Eve & Adam (Eve & Adam 1)

Back to the Spiker database. I search for hemophilia. Many files. It seems we may be close to a gene-based cure. Transferred to Project 88715.

Neurofibromatosis. Ditto.

Sickle cell disease. Ditto.

Tay-Sachs disease. Ditto.

Not every genetic disease, but a lot. Too many for it to be some kind of fluke. Half a dozen major genetic diseases that Spiker has worked on have been suddenly transferred to Project 88715.

Why transfer all this info about genetic diseases to some ridiculous classroom software project?

I know the budget for all of Project 88715 is twelve million dollars. That’s a lot of money, but it’s

not a lot of money at Spiker. At Spiker, anything under a billion is loose change.

I pull up the log entries—the brief descriptions—for CF and hemophilia and the rest. Rough addition in my head: The total budget is over twenty-eight billion dollars.

Billion. With a “B.”

Twenty-eight billion dollars’ worth is suddenly under the aegis of a twelve-million-dollar project?

That’s like saying your local grocery store chain will be managed by the kids selling lemonade on the street corner.

Terra Spiker’s up to something. I don’t know exactly what yet.

But I will find out.

– 12 –

“Mmmmm. Caviar,” Aislin says.

It’s one of her phrases.

It’s late afternoon, and Solo has just entered my room. He’s holding Aislin’s shoulder bag.

Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.

“I’m sorry?” Solo says.

“It’s expensive. It’s … delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.

Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.

God, I’ve missed her.

“Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.

What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.

“Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have … the leftovers?”

Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.

And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.

I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.

She knows no fear, Aislin.