Bianca spent two weeks in the hospital before she was discharged, and had been home for five days when Crystal visited. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," said her friend. "We've been completely snowed under at the lab..."

"I know," Bianca replied levelly, as Crystal collapsed into a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jefferson Davis. "Simon told me. Do you want a drink?"

"Coffee?"

"Fine." She walked into the antiquated kitchen. "Simon's told me about the... what are they calling it? The Centurion? Was that your project?"

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

"What?"

"Most of it, yes. Why?"

"He told me they add about a hundred years to your life expectancy. Is that true?"

"In some cases. They haven't given you one, have they?"

"No," replied Bianca, dully. "Simon's father said I'm too young to need one, and his mother told him they wouldn't waste it on someone who'd already tried to kill herself. Maybe after a few years." She poured boiling water over the coffee bags, and waited for them to brew. "What about you?"

"Too young, like you, and I can't afford one. Anyone under fifty either pays ten million plus or waits in line. You wouldn't believe the people who've visited the lab this week." She chuckled.

"No, probably not," said Bianca. She placed the coffee mugs on a silver tray, removed a small revolver from a drawer and slipped it into her apron pocket, then headed back towards the sitting room.

"Thanks," said Crystal, as she took her mug. "So, how're you feeling?"

Bianca sat opposite her, put the tray down on a small table, and drew the pistol. Crystal stared at it, her eyes wide. "You know," said Bianca, sourly, "before I went to the hospital, none of the guns in this place were loaded? I made sure. I knew they hadn't been plugged or anything, the Old Man wouldn't let anyone do that to a firearm, but when I come back, surprise! Loaded firearms everywhere. They didn't bother with the old black powder weapons, but there's still enough for a modest massacre. I guess someone's trying to send me some sort of message." She looked at the pistol sadly, then pointed it at Crystal's face. "You stupid fuck, do you know what you've done?"

"Put the gun down."

"The fuck I will! You sold out! You sold out to them! Thanks to you, those monsters are going to live for centuries like fat fireproof leeches, until they own or control everything and no-one else can remember a world without them!"

Crystal shook her head, and wondered if she could tip the chair backwards far enough to get out of the line of fire. Probably not. "I thought you knew me better than that. Jesus, Senator Levin's getting his Centurion next week; do you think I want him to live for another hundred years? Put the gun down, and I'll explain." Bianca didn't move. "Okay. To answer your question, yes, I know exactly what I've done--much better than anyone else does. Oh, the Centurions do what Adams has been telling people they do--but more. You know those new lie detectors the company is making?"

Bianca blinked, then grimaced. "Yes. They're using them to screen job applicants and anyone who needs legal aid."

"Yeah, I know. Do you know how they work?"

"They detect some pheremone that people only emit when they're lying, right?"

"Right. So does the Centurion; it's an extra feature I didn't bother telling anyone about. When the nanos detect this pheremone, they head for the brain. Enough nanos in the brain, and they cause aneurysms. You also get the same blue patches inside the eyelids and in the lymph nodes that you have when a GeneSafe is activated. If you ignore this warning and keep lying, the aneurysms will rupture, causing massive hemmorrhagic strokes, which should be fatal in seventy to ninety percent of cases." Bianca stared at her, horrified. "Of course, you have to lie a lot to cause this degree of build-up; consistently, and over quite a long period. I'm not expecting the first deaths for more than a year, and most of the Old Man's pet politicians should survive until the primaries. Longer, maybe, if they notice the warning signs, assume they're sick, and pull out of the race. It should increase life expectancy at least slightly for some users, though not too many, and if there's anyone on the list who's rich and honest, anyone who wouldn't secretly sell poison baby food if there was a buck in it, they might even live for the full two hundred years."

The pistol wavered slightly. "Fortunately," Crystal continued, "most of the people buying Centurions are already old enough that it'll take a long time for anyone to guess that the device may be causing the strokes, even if they can cross-reference the deaths with a list of clients--Adams is bright enough, but we can trust him not to stick his neck out or jump to any conclusions, and the Old Man probably won't live long enough to detect a pattern himself. Even if someone becomes suspicious, there's no known way--yet--to remove enough of the nanos to prevent this happening, so the only other safety measure possible is not to lie. Besides, the company will publicly deny that any such device exists... can't you just imagine the Board of Directors sitting in some Congressional hearing, swearing that their product is perfectly safe until they literally turn blue in the face? I wonder if any of them will have the grace to drop dead with their hands still on the Bible? Gives a new meaning to laying them in the aisles."

Bianca stared at her, her face dead white--then she carefully placed the pistol on the table so that it pointed away from both of them. "Is this true?"

"Get a lie detector and I'll say exactly the same thing," Crystal replied, more calmly than she felt. She waited for several seconds--it felt like hours--until Bianca nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry I doubted you, Crys."

"Forget it. I knew I'd fooled nearly everyone, but I didn't expect to fool you. Jesus, you had me scared." She began laughing, nervously at first, and then more heartily as Bianca joined in. Suddenly, Bianca stopped laughing, and her face turned pale again. "What about Simon?" she asked.

"Simon?"

"He's on the list for a Centurion--a fair way down the list, but he's a Sanderson, and he turns forty next year. Are we going to tell him?"

"Oh Jesus," Crystal said. "Do you think he'd tell his parents if we did?"

"I think he would," whispered Bianca. "He lies to them about you, but this... I think he'd tell everyone." Crystal nodded, her expression bleak. "What do we do? Do we let him get a Centurion? Do we ask him to keep this a secret, too, even if it means lying? Do we wait until he puts us on the list for Centurions, too? What the fuck do we do?"

"I don't know, honey," said Crystal. She looked around the dingy antique-littered room, and then shook her head. "I just don't know."