Idiot! Imbécile! Bête comme tes pieds!

How could I have so stupid as to imagine for even an instant that Rachel Duncan had truly changed, that she was even remotely interested in her sisters' welfare? Or in anyone else's besides her own, for that matter. Empathy, sympathy and compassion require both a heart and a conscience; there is no evidence that she possesses either. In her cold-blooded view, love is of value only because it can be exploited.

I had been played, and had stepped right into her trap. And the worst of it is, she hadn't had to lift a finger. She had guessed correctly which way Sarah and I would jump and sat back, waiting for us to ensnare ourselves in her web so that all she had to do was swoop in and whisk Kira away and into her clutches.

No. The worst of it is that I have no idea what is happening with Cosima, and no conceivable way at the moment to contact her.

I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the tightening in my lower back. It is probably no coincidence that I am flying in Coach in the exact center of the middle section in the row closest to the bulkhead. No doubt this is Rachel's idea of a joke, yet another way to rub salt into my wounds.

The endlessly inquisitive little boy to my right has fallen asleep; I try not to think about how sticky he is from wiping his runny nose on his hands and every surface within reach. The young American businessman sitting to my left had been far more persistent and annoying until I had snapped that his wanting to "just say hello" did not supercede my right and desire to be left alone, jammed in my earbuds — the other end of the cord attached to nothing, as Rachel's goons had confiscated my phone on the way to the airport in Toronto — and coldly ignored his pretending to be wounded by my rudeness until he had finally given up.

Think, Delphine, think.

An ominous throbbing behind my eyes presages a nascent migraine. My gut churns with worry over Cosima. I rub my temples, trying to alleviate the tension that draws the muscles there and in my neck, jaw and shoulders taut as whipcord.

Perhaps her transplant will proceed as scheduled, but that faint hope is overshadowed by the looming suspicion that Rachel will withhold treatment to use as further leverage against Sarah. Marcus is working frantically on his oncolytic virus, but there is no reasonable way to predict either how long it will take him to tailor it or how effective it will be against the tumors that are all too rapidly metastasizing throughout her body. Or if he will even be allowed access to her to begin experimental trials.

Already I crave her touch, her smile, the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin at the delicate curve of her neck, the quicksilver nimbleness of her brilliant mind. Even her terrible jokes and quirky sense of humor. The thought that I may not see her again until it is too late twists like a knife in my bowels.

And then there is Kira, hidden somewhere in one of Dyad's ultrasecure fortifications, possibly even within Dyad's premises. While I suspect that she may undergo some tests and possibly even gentle interrogation, the chances that Rachel will actually harm or mistreat her are vanishingly small. Not for Kira's sake, much less Sarah's, of course, but because Kira holds within her body and genome so many potential keys that may unlock the mystery of the Leda clones.

At least Sarah had realized that I too had been Rachel's unwitting pawn in Kira's kidnapping, that my distress was genuine. I shudder to think how exponentially more vehement her obstreperousness and antipathy would have become had she believed I was involved in the scheme in any way.

I take a deep breath, hold it, then release it slowly, again and again, willing my body to relax and telling myself that there is literally nothing I can do to help any of them at this time. Likewise, I have no idea what awaits me. Therefore expending energy fretting about what has already taken place and what is to come is pointless and counterproductive. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof...

There is a small measure of comfort that I am unlikely to be killed on a commercial flight. Surely not even Rachel would murder an entire plane full of innocent passengers just to be rid of me. So either she wants me alive for some reason, or — and it galls me to admit this is far more likely — she considers me so nonthreatening that I am not worth the trouble. Still, I have been careful not to consume anything on the plane other than the bottle of water I had purchased at the gate. I am probably being paranoid, but a few hours' minor privation will do me no harm.

The one thing I am absolutely certain about reverberates throughout my entire being like the sounding of a vast bell: I will swallow razor blades and gouge out my eyes before I ever allow Rachel Duncan to see me cry again.

Emotional and physical exhaustion finally claiming me, I nap fitfully until the popping in my ears and the additional turbulence from the extended wing flaps herald our descent. We touch down uneventfully, the plane gradually taxiing to a crawling glide. There is a beep, then the announcement on the overhead system from the pilot: "Willkommen Sie meine Damen und Herren, in Frankfurt Flughafen am Main. Bitte bleiben Sie sitzen..."

All around me bustles the usual rush and shuffle of people impatiently scrabbling for their bags from the overhead bins and lining up in the aisles, my erstwhile seatmate fortunately among them. I make no move to join the throng; instead I remain standing at my seat, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs and ease my back until the First Class passengers have departed and we are finally permitted to disembark.

Emerging from the SkyLine people mover, I navigate the signs through Baggage Claim pointing toward Customs, which I clear quickly as I have nothing with me other than my nearly empty purse. No one follows me. If I had a minder on the plane, there is a reasonably good chance that he or she is still stuck in line. Someone will almost certainly intercept me when I exit the terminal but for the moment I am relatively at liberty. Catching sight of a Capi shop, suddenly I have an idea.

I grab a cheap prepaid cellphone off a rack. Remembering belatedly that I have only Canadian money with me, I resign myself to paying an exorbitant premium for the exchange rate and receive a paltry few euros in change. I find a quiet corner along an almost deserted corridor where I can see in both directions and tear open the plastic shell; freeing the clunky phone from its packaging, I plug it into a nearby power outlet and boot it up.

Finding the Settings tab, I enter a fake name, one of my disposable email addresses and a random country of residence into the Telekom Hotspot login page and agree to Fraport's terms and conditions before I am able to access the internet.

Quickly I download the Tor bundle and open Orweb. Knowing that all calls and electronic traffic will be monitored at her end, I search for a stock image of an Adélie penguin, attach it to an otherwise blank email with the subject line Lord W. sends his regards, then hit Send.

It is not much of a message, but at least Cosima will know that I have not "had a heart attack on a Dyad jet." That will have to suffice for now.

Per the instructions I had received on leaving Toronto, I head toward the Ground Transportation area. Still lost in thought, I am startled by almost literally running into the last person I would have expected to see.

I start to ask Marion what the hell she is doing here but quickly suppress the impulse. Give her nothing. No overture, no indication of what you are feeling. Never forget that your being such an open book is part of the reason you are in this situation.

"Good evening, Dr. Cormier." One corner of her mouth purses; the dark eyes glint with something that looks very much like amusement. "There's been... a restructuring of command at Dyad."


To be continued, though this one most likely won't be updated nearly as frequently as my Cophine smut-fest "The Cosima Sutra." What can I say, smut is my default mode...