"I cannot believe this!" Limburger roared in his office, and it reverberated into Karbunkle's lab.

Karbunkle looked up from the delicate wiring work inside the Plutarkian-steel casing. Limburger's bellow reverberated through his cavernous laboratory from the floor above. Had the Tower's latest rebuild gone up thinner than typical? His laboratory had specifications that had to be met for him to be able to work without mutating Limburger's goon army!

Though increasing the rate of mutation that Val Tech had begun a local year ago may actually improve their capabilities, it sounded like the latest emergency would keep him from exploring that possibility for even longer.

The platform lift lowered from Limburger's office with the portly Plutarkian still bellowing his complaint. "Plutark needs gold, the purest you can source. And all the gold mines are in other Plutarkians' territory." His swarthy mask pouted. "Scheming mines away from them and the humans wouldn't normally matter, but Lord Camembert specifically prohibited infighting for all of us. Where does that leave us, Karbunkle? Liberating the bullion from Fort Knox? That is sure to get human governments' attention, and the Plutarkian Empire hasn't completed the steps to fully corrupt all the branches in this nation yet." His pout transformed into a nose-flaring fume. "Too much local competition for that."

Karbunkle set down his tools and turned to face the platform as it reached the laboratory floor. Usually, the corpulent carp enjoyed the creative ways Terrans practiced corruption, but no, they weren't in any position to take over the city of Chicago, much less an entire nation on Earth.

Before Karbunkle said anything in response to Limburger's complaint, the Plutarkian's gaze landed on the current experiment suspended above the work surface in a small anti-gravity field. "What is that?"

"Oh, that?" Karbunkle glanced over his shoulder and then back to Limburger's unimpressed face on his mask. "Just a prototype, your rancid rankness. Nothing to do with gold."

"A prototype that looks like a leg." Limburger's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I want to make Fred taller," Karbunkle said quickly.

Limburger pinched the false nose on his mask as he heaved a long-suffering sigh. "My dear, distracted doctor, we have spoken at length about this. You will not mutilate the goons we are able to employ on this planet. Remember when they went on strike and we tried to recruit from the criminal population? What do you think they will do if they lose limbs thanks to an experiment that failed when you tried it on Mars?"

"The cybernetic limbs did not fail!" Karbunkle snapped back.

"NO MUTILATING THE GOONS!" Limburger roared, bending over to ensure the full blast of his fetid breath hit Karbunkle in the face. Luckily, he didn't keep screaming until Karbunkle pulled out a gas mask. He straightened and tugged his purple jacket down. "Now let's concentrate on the problem du jour. How are we going to meet Plutark's gold quota?"

Karbunkle took a deep breath of now unpolluted air as he metaphorically flipped through his prodigious memory of his tools and Earth facts stored in his large, augmented cranium. "Go to Missouri instead, your fulsome fragrantness."

"The Show-Me State doesn't have a gold mine." Limburger put his gloved hands behind his back.

"They have lead mines and we have a nuclear transmutation ray gun. Liberate the lead, change it to gold, and ship it to Plutark. Greasepit might actually be capable of handling the task without strict supervision." Karbunkle hoped he had spoken the truth into existence. He seethed internally. The cybernetic limbs had worked on Mars. He needed to graft the prototype onto a test subject right now, and that couldn't happen if he was stuck in Missouri!

Limburger nodded sagely. "That sounds like it will work. Buy a productive lead mine with enough ore to meet the quota at least. Extra would be nice if we can achieve it before the inescapable eventuality of the operation. I will organize the goons for the labor needs." He stepped back onto the platform, and it lifted to seal closed the ceiling hole.

Karbunkle gritted his teeth and growled before stomping over to his computer. Creating the search string didn't take enough mental energy to distract him from his anger. The Biker Mice were still using the cybernetic limbs he had grafted onto them seven years ago! The experiment was a success on those metrics at least. And Limburger would ensure that Karbunkle would go to Missouri and oversee the operation and ignoring all Karbunkle's protests. He would have to leave the prototype here in pieces that would be destroyed once the operation ended, like all their operations did--in tears, explosions, and vermin's invective.

He finished the search string, and the computer posited results that met the criteria. He sat down before the viewscreen and focused his green goggles on the results, narrowing them down further. It also did not distract him from the easiest solution to his problem: getting away from Earth, Chicago, or Limburger.

Unfortunately, his retirement fund wasn't yet robust enough to set up on a different planet and continue with the research he wanted to do. Not to mention that the research he wanted to do would have the Galactic Tribunal and their associated ilk down on his sandy-colored hair on his extra-large head. But they would never dare interfere with the Plutarkian military might.

And while Plutark High Command didn't care about arguable ethics over his research, they insisted upon pain of death that he had to remain with Limburger. So, he was stuck since he did like living. And what was the saying, "better the reek your olfactory organs have gone numb to?" Brie was more likely to rip his brain out and put it in a vat because he had worked for Limburger than to employ him, and he had even less of a read on how the other cheesy conquistadors on planet Earth would react to his employment inquiry.

Ah, that mine was in the productive range they needed. Karbunkle checked Missouri state records and then sent a message to Donna Shamus, Limburger Industries' real estate agent, to buy the lead mine, no publicity and no budget constraints.

Regardless, it wasn't real currency.

While waiting for a response, he glanced over the website of offerings Ms. Shamus had to tempt buyers. Limburger allowed her to do business for other people because she had always been so good at forcing residents to sell for under market value back before the Biker Mice crash landed here. Not that many people wanted to move into Chicago these days. In fact, her newest offering was a closed medical clinic on the opposite side of the city and isolated from all of Limburger's properties.

Karbunkle paused at that listing. An Earth medical clinic would have the required electrical system in place to create a rudimentary laboratory to run his experiments, and the photographs of the building showed it had expansion possibilities. Separated from Limburger's operations, his experiments wouldn't get caught in the inevitable Tower destruction. He could leave things in progress as long as those rodential guerrillas never discovered it. He turned from his computer to look at the cybernetic leg floating in the anti-gravity field. So far, it was just a boxy thigh connected to two rods of the shin through a hinge housed in the thigh, just like the elbow that he had earlier designed. He hadn't gotten to figuring out the hip joint connection nor how to alter his hand prototype into a load-bearing foot.

This facsimile deserved to reach completion. It shouldn't become yet another mangled, useless collection of scrap! But that is exactly what would happen to it, to everything he had ever done for personal erudition and for the greater glory of the Plutarkian Empire, once those blasted Biker Mice drive here and destroy the current Tower like they had destroyed all the previous ones.

He turned back to the computer screen, still showing the medical clinic listing, and scowled at it.

The screen flipped over to the vidcom and showed Limburger's face while Karbunkle was still scowling. "How many goons will this mine need? What's wrong? Is there a complication already?"

Karbunkle shifted his scowl to a simpering smile. "No complications at this point, your chunky blue cheesiness. I haven't gotten to employment calculations on the mine yet."

Limburger frowned. "Well, make them now! How will we know how many goons we need to meet the quota if you don't? Why should I purchase this mine if it won't meet the demands?"

Karbunkle opened his calculation program and inputed the variables. This blather could go on and on if not stopped. "Based on the current production, the operation should only need forty goons. They can meet Plutark's quota within fourteen to eighteen hours."

That made Limburger stop and blink. "Fourteen hours to protect our appendages from the High Chairman's promised amputation." He ended the call, and the computer screen returned to the real estate listing for the medical clinic.

The listed price was quite reasonable for the square footage, but currently too much for Karbunkle's wallet. It really wasn't fair that the fat fish had promised a pay raise upon the successful completion of any of their operations. The Biker Mice From Mars had thwarted all of them! His pay had been frozen for three years. He deserved a raise. He deserved a safe place to work.

Karbunkle stomped over to the storage units on the other side of his laboratory. The specialized equipment Rolodex emerged from the wall, and he gave it a slow spin until the container holding the nuclear transmutation ray gun descended and he stopped it. Nifty little invention, not one of his, sadly, that easily shifted elemental atoms and changed them. Earth's primitive scientists had experimented chemically to change lead into gold, but this ray gun would actually complete the alchemy. Hmm, that would be a good code name for this operation. Operation Missouri Alchemy, no, Operation Show Me Alchemy.

High Command only issued one of these to each Plutarkian Conquistador to prevent counterfeiting gold gills and destabilizing the entire empire. So, when the thrice-blasted Biker Mice destroyed it, they wouldn't have the device until High Command approved a replacement and transported one. Karbunkle brought the long-barreled ray gun back to his computer, named this operation "Show Me Alchemy" in his notes, and began documenting all the details. Odds were high that the nuclear transmutation ray gun would be destroyed, either by the Martians or Greasepit's customary bumbling. How many of his inventions had the moronic oaf accidentally destroyed? He had lost count.

He sighed as his gaze drifted to the listing showing behind the border of the note program. His projects needed a safe place. He owed it to science to have a safe place to work. With that obligation reverberating in his skull, he closed the note program and opened the message program to the real estate agent.

Before he could type anything to her, the vidcom took over the screen again. "Will fifty make it faster, or will the goons be tripping over themselves even more than typical?" Limburger asked, drumming his fingers against his desk.

"The current owner-employer has only put forty employees on a shift." Karbunkle tilted his head. "We can shave some time off production by not bothering with transporting to refining. Plutark wants to do that."

"We have to reach the quota before those vile vermin ruin everything!" Limburger's fist hit his desk hard enough to bounce his ever-present bowl of worms into the view of the vidcom's camera.

"Of course, your fulsome fragrantness," Karbunkle cooed. "If you want fifty goons in Missouri, we will have to use the mutated reserves." He shrugged. "They should be ready to tackle physical labor. We will never see how well they perform if we never use them."

Limburger's swarthy mask frowned thoughtfully. "And they will be underground, so no one will make awkward inquiries about visible deformities." Something chimed on Limburger's desk, drawing his eye. "Ms. Shamus has completed the sale. See to the details, Karbunkle." He ended the call.

Karbunkle growled slightly. The message program already had Ms. Shamus' response with the price agreed to. He opened up the financial program, transferred that price and the price for the medical clinic--explaining that the overage was a fee to the accountants--sent the payment to Ms. Shamus, and shoved the overage into his personal bank account. He sent a message indicating that he was interested in the medical clinic.

Then, he sighed and went to program the transport remote, since Plutark wanted to skip the storage bins in orbit.

The rest of the morning was spent getting the goons to Missouri, setting up the nuclear transmutation ray gun and the transport remote, and leaving them there with Greasepit to return to the Tower. He had to submit the request for a new nuclear transmutation ray gun from Plutarkian High Command. And High Command demanded it in triplicate, a complicated triplicate that was protected, so you had to type everything in on each form.

High Command hated replacing items and made it as difficult as possible.

He was in the middle of the second form when Limburger interrupted via the vidcom once more, taking over his computer and disrupting the program. He couldn't help but let out a frustrated scream. "I was in the middle of the triplicate!"

"The goons are revolting!" Limburger shouted back.

Karbunkle jabbed the button ending the call on his end. The triplicate form had reset back to the beginning of the first entry. He ended up screaming again.

The platform from Limburger's office landed in the laboratory. "The goons are revolting over carrying lead!" Limburger repeated, shouting in person.

Karbunkle whirled around. "What do you want me to do about it! They are your goons!" He took a deep breath and pointed back at the computer. "I'm trying to request the nuclear transmutation ray gun before its impending destruction at the hands, blasters, and tires of those nefarious mice, so replacing it will happen that much sooner. And now I have to start over, in triplicate!" He heaved from the force of that scream. "I should make you do it," he growled out lowly.

Limburger blinked as he stepped back. "No, no, continue. Complete that as soon as possible. I will be in Missouri if you need me." The Plutarkian trotted to the transport booth and vanished in a flash of blue light.

Karbunkle took another deep breath before pressing the telephone button on his computer. "Ms. Shamus? I'm ready to buy that medical clinic immediately."

"You still go by Bluto?" Karbunkle lowered his hand-held viewscreen to look at the goon in front of him.

The large, broad-shouldered man shrugged. He had volunteered for the improvements Val Tech had offered last year, and they had left him taller, thicker, and with even more body hair overall. "I've been using it so long it might as well be on my birth certificate. It won't affect how I work for you, Doc. Off the books from the Big Boss." Bluto grinned, and it was a twisted, evil grin.

"It's not steady work," Karbunkle warned him. "Your payment is on a project basis when I can work on personal projects."

"That's no problem. As long as I can get some perks."

Karbunkle scowled. "What perks are you looking for?"

"The target you want to snatch? Can I have her after you're done?" Karbunkle raised an eyebrow over his goggles. Bluto shrugged. "She shot me. I owe her."

"As long as you don't interfere with the experiment results with revenge," Karbunkle told him sternly. So many inventions and experiments ruined because of the stupid pursuit of retaliation.

Bluto's grin twisted before he wiped it away from his squarish face. "I understand perfectly, Doc. I won't mess up any of your science. So, does this place have everything you need already, or do we have to go shopping while everyone is in Missouri?"

Charley rubbed her face and looked at the blurry screen of the computer. This program was supposed to make her bookkeeping easier, but it made little sense. She would have to get Sparks to explain it again when she wasn't so tired.

"Charley-love?" Throttle leaned against the office's door jamb from the garage. "You made it all the way here with the stomach bug?"

"I think it's finally out of my system." She fervently hoped so; she hated puking. "I don't feel like doing anything."

"Go back to bed." Charley gave him a look at what sounded like an order, and the tan mouse winced behind his shades. "I didn't mean it like that," he continued. "No jobs are waiting for repairs, and Limburger is completely quiet. You don't have to be up, so go back to bed and let your body recover."

She had thought the quiet was best used on catching up on paperwork, but learning the computer had defeated that. It shouldn't be that hard, so she probably was still ill even if on the mend. She opened her mouth to admit defeat, but Modo's voice called out over the black bike's radio. "Throttle, bro, Sparks got into Limburger's systems."

Throttle sighed before moving to his bike and turning on the microphone. "When did Sparks learn Plutarkian?"

Charley followed him into the garage, leaned against the door, and heard Sparks clearly. "I didn't get into Limburger's Plutarkian stuff. I got into the goons' stuff, and they're using English. And they're all complaining about going to Missouri."

"Another scheme in the land of corn?" Vinnie wailed further away from the scoreboard's microphone.

"Nobody said anything about corn," Sparks said. "Lots of complaints about how heavy lead is."

"The corn scheme was in Kansas," Throttle corrected. Charley pulled a road atlas off her filing cabinet in the office and found the page for Illinois before reaching Throttle and showing him the state borders. "Okay, Missouri isn't as far as that."

"Wherever they're going, the goons are complaining about a six-hour trip to get there," Sparks added.

"We better break out the Tri-Fighter and cut that travel down. Start putting it together while I head over there. Throttle out." He looked over at Charley.

She was already shaking her head. "You don't have to say it. I'm not well enough to help, so I'll stay home. And if Sparks is using hacking a communication system as his science fair project, I'm not qualified to judge that."

"Send it to Donatello for a verdict if Sparks turns it in for a grade."

She chuckled. "Alright. Bring the Tri-Fighter back in one piece."

"We will." He pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek before jumping on his bike and peeling out.

Charley sighed. Trying not to pass a stomach bug to Throttle had led to more chaste displays of affection. And he would probably send Sparks over here when they took off, so no point in going to bed until the nine-year-old was here. But going to bed sounded fantastic now. She sat back down at her desk and leaned back in the chair. This chair was not that comfortable; she should probably buy a new one. Her eyes drifted closed.

She jumped when the garage door rattled. Sparks shouldn't be locked out. She rubbed her face and looked at the outside office door. Oh, she had left the open sign lit. It was probably a customer. She pushed out of the chair and headed to the office door. Better to see what the problem was before raising the garage door.

The street didn't have a motorcycle, car, or truck parked on it. Charley frowned. While she looked out in confusion, a meaty hand grabbed her shoulder. She grabbed it and twisted, pulling it to take the man off his feet just like the Biker Mice had taught her.

He did not budge.

She had to maintain her grip on his bulging forearm as he spun her around. He was as tall as Jimmy Mac but hairy, and his face under that black hair was different, but that was as much as she could notice before a sweet-smelling mist hit her face. She coughed, and her vision darkened around the edges.

He tucked a spray bottle into a pocket on his black vest, freeing his other hand to catch her as her knees buckled and everything went dark.

Karbunkle blinked at his computer screen. He swiveled to look at the patient strapped down to the examination table. The russet-haired human was still unconscious and unable to falsify results. He turned back to the computer console and instructed the scanning arm to make another pass over her torso.

The same image emerged and enlarged: a creature that resembled a lizard curved around a balloon-like placenta. The arms and legs had budded out, and the tail almost reached the rudimentary face. "She is gravid!"

Bluto straightened off the nearby wall. "She's what? I don't pack a dictionary in my pocket, Doc."

Karbunkle sighed. "Enceinte, embarazada, gestating, gravid, fecund." He looked up at the bushy eyebrows that touched Bluto's hairline over his forehead. "Pregnant," Karbunkle snapped.

The large man blinked and looked at the woman on the table. "She doesn't look pregnant."

Karbunkle looked at the computer screen with the details from the medical scan. "The fetus has about thirty-four weeks of growing to do."

"But how? She's been shacking up with the tan mouse since May."

"Humans must have fecundity with Martian mice." Humans had an intrinsic capacity for hybridization. It was found in their evolution, in the mutating research Val Tech had done, and whatever processes aliens had taken to create Greasepit and himself. This fecund-ability between mice and humans was unexpected, but must be natural. None of the Biker Mice had the scientific expertise to start the process for the copulating pair. Neither did this human mechanic, no matter how gifted she was with technical appliances. "The questions are, will this offspring be viable, and will it be heterotic?"

"That wouldn't show up until puberty, right?" Karbunkle stared at Bluto, and the large man shrugged. "I know you're born gay, but who cares until puberty?"

Karbunkle sighed again. But at least Bluto's observations were on the subject. "That would be a third question for this offspring: its fertility and expression of it. Before we reach that stage, first, we must see if it will live as a separate life form as opposed to its parasitic existence now. Second, we need to see if there are any improved or increased functions of any biological qualities in the hybrid when compared to humans and Martian mice."

"Okay," Bluto said a little dubiously. "So, you want to let her go?"

"Not hardly," Karbunkle snapped back. "But the scope of the experiment has metamorphosed so much, it is a brand-new experiment. Strip her for surgery while I prep the equipment."

Charley groaned as she came to. Where the hell was she? She blinked at the unfamiliar bedroom she was inside. Metal walls and a metal door and the enormous bed she was on extended from the wall. It was bigger than her and Throttle's bed. And where were her clothes?

She slid off the bed and opened the dresser against the wall with a door. Green tank top of humongous proportions, a black vest and dark jeans of matching proportions; great, that's the uniform for Limburger's goons. One of them snatched her from the Last Chance and put her in his bedroom? And stole her clothes off her body? Oh, that was a new level of low.

She knotted the green tank top straps so the fabric would stay on her shoulders and wrapped the belt she found around her waist three times before she could buckle it closed and pulled the tank top hem up to her knees. Now she could sneak out of here, find a CB, and call someone to come pick her up. It would have to be Sparks. The others must still be in Missouri. She'd smooth things over with Modo. It's not like she could call a cab like this.

The door slid open, and a massive man stooped to get inside. My God, he was bigger than Modo! He straightened under the room's ceiling. "Good, you finally woke up. Now, we can get started." His grin made her shiver.

He reached for her, and that jolted her into moving. "We're not starting anything!" She dashed forward and slid out of the room between his tree-trunk legs before he could close the gap. She scrambled onto her feet in the hall and ran as fast as she could.

"You're still a bitch." He laughed and moved into the hall. "I'm going to love fucking that out of you."

She kept running around a hallway corner.

The entire building shook, and that wasn't from the goon pursuing her. Charley trusted in the space she had put between herself and that giant goon and stopped running. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled sharply for as long as she could. If the Biker Mice didn't hear that, their bikes would.

The goon laughed again. "You trying to summon help?" His grin split his hair-covered face. "Their ears aren't that big."

The building shook again. Charley staggered but didn't fall. "Chicago doesn't have earthquakes; that means they are here!" She took off again, running toward the rumbling.

The goon started running after her. His long legs chewed up the distance between them. Fear spiked through her, and she ducked the swipe of his massive hand. An explosion blew through the wall behind her. She covered her head with her arms, but still heard the roaring of motorcycles.

Throttle's bike skidded next to her and fired. The goon caught the missile in his midsection, and it blew him off his feet and down the hall. Throttle sucked in a breath. "Charley-babe?"

She threw her arms around him as adrenaline wracked through her, leaving shivers in its wake. "Sorry to delay Missouri," she got out.

He hugged her before pulling her onto his lap and onto the motorcycle seat. "Charley's not dressed for this part. Meet us at the garage after knocking down the Tower."

"We got this," Vinnie said with a white thumbs up. "Get out of here and calm Sparks down."

Throttle didn't wait for anything else to be said and blasted an exit hole out of the side of the building. Charley wrapped her arms around his torso and tucked her head under his helmet as they drove out through the debris and landed on the plaza outside the building. She peeked out at the lit streetlights and the deepening twilight as they roared down the streets. "What? How long was I in there?"

"Too long." His arm tightened around her. "We were in Missouri by the time Sparks radioed he couldn't find you. The Tri-Fighter needs a new turbine with the red lining we did to get back." The wind whipping against her skin or that knowledge did not help her shivers.

Sparks leaped out of a chair at the table near the kitchen door when they roared in. "Charley-ma'am, is she okay? I should have gone in the Tower to find her!" His gold bike beeped from its parking space in front of the window.

Throttle picked her up into his arms bridal style as he dismounted. "Bonded battle bike or no, you charge into Limburger's Tower alone and I will make tangle springs to help your father ground you! Understand?"

Sparks' red eyes widened under his gray bangs. "Yes, sir," he mumbled as he cringed.

"I think I'm fine," Charley said to break the tension.

"We're going up to make sure of that." Throttle sounded a little less snappish, but still tense. "Your dad and Vinnie are incoming."

"So get the root beers ready." Sparks held the swinging door to the kitchen open for them, but didn't follow them up the stairs.

Throttle said nothing until they reached the upstairs bathroom. "How do you feel? Do you hurt anywhere?" He set her down on her feet.

Now that the danger was over, she could feel the burn on her thigh. "My leg?" They both looked down at the large patch of rug burn on the side of her thigh near her knee. "I got that sliding out of that goon's room. Everything else feels fine." Well, something inside was cramping now; that was an interesting aftereffect of adrenaline.

He took a deep breath, but it didn't relax him as he pulled off his helmet and set it down on the towel shelf. "What happened? What do you remember?"

"I thought there was a customer outside. A noise woke me up, and I went out looking for a customer, and something smelled funny. The next thing I remember is waking up naked in a bedroom."

He bared all his teeth in a silent snarl before asking. "Did he take advantage beyond stealing your clothes?"

She shook her head. "No. He wanted to rape me; he said that while he was chasing me. But he wanted me awake for it. And he would have broken my bones if he had tried." She really didn't want to think too hard about their size difference. "Whatever knockout gas he used worked too well and spoiled his timing."

"Taking advantage of the situation." Throttle hugged her to his chest. "Boss is out of state, so nobody is around to stop extracurricular felonies. That explains where we found you." His voice dropped. "I thought it would be Karbunkle's lab."

She squeezed him tighter. That explained why he had been so tense and terse; all three of them had so much trauma concerning Karbunkle and mostly tried to ignore it because macho, tough heroes didn't talk about stuff like that. She needed to explain that to Sparks later. "That didn't happen. Don't give him any ideas." She twisted her head and kissed his snout. "Find me some shorts and let's get this leg treated."

He exhaled some of his tension and kissed her cheek as he let her go. "Yeah, it's smelling bloodier than it looks." He said over his shoulder as he walked into their bedroom.

Smells bloody? A cramp gave a squeeze on her insides. She raised the hem of the makeshift tank top dress she was in until she saw blood smears on her inner thighs. "Well, shit."

"What?"

"I hope you weren't counting on after-battle sex because that's out."

"That's out," he repeated as he brought a handful of clothes into the bathroom. "But you're late?"

She paused gathering her supplies. "Are you tracking my cycle?" That came out sharper than she had intended.

"Not on purpose!" He raised his hands and shook his head. "I just noticed, especially since we started living together, and it should've happened last week."

"Okay, okay. I'm not mad. Your nose just caught me off guard."

He lowered his hands. "Humans don't notice?"

"Not by smell, and so many men prefer to ignore that it is a reality. Dad told me, if boys weren't willing to buy tampons, they weren't ready to have sex." She took the clothes from him.

"You haven't sent me for tampons."

"Because we want to support local businesses, not get banned from all of them."

Throttle snorted at that. "Fair enough. But should we be worried about the timing?"

"I don't think so. Getting sick and stress can delay things. It happens." She looked down at the rug burn on her leg. "I don't think this needs gauze until bedtime. Can you go downstairs and make sure everybody knows I'm fine?"

"And check that we have chocolate, too." He grinned at her. "Take all the time you need, Tokara."

"Love you, Tokaro." He headed down the stairs with a lighter tread than he had come up with, and Charley was glad to hear it. Exploding Limburger's Missouri operation must have gone well too before panic over her fate took over. She felt a rumble through the structure of the building of the Tower falling. Better hurry and get cleaned up so she could be downstairs when Modo and Vinnie returned.

Karbunkle closed the file with a sigh. He surveyed his new personal domain. The control lights glowed reassuringly from the computer consoles, the robot, and the artificial womb. He turned off the room illumination and locked the door as he left.

The End