subjects of the failed gene therapy. Stil , he would last long enough for Pancrit's purposes.
"Leonardo's work is truly unmatched." Pancrit selected the flask of yel ow fluid from the table of torture implements. "One might even say...irreplaceable." Wax squirmed in the wheelchair, gaze darting between the painting and the bottle. "What are you doing?"
"Seeing how much of an art lover you real y are." Pancrit loosened the eyedropper that served as the flask's stopper, fil ed its glass tube with amber liquid. He held the dropper above the picture and lightly squeezed its rubber bladder until a yel ow tear dangled from the glass tip. "Now...perhaps you'l consider rejoining our little team?"
Wax panted as the amber drop quivered with surface tension. "I can't--"
"Oops!" With an insouciant twitch of his hand, Pancrit let the drop fal on the painting's frame. The sulfuric acid hit the ornate scrol work with a sizzle, the golden paint bubbling to evaporate into gilded smoke.
The dead scientist wriggled and whimpered as if the acid had landed on his skin. "Stop it!"
"Ah-ah." Pancrit lowered the dropper over the canvas and coaxed another drip to its drooling tip. "Settle down now."
Wax froze, mewling, as if afraid the vibrations of his movement might dislodge the acid droplet. "But you can't," he protested, like a child who hasn't yet learned that rules can be broken. "You and I--we don't matter. This matters."
"Does it? Destroying those test subjects at White Sands mattered more to you than this masterpiece. Avoiding your obligation to the project matters more to you than this triumph of the human imagination. Whatever
happens to this painting wil happen because you want it to. So let's see just how much it does matter to you.
"What should we do, Barty? Dissolve it?" Pancrit raised the acid flask, then indicated the other implements at his disposal. "Burn it? Slash it? Your pick." Wax blubbered, his gaze fixed on the dropper of acid. "I told you, the treatment doesn't work! There's nothing I can do...
Pancrit sighed. "There's that negative thinking again." He wiggled the dropper, and Wax shrieked as the acid on the tip shivered. "Al right! Al right! I'l try. Please...leave it alone."
Pancrit grinned. "We've readied a laboratory for you, Dr. Wax. I trust you can start immediately?" The dead scientist jerked hard enough against the bonds that held him that the entire wheelchair rattled. "If I ever--"
The Corps Security agents moved to flank him, stun guns ready.
Pancrit swung the eyedropper back toward the painting.
"You were saying?"
Wax seethed but remained stil . "I am at your service, Mr. Pancrit."
"Now you sound like a team player." Pancrit placed the dropper back in the flask. "We'l cal you when we need you."
Evan Markham's head snapped back, drawing breath as if for a sneeze. Block, the sumo-shaped orderly, leaned close, his stun gun held within an inch of the Violet's pulsing throat. Before it could spark, however, Evan exhaled and righted himself in the wheelchair, glaring at the Corps Security agent with his customary hostility.
"There a problem?" He cast a glance at the stun gun and the guard withdrew it. Evan waved his bound hands, and Wax's bread-bag hair tie fluttered from his
unclenched fist to the floor. "You can take these things off anytime now."
The Security agents sought authorization from Pancrit, who nodded. Tackle grabbed a box cutter from among Pancrit's torture tools and sliced the plastic bands off Markham's wrists and ankles while Block kept his stun gun close by.
The Violet stood and shook the circulation back into his fingers. "You know Wax is holding out on you, right?" Markham's idle comment excited Pancrit. "Why? Did his thoughts give anything away?"
"No. He was fighting hard not to think about the project, which is how I could tel he knows more than he's letting on."
Carl Pancrit smiled, his hunch confirmed. He stooped to retrieve the twist-tie. "We'l see whether the good doctor
"Leonardo's work is truly unmatched." Pancrit selected the flask of yel ow fluid from the table of torture implements. "One might even say...irreplaceable." Wax squirmed in the wheelchair, gaze darting between the painting and the bottle. "What are you doing?"
"Seeing how much of an art lover you real y are." Pancrit loosened the eyedropper that served as the flask's stopper, fil ed its glass tube with amber liquid. He held the dropper above the picture and lightly squeezed its rubber bladder until a yel ow tear dangled from the glass tip. "Now...perhaps you'l consider rejoining our little team?"
Wax panted as the amber drop quivered with surface tension. "I can't--"
"Oops!" With an insouciant twitch of his hand, Pancrit let the drop fal on the painting's frame. The sulfuric acid hit the ornate scrol work with a sizzle, the golden paint bubbling to evaporate into gilded smoke.
The dead scientist wriggled and whimpered as if the acid had landed on his skin. "Stop it!"
"Ah-ah." Pancrit lowered the dropper over the canvas and coaxed another drip to its drooling tip. "Settle down now."
Wax froze, mewling, as if afraid the vibrations of his movement might dislodge the acid droplet. "But you can't," he protested, like a child who hasn't yet learned that rules can be broken. "You and I--we don't matter. This matters."
"Does it? Destroying those test subjects at White Sands mattered more to you than this masterpiece. Avoiding your obligation to the project matters more to you than this triumph of the human imagination. Whatever
happens to this painting wil happen because you want it to. So let's see just how much it does matter to you.
"What should we do, Barty? Dissolve it?" Pancrit raised the acid flask, then indicated the other implements at his disposal. "Burn it? Slash it? Your pick." Wax blubbered, his gaze fixed on the dropper of acid. "I told you, the treatment doesn't work! There's nothing I can do...
Pancrit sighed. "There's that negative thinking again." He wiggled the dropper, and Wax shrieked as the acid on the tip shivered. "Al right! Al right! I'l try. Please...leave it alone."
Pancrit grinned. "We've readied a laboratory for you, Dr. Wax. I trust you can start immediately?" The dead scientist jerked hard enough against the bonds that held him that the entire wheelchair rattled. "If I ever--"
The Corps Security agents moved to flank him, stun guns ready.
Pancrit swung the eyedropper back toward the painting.
"You were saying?"
Wax seethed but remained stil . "I am at your service, Mr. Pancrit."
"Now you sound like a team player." Pancrit placed the dropper back in the flask. "We'l cal you when we need you."
Evan Markham's head snapped back, drawing breath as if for a sneeze. Block, the sumo-shaped orderly, leaned close, his stun gun held within an inch of the Violet's pulsing throat. Before it could spark, however, Evan exhaled and righted himself in the wheelchair, glaring at the Corps Security agent with his customary hostility.
"There a problem?" He cast a glance at the stun gun and the guard withdrew it. Evan waved his bound hands, and Wax's bread-bag hair tie fluttered from his
unclenched fist to the floor. "You can take these things off anytime now."
The Security agents sought authorization from Pancrit, who nodded. Tackle grabbed a box cutter from among Pancrit's torture tools and sliced the plastic bands off Markham's wrists and ankles while Block kept his stun gun close by.
The Violet stood and shook the circulation back into his fingers. "You know Wax is holding out on you, right?" Markham's idle comment excited Pancrit. "Why? Did his thoughts give anything away?"
"No. He was fighting hard not to think about the project, which is how I could tel he knows more than he's letting on."
Carl Pancrit smiled, his hunch confirmed. He stooped to retrieve the twist-tie. "We'l see whether the good doctor
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