ordered from an Internet source. Advertising for these should be targeted specifically toward low income mothers. Delivery to suitable candidates can be assured, and nonimpregnated tampons can be delivered for a period of time so that no connection is made between the use of the tampons and the onset of the symptoms."

Having finished the document, Stephanie, with an unsteady hand, flipped to the next page. She was experiencing a flood of conflicting emotions. This, what she now held in her hands, was proof that the government was not above subversive actions to stock the Preserve. If they would stoop this low, it seemed obvious to her, they would certainly be willing to frame women for crimes--as they had framed her, and as everyone on #injustice believed. The targeting of poor young mothers, the playing upon their desire to leave a financial legacy for their children, seemed especially odious to her. Rage and a certain gratification played within her, gratification that the proof that seemed so long in coming was in her hands.

On the other hand, there was fear, fear and trepidation. This was not something she felt she could possibly be a part of, and yet Jackson had handed the program over to her. To refuse might mean a trip to death row. She did not as yet, however, know what role she was to play.

The page explained it succinctly. A number of agents from the IRS and from HHS had already been assigned to bring more clinic physicians into the program. An equal number of agents from the FBI was to begin doing background checks on outside physicians, concentrating on those expected to be used for second opinions, looking for--Stephanie had no problem saying it bluntly even if the document did not--those who could easily be blackmailed. This document indicated that the program of marketing the tampons was already underway; candidate selections were being made by a team of clinic physicians in Bethesda.

Stephanie's role was purely oversight. Go over the documents, making sure enough tampons were being produced to support the program. Make sure the agents from the IRS, HHS, and FBI were not snoozing on the job. Recommend personnel changes if the program fell behind schedule. She glanced through the rest and saw that it was reams of documents on the company, the agents, the doctors, and some already-targeted candidates.

She smiled and relaxed. This was something she could do, she assured herself--and she could make sure the program was at least substantially slowed by, if nothing else, simple micro-managing.

She could also, she told herself, see if there wasn't a way to warn some of the proposed targets. For that, she'd need some help.

She logged on to #injustice. She could talk to the gladiators later.