Author's Note: many of the characteristics of sharks in this story are accurate, but several I've taken liberty with for literary purposes. This is a story that has haunted me ever since being chased out of the water by a shark and I'm glad to finally exorcise it. Hope you like it--this story will be long! And the usual: characters all theirs, not mine, no money etc.

Swimming With Sharks

by OughtaKnowBetter

Adam Kane leaned back in his chair, observing the large screen in front of him. He was well aware of the pair of mutants behind him. One was perched—but just barely—on the counter top, a spot where she could easily hop off and leap to whichever corner of the room required leaping to. Blonde curls danced along her shoulders, deep brown eyes nevertheless taking in the information that was being presented by the talking head on the screen. Her partner was more sedate: seated in a comfortable chair similar to her mentor's, legs crossed, a serious expression on her face as she struggled to keep up with the discussion between two cutting edge geneticists. Adam wrestled a small smile into submission; the flood of data flowing in would be enough to send a sane man crying to his room. Adam himself was instructing the computer to save the file for further perusal—after he finished talking with Dr. Martha Morrison, civilian researcher for an unnamed branch of the armed forces, he would be reviewing said file for any item of interest that he'd missed during their conversation.

Adam snorted. 'Unnamed branch of the armed forces' meant 'covert operations'. It didn't matter which branch; at a certain level they all tended to merge into one, in Adam's mind. Personally, he tended to shy away from such groups as they seemed to need to hold entirely too much control over the outcomes of the research. Adam himself wanted to go where the research led, not be constrained by the realities of life in politics. Not always the most sensible of directions but one that suited his particular brand of ethics.

"Feral research," Dr. Morrison's screen image said, "with an emphasis on marine life." Hm. Naval covert operations? Maybe. But each branch seemed to need their own capabilities on land, sea, and air. No division of labor there. "As you can see, I've had a fair amount of success fusing shark DNA with human. The results have been astonishing, Adam."

"I can see," Adam agreed. "According to your figures, they can swim farther and faster than any normal person could hope to. And stay underwater longer."

"They can stay underwater indefinitely," Morrison corrected him excitedly. "Adam, I've achieved the dream of marine biologists everywhere: I've been able to graft a working set of gills onto these people! Do you know what that means?"

"I do, Martha," Adam told her. "This will open up new methods of research, new opportunities for studying the ocean—"

"Adam, we can create whole new environments for mankind!" Morrison's eyes took on a gleam of their own. "We can colonize the sea!"

"Possibly," Adam agreed, significantly less enthusiastic. "But let's not go too fast, Martha. I know you; you called me up for a reason. What is it?"

But Dr. Morrison's eyebrows raised: a question. She could see Shalimar and Emma behind him. Should they be here?

The side of Adam's smile quirked upward. "They work with me, Martha. I vouch for them completely."

Morrison considered, and gave in without a struggle. "Even if they knew about the project, their knowledge would be useless without the hard data about techniques."

"Just so." Adam gestured. "Go on."

Morrison shrugged. So be it. "I've successfully applied these techniques to several volunteers. The results have been amazing, to say the least." She switched the screen to an ocean scene, herself as the voice-over.

There were four men, all in the prime of their lives, swimming in the ocean, cavorting with small fish. Their agility was remarkable, twisting and turning in pursuit of the finny creatures—and catching them. Hands darted out in a flash, snagging a fish and dragging it in, only to be released into the school for a re-capture. Shalimar's eyebrows raised; mutants, huh? Feral, for a fact. Only a feral could demonstrate such antics above or below sea level. Shalimar found the tip of one foot twitching with shared excitement, and angrily commanded it to stop.

"These men have been at this for over an hour, with no ill effects," said Morrison's disembodied voice. "You can see the results. They are entirely at home in this liquid environment." The camera dollied in for a closer look. "Each subject has received the DNA of a different species of shark: blue, great white, tiger, and the like. Attempts at using older species of sharks have been unsuccessful. Observe the number of gill flaps: five, consistent with the more modern shark varieties. Those species with six or seven gill flaps have not yielded good results. Rejection takes place.

"For those here, and others like them, the condition of each has been improved. They are healthier, faster, stronger and overall better than any of the soldiers on the base; in fact, they've taken over their share of the guard duties and base chores when I don't need them in the lab. It is impossible to tell normal from mutant at a distance; however, close up is a different story." The camera angle switched to an extreme close up of one subject's pectorals. Emma leaned forward. There was something wrong about the skin on the man's chest. He was hairless, the skin glistening smooth, the better to knife through the waters with. But it had an odd texture, almost—

"Not scales, but close to it," Morrison lectured. "Extremely similar to a shark's skin: rough and abrasive. I accidentally rubbed up against one of my subjects the other day and ended up with scratches along the entire length of my arm. Each of my subjects has developed this skin type, and it has proved extremely successful in the harsher ocean environment. It protects them from cold, from sharp objects; it's even difficult to penetrate. I haven't tried it out yet, but one theory that I'm toying with says that their skin may be impervious to a bullet at fifty yards. Certainly useful in the armed forces."

"You're right, there," Adam agreed. "But Martha, there's a reason that you've called me. You're not the type to ring up and old friend just to crow over your successes. What's the problem?"

The voice stopped. The screen returned to the men cavorting in the water, slicing through the waves. It wasn't normal swimming, Shalimar realized. Each man used a side to side motion, reminiscent of the sharks that they had received DNA from. It somehow made the men look less human; more threatening. These were men designed to evoke fear in others.

"You always could see through me, Adam." The screen finally flipped back over to the researcher. She was older than Adam, or least, looked it. Short gray hair framed a face with lines on it, the blue eyes bright with intelligence—and worry. "Yes, there are problems. I'm not certain I can get the mutation to stick. There is a small glitch in the results that throw the whole design into question, and there are some behavior issues; nothing too serious yet, but enough that I'd appreciate an independent view of things. Can you help?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Adam allowed the grin to color his voice. Shalimar too grinned; the man was a fanatic when it came to genetics and could no more give up a problem in science than a moth could give up a flame. "I can be there in—"

"The military will be sending a chopper for you, Adam," Morrison interrupted. "You know how they are; want to keep the base location a secret."

Adam nodded, never allowing the smile to depart from his face. As well he should, Shalimar smirked. Once there, the base location would no longer be a secret from Mutant X. "I'll be ready. Oh, and I'll be bringing some of my associates with me." He indicated the pair behind him. "And a couple more. They'll be useful, I assure you."

Morrison needed more reassurance. "Adam—"

"Trust me on this, Martha. They're my team."

"All right," Morrison sighed. "I'll convince the base colonel somehow. Be ready at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow." She signed off.

Adam leaned back in his chair. "This should be fun, even for you four. A vacation, and heaven knows you deserve it. Where ever it is, that base is located on a tropical island. It should have beaches, fresh air, and, being military, someone else to do the cooking and cleaning…"

Emma rose. Shalimar noted that the empath looked less than ecstatic, trying for a game face. "I'll get my things. I have a phone call to make."

"Emma?" Adam suddenly remembered. "Emma, wait. You were going to friend's this week end, weren't you?"

"It's all right, Adam. I can reschedule."

"No, it's not all right," Adam scowled. "As I recall, you haven't seen this person for three years."

"Adam—"

"Emma, I am not going to ruin your plans," Adam told her. "We can get along without you this once. This is a vacation for you, after all. Keep your date with your friend. If this thing runs longer than I expect, you can come out and join us in the Helix."

Emma relaxed in relief. "Okay. Thanks, Adam. I haven't seen Julie in a very long time, and if I miss her this time, it might be another three years before I get another chance."

Adam echoed her smile, then turned to Shalimar. "Tell the guys to pack. We've got a plane to catch."

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"Be careful with that equipment," Adam directed the four men in uniform. "It's delicate, and spare parts are several hours away."

"Yes, sir." The man turned to another. "Give me a hand here, corporal. Two men per crate. Let's not drop anything. We'll put it in Dr. Morrison's lab, sir?"

"Thank you." Adam hadn't heard so many 'sirs' in years. It almost made him uncomfortable. The enlisted men hadn't let him lift a finger, hadn't let Brennan near the chopper controls, hadn't let Jesse near the stowage—and Adam's precious cargo!—and had treated Shalimar like a fragile glass sculpture that would shatter if handled too roughly. If only they knew… But Adam knew better than to try to buck the mindset of the military. Sometimes the best way to accomplish things was to work within the system. He swallowed his protests and let the soldiers do their work the best way they knew how.

On the other hand, several more bodies made the workload a lot lighter. Adam paused to look around, stretching after the long flight: heat rose in waves off the landing pad, the sun beating down with the relentless cloak of the tropics. The rotors of the chopper slowly twirled to a stop, and the breeze that had been generated drifted away. Adam was suddenly glad that he'd packed an extra bottle of sun tan lotion. Not for himself, but for the others, certain that one or more hadn't bothered. Adam himself expected to spend most of his time in Dr. Morrison's lab, but as for his team? Shalimar alone would happily spend the entire jaunt traipsing through the jungle that surrounded the base and covered all three of the mountains that comprised this island paradise. Several hundred yards away the ocean lapped at white beach sand, and a half-dozen off-duty soldiers were taking advantage of it by playing an impromptu game of beach volley ball. Adam grinned; within twenty-four hours, there would be another team of Mulwray and Kilmartin challenging the soldiers for domination. It wouldn't be an easy contest; some of the bare-chested men looked bigger than Brennan and just as fit. And certainly more tan. Advantage of not living in a cave…

There were several flat buildings along the edge of the landing strip. Adam had no trouble identifying the barracks where the enlisted men stayed and where the mess hall had been erected. The odor of cooking meat wafted in their direction, and Adam caught sight of Shalimar sniffing the air, her acute senses identifying the mystery meat that would serve as this evening's meal. Another flat building looked like it housed larger quarters where the officers stayed, and there was another for the administrative offices.

The last building was located on the water's edge, a large pier having been built off the back end enabling Dr. Morrison easy access to the ocean. Adam approved; if science was going to use shark DNA, then testing in the ocean was the most sensible option. Why build a swimming pool when you had the largest one at your doorstep with a cleaning team of bottom feeding fish thrown in?

One of the enlisted men, a long and lean soldier in a tee and fatigues, picked up Shalimar's luggage, waving off her protests. "I'll show you to your quarters, miss."

Shalimar gave the soldier an odd look. There was something different about him. She tested the air; yes, his scent was not normal. His skin had a faint blue tinge to it, an unusual texture—"You're one of them," she exclaimed.

The soldier colored, the blue replaced by an embarrassed blush. "Yes, miss. Private Tyler, ma'am. But mostly they call me Blue."

Adam nodded, overhearing the conversation. "You received the DNA of the blue shark."

"Yes, sir." Blue acknowledged the accuracy of Adam's guess. "Been one of us for 'bout three months now. 'm one of the 'older' guys." He hefted another bag easily, one that one of the 'normal' soldiers had worked hard to lift. "This way, miss, sirs."

Shalimar fell into step beside him. "Then you're a feral."

"Yes, miss." Blue gave her a sideways glance. "You a scientist? Miss?" he tacked on.

Shalimar rolled her eyes. "Hardly. Let's just say that, like yourself, I'm a product of better living through chemistry." Except for the fact that Blue had both hands full of luggage, Shalimar would have stuck out her hand for a shake. "Shalimar Fox. Feral, like you."

Blue looked puzzled. "Pardon, miss, but you don't seem like any mutant around here."

"Mammalian," Shalimar said by way of an explanation. She allowed her eyes to go cat golden, shifting back with a smile.

It registered. Blue acknowledged a fellow mutant; he caused his own eyes to take on the round blackness of the shark that he was patterned after. And then he swiftly altered back to human, careful not to let anyone else see the transformation.

Shalimar stifled a shiver. Her own mammalian mutation was close to human, but Blue's was piscine. There was no warmth there, nothing to latch onto. He looked like a cold predator, hunting for his next meal.

Then it was gone, and the young soldier was back beside her, escorting the lady to her quarters.

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"How many are there?" Adam asked, leaning over the table to talk with Dr. Morrison. The other three hovered in the background, idly looking around them and trying to identify the equipment they saw. It wasn't easy. Some of the equipment looked identical to what Adam had back at Sanctuary, and a lot of that was categorized as 'Adam's stuff' rather than having a name. Or, if a particular piece did have a name, it was usually more along the lines of 'that expletive-deleted piece of expletive-deleted'. And the name was frequently conferred immediately after unpleasant usage on a reluctant mutant.

This place appeared more like a lab than the clinic setting that Adam favored. Sure, there were three stretchers that looked a lot less comfortable than the ones that Sanctuary had, but all around were counters of bubbling beakers and computers that were chugging away at genetic simulations. Those Jesse found more interesting, peering at the computer console and wondering if he'd get the opportunity to touch.

"Twenty-six, currently," Morrison replied. "Twenty-three males, and three females. I've decided to put a halt to creating any more until I've resolved the problems. We used to have thirty, but four were killed in action. You remember hearing about a hostage situation last year in the Mediterranean, a cruise ship with several thousand innocents aboard?"

Adam nodded. "And a crew of several hundred more. The media reported that our navy sent in a team to defuse the situation. They were very successful; only two of the terrorists killed. All the hostages rescued, no other loss of life."

Morrison thinned her lips. "The media wasn't given all the details. Ever wonder how the team managed to board the ship without being detected?"

"After seeing your operation here, not any more. The terrorists would have seen a boat approaching. Your people didn't need boats."

"That's right. A team of five—my original five subjects—were sent out as a test of our work here. Two were great whites, one blue, and two tiger shark. Only the blue returned. The two terrorists who were killed set off an explosion when they realized that their mission was going down the tubes, and took four of my test subjects with them. But the rest of the ship was saved, and the military decided to use it as 'evidence' of our military prowess. They considered the mission a success, and gave me the go-ahead to expand the project and create more subjects." Morrison nodded at the scribblings on the blackboard. "I did. And I got better at it."

"Tell me about the mutation," Adam requested. "We met one of them outside."

"Yes, they've been mixing with the other soldiers on base." Morrison warmed to her subject. "Adam, they're the perfect super-soldier! They're stronger than any normal man, able to use shark senses on both land and sea, and can survive—no, thrive!—in the ocean indefinitely. They are an amphibious assault team unmatched by anything we currently have!"

"Think of the possibilities!" chimed in an enthusiastic deep voice. Adam and the others turned around to see an officer saunter in. He extended a welcoming hand. "Colonel Bayliss, commander of this base. Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kane."

"Likewise." Adam shook the man's hand, assessing. Bayliss seemed a man who had climbed the chain of command on merit, one who took himself and his responsibilities seriously. He kept himself fit, and it looked like he kept his mind sharp. "My team: Shalimar Fox, Brennan Mulwray, Jesse Kilmartin."

"Welcome to Base Forty Three A." Bayliss chuckled. "Not a particularly creative name, but definitely good for keeping under the radar, which is what our project excels at, as Dr. Morrison has been telling you. That hostage situation is only one of the possibilities, the one that you're most likely to have heard about. There have been a few others, less publicized. Our people back at the Pentagon are already devising scenarios for our new soldiers. I'm glad that you and your team could give us a hand, Dr. Kane. Dr. Morrison speaks very highly of you."

"She's very kind," Adam demurred. "If we could get on with the briefing?"

"Of course." Bayliss turned to the aide that had followed him in. "Lieutenant, I think we need one of the subjects in here to take a gander at. Nothing like a hands-on demonstration. Go out and grab whichever one you come across first."

"Yes, sir. I think I saw Private Tyler outside."

"Just the one. Go get him. He's the oldest now, and one of the most difficult to deal with. We can use this as a training session while we're at it. Martha, give Dr. Kane and his people the lowdown." Bayliss settled himself onto a stool to listen—and chime in.

They were coming to the heart of the matter. Adam relaxed onto his chair, waiting for Dr. Morrison to collect her thoughts, sensing more than seeing his team follow his example.

"There are two major problems with the current project," Dr. Morrison began, easing automatically into lecture mode, "no, actually, three, but the third is of minor importance. The first and greatest problem stems from the fact that all of my test subjects have undergone incubation with various species of shark DNA. They have received many of the shark attributes, including increased strength and the ability to live in the ocean, but they also have acquired some of the faults."

"Such as?" Adam prompted, when Dr. Morrison didn't continue fast enough.

Dr. Morrison back-pedaled. "How much do you know about sharks?"

"Only what I learned in undergraduate school," Adam replied. "Go on."

"Hey, wait a minute," Jesse put in from behind. "I double-majored in computer science and business. This shark stuff is beyond me; I picked up everything I know from badly written cartoons. Tell me about sharks."

Dr. Morrison obliged. "In a nutshell: cold-blooded fish, cartilaginous bones, gills to breathe through, and are widely regarded as the most efficient predators in the sea."

"Hey, aren't they supposed to be able to smell a drop of blood a mile away?" Brennan asked.

"Yes and no." Dr. Morrison grinned, the first sincere smile they'd seen from her yet. "They can smell fish blood from a distance, but tend to ignore other types of blood such as human. They use many different senses for locating their prey: the sense of smell, sight, they can sense vibrations in the water, and finally—and most germane to this discussion—they can sense the electrical field that every living creature emits. This is what helps them to track down and capture their prey. That, along with a mouthful of a lot of teeth."

"Yeah, lots of teeth," murmured someone quietly.

Morrison ignored the peanut gallery. "Which leads me to the biggest problem with my test subjects as soldiers. They are superior to ordinary men in every way but one."

"Which is—?" Adam pushed.

"Ampullae of Lorenzii," Morrison said.

The three New Mutants looked at her blankly, but Adam nodded. He had guessed correctly. "Like sharks, your test subjects react adversely to minute electrical fields."

"Exactly. On the commercial market there are so-called 'shark sticks' that produce a mild electrical jolt; a cattle prod for sharks, if you will. One zap with that, either in the water or on land, and the shark mutant collapses for a matter of minutes to hours, depending on the severity of the shock." Morrison sighed. "Their Achilles' heel. You or I could stick our hand into an electrical outlet and say 'ouch'. My test subjects would be down for hours if they tried that."

"All the opposition has to do is arm themselves with a few cattle prods and our super soldiers turn into the catch of the day," Bayliss added gloomily. "Think you can help with that, Dr. Kane?"

Adam blinked. "Good question. I won't know the answer to that until I've had a chance to do some research." He turned back to Dr. Morrison. "Martha, you said there was more than one problem. What's next?"

"Aggressive behavior," she said promptly. "In the wild, sharks are only aggressive when pursuing prey or establishing dominance in a pack. Well fed, with enough individual territory, sharks tend to be far more gentle than people give them credit for. The chance of being attacked by a shark is far less than being hit by lightning."

"Speak for yourself," murmured someone from Brennan's direction.

"But your mutants?" Jesse asked, pushing for more information and ignoring his fellow team member.

"Difficult, surly, angry," Bayliss took up the tale. "My men have started working in groups, just so that they're certain of having someone at their back whenever the sharkies are around. There have only been a few minor incidents so far, but the handwriting is on the wall. Mark my words; if we don't do something about it now there will be bloodshed, and when that happens, a soldier is going to die. No normal man can keep up with a shark." He tapped his side. The others noticed a short stick that Bayliss wore at his belt, remembered seeing that his aide carried one as well. "A cattle prod, set to stun. All my officers have one and some of the non-coms, too. Just in case."

"Have you had to use it?"

"Once. A non-com drew his as well. One of the tiger sharks was threatening an enlisted man." Bayliss grimaced. "The non-com broke it up before blood could be spilled. We were lucky. The sharkies backed off for a time after that, but they're getting rowdy again. We need 'em controlled, Dr. Kane. That's our second problem. And it's a big one. If we don't solve that one, we can scrap the whole program. We can't have a soldier that doesn't obey orders."

Something didn't make sense to Shalimar. She had been escorted to the lab by Blue, one of the oldest of the 'sharkies', and the man had been a perfect gentleman. There had been no hint of anger, no sense of uncontrolled rage. Nothing like what Colonel Bayliss was describing. "Maybe it's just a few of them?" she suggested.

The reply was interrupted by the aide returning with Private Tyler, as well as a few reinforcements, all of whom were carrying the cattle prods that Bayliss had spoken of. The atmosphere instantly became more tense, Private Tyler seeming to drag it in with him. Shalimar wondered if she needed to rethink her evaluation of the shark mutant.

Adam tried to defuse the tension. He didn't understand it, but he did know that such anger would interfere with his ability to research and problem-solve, therefore he was willing to do what he could. Long experience had taught him that mutant cooperation was a good thing. "Private Tyler, thank you for joining us. Dr. Morrison tells me that you were one of her earliest successes?"

"Yes, sir." Blue's eyes hadn't gone feral-black, but were still as cold and as deadly as his namesake shark. He kept his hands at his side, his fingers deliberately relaxed. "Me and four others. The rest are newer to this life."

"Yes, I heard about that," Adam murmured. "I was sorry to hear that it went so badly for you."

Blue flicked those cold eyes at Adam, startled. Then he straightened out, put himself back at attention. "Thank you, sir."

"May I ask you a few questions?"

Another start, this one better hidden. Clearly Blue wasn't used to such consideration from those looking at his mutation. "That's what I'm here for, sir," Blue replied carefully.

Adam chose to take the statement at face value. "I understand that you now have gills. They work well for you?"

"Yes, sir."

"When you submerge, is it a conscious effort on your part to use them?"

"No, sir."

"Does it feel natural, or is there a period of acclimation before they start to provide you with oxygen?"

"No, sir."

It went on and on like that, Adam asking questions and receiving short yes/no answers. It wasn't quite pulling teeth, but Adam could see that he had something less than a willing subject. No matter; Adam had all the time in the world even if Shalimar, Brennan, and Jesse were squirming on uncomfortable stools, watching him work.

"Your skin," Adam finally asked, "I understand that it's similar to a shark's? Rough and protects you from the elements better than before?"

"Yes, sir," Blue started to say, when Bayliss interrupted him.

"Let's get on with this, Dr. Kane! Examine the shark, and be done with it. Strip, private."

"Sir?" Blue's face was wooden.

"You heard me, soldier. Strip down to your skivvies and let the doc take a look at you. You've done it often enough in this room. I shouldn't have to tell you twice."

The other soldiers in the room came to alert. More than one hand went to a cattle prod hanging from a belt. One leaned forward, watching and waiting.

Blue's ears flamed. He swallowed the anger, choked down the humiliation. Shalimar ached with sympathy but to interfere would only make it worse. Blue fumbled with his desert tan tee shirt, pulling it up and over his head and dropping it neatly across a nearby counter. His dog tags jingled quietly against his smooth and hairless chest. In the bright clinic light they could all see the blue-silvery almost-scales that covered him, thick muscles nestled beneath. On his face the scales were so tiny as to mimic true skin but there, on his pectorals, there was no such camouflage. It was not human. Blue was no longerhuman.

Morrison moved in, taking the private's cap off of his head and draping it over his tee without so much as a please or thank you. "Private Tyler and the others had full heads of hair prior to treatment," she lectured, bending the private's head down to demonstrate to her guests. "One showed evidence of early male pattern balding, but the rest needed regular haircuts to maintain regulation length. As soon as the initial treatment was completed, Private Tyler and the others began to shave their heads as Olympic swimmers do in order to improve their speed in the water. Shortly thereafter I noted that the male pattern balding was significantly more pronounced in all of them. When the three females were likewise subjected to the treatment, they also began to lose their hair." Morrison rubbed Blue's thinning scalp. "The skin is softer here, less rough compared to the chest and other parts of the body, but does show evidence of mutation. Here, feel this, Adam." Morrison took Adam's hand to guide him. Blue suffered the indignity in silence, his gaze fixed to the blank wall in front of him.

Morrison wasn't finished. "You can tell that the musculature is mutating as well, Adam. The pectorals here, the abdominus rectus, all increasing in size and strength." Morrison poked at the muscles in question, her actions strictly clinical. She could have been judging a pet dog in a show ring for all the attention she paid to the person in front of her.

Adam stepped around. "Martha, he's been mutated for three months and actively swimming for much of that time. His increased muscle mass could be from working out." He hesitated before touching. "May I?"

"Go ahead. Sir," Blue tacked on, keeping the bitterness out of his voice. But all of Mutant X could hear the undertones: doesn't matter what I want, does it?

Adam palpated the muscles from insertion point to attachment. "You clearly have a well-developed set of musculature, but as I said, that could be from exercise—"

"Then look at the muscles in his legs, Kane," Bayliss broke in. "Look at those muscles, and tell me it's not from the mutation! Drop the pants, soldier. Drop 'em, I said."

"Yes, sir." The words came out almost strangled. Shalimar had to look away, gratified to see that her teammates felt as embarrassed as she did on the fellow mutant's behalf.

"I don't think that's necessary—" Adam started to say.

"Nonsense! Drop 'em, soldier. Kick off those boots and let the doctor take a look at you. Look at those muscles, Kane!" Bayliss ran his own hand down Blue's thigh. Shalimar was reminded of a horse trader extolling the virtues of his wares. "Tell me those are from swimming!"

Adam dodged the question. "No steroids, Martha?"

"There was, at first. It helped with the adaptation, to avoid rejection of the shark DNA. But I was able to taper it off after three days. Not enough steroids to alter the musculature. This is all mutation."

Shalimar really hoped that the skin that Morrison and Bayliss were raving about also protected Blue from the cold, because the man had to be getting chilled, standing there before them clad in nothing but his briefs. She bit her lip, wondering how to stop this farce. Adam never treated any of his patients this callously! This was one of Bayliss's own men!

"More to show you," Bayliss went on, oblivious to the mutant's distress. "Get on the stretcher, Tyler. Want to show you this, Kane."

"Sir." Don't make me do this, sir.

"Table. Now, private!" Bayliss's voice cracked like a whip. More hands went to their prods.

Shalimar could follow Blue's thoughts along with the flicker of his eyes: the window was no escape. It was covered in inch-thick bars. Two officers stood in front of the door, cattle prods in their hands. That was no way out, either.

"Lie down on the stretcher, soldier."

There was no choice. Face stony, Blue hoisted himself onto the waist high stretcher and swung his legs up. He swallowed hard.

"Lie down." There was no mistaking the threat in Bayliss's voice this time. The colonel took hold of Blue's shoulder to force him all the way down.

Blue went down, not because the colonel could make him physically but because the other option included use of the prods in the officers' hands. He struggled a bit; the position was clearly uncomfortable for him. His breathing quickened.

"Here, little lady." Bayliss enlisted Shalimar's aid, dragging her to the side of the stretcher. Shalimar carefully avoided looking Blue in the face, unwilling to witness the man's discomfort and humiliation. "Rub his gut."

"What?" Of all the things the colonel could have asked for, Shalimar had not expected this.

"Rub his belly, like a dog. See what happens." Bayliss took Shalimar's wrist, dragged her hand across Blue's abdomen.

Here the mutated skin was softer than Shalimar would have thought, the scales smaller and more delicate. Earlier she had brushed up against the man's arm and had drawn a drop or two of blood from the sandpaper-like flesh. But on the abdomen the texture was softer, almost leathery. A place to protect when fighting, a small part of her said. Her hand glided smoothly across Tyler's belly.

But the effect on Blue was as startling as it was instantaneous. The man went limp, his breathing slowing to almost nothing, his limbs going slack. As one, the officers relaxed their grips on their cattle prods. They were obviously well-used to this result, that the shark mutant could be neutralized when placed on his back and belly massaged. Only Blue's eyes betrayed the anguish that he felt. Everything was flaccid; everything, that is, except for a growing bulge under his skivvies. A non-com snickered. Blue flushed.

"Interesting," Adam said, the undertone making it clear that he'd seen enough. "You can let him up now, Shalimar. Why don't you get dressed, Private? I'm sure that anything more I need will be in the data that Dr. Morrison has collected."

"Nonsense, doc. There's a lot more." Bayliss lifted Blue's strengthless arm up over his head, the mutant helpless to object, his mutant body betraying him while lying on his back. "Gills, doc. Look at 'em."

Despite himself, Adam was fascinated. Five gill slits were tucked under Blue's armpit, ideally placed to protect the delicate structures from harm. They were motionless now, unneeded on land. Adam made a mental note to see if there was underwater footage of the gills in action, convinced that Morrison would have done so.

"That's not all, Adam," Morrison added. "Look at his eyes." Again oblivious to her subject's discomfort, Dr. Morrison pulled down Blue's lower eyelid. "Nictating membrane, just like a shark's. Everyone of them has it. They can raise that second eyelid at will to protect their eyes just before an attack. Or during a dust storm, if they're sent to a desert region."

"Show him the jaws," Bayliss urged. "A regular monster from the deep, that's what I told them at the Pentagon. Show him the jaws, doc."

"This is what gives the mutants much of their power," Morrison agreed. "I'm so pleased that I was able to carry over those mutations into the test subjects. Observe: sharks have the ability to unhinge their jaws and protrude them in order to seize their prey. These mutants have the same characteristics, along with several rows of teeth." Morrison placed her fingers to either side of Blue's face, manipulating the bones where the jaw met the skull. Blue couldn't help the groan that escaped, but Dr. Morrison ignored him.

The shark mutant's jaw unhinged, just as Morrison had described, the upper and lower teeth emerging like an outtake from Jaws. It was true: there were at least three rows of serrated teeth, and Shalimar wouldn't swear that there weren't more behind that, ready to jump into place.

"Don't put your fingers in," Morrison cautioned. "He's helpless like this, but these jaws will automatically snap shut as soon as the quieting stimulus is removed. I use a solid metal barrier to prevent accidents when I'm working with them. Keep rubbing at him, Ms. Fox. Keep him limp, so no one gets hurt."

"I can see why." Adam kept his own fingers carefully out of the way. "Can we let him up now? I'm sure he's had enough."

Bayliss frowned. "Squeamish, doc?" he started to say, but Shalimar had already stopped the manipulation that kept Blue subdued, helping the man to sit up.

That interested Adam more. "Your color is getting better now that you're sitting up," he noted, watching Private Tyler carefully. "You look like lying down is difficult for you. How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir." A little too fast, and a little too false. It was the sound of someone who felt that he had something to hide.

Adam chose not to pursue it, not in front of the man's commanding officer. Emphasis on command, he thought wryly. One of the reasons I chose not to join up. I have a terrible history at following orders. Hear that, Mason? "I appreciate your coming in," he only said.

"There's one thing more that I want to show you," Colonel Bayliss said casually, picking up a stick of wood large enough to qualify as a baseball bat. There were several of them lying in a corner, tough hunks of lumber left over from some building project. Adam wouldn't have been surprised to see the same chunks used in the frame of the mess hall. But Bayliss hefted the impromptu club—and abruptly swung it at Blue.

In retrospect, Adam wished for a slow motion camera to give credence to what he saw: the wood swinging at the shark mutant. Shark jaws opening and jutting out, savage teeth glistening. The wood chomped into two. And Blue spitting out a few left over splinters, a look of disgust on his face at the taste of the wood.

"That," Bayliss said with evident satisfaction, "is why I like this project." He grinned at Adam. "Tell me a dog face who's willing to face that in battle!"