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slung from their hips. They were not security men.
    “Well, well,” said one intruder. “Lookee here. It’s one o’ them fuckin’ cultivars. I’m gonna blow its head off.”
    “Don’t get cocky, son,” said a man who appeared to be their leader. “Just cuz we took out the local boys, don’t mean we can make all the noise we want. No shooting unless I say so. Anyway, maybe this thing can save us some time. You there—where’s the Pee Em sleep?”
    Little Worker was not afraid. She carefully considered the terrorists before replying.
    “I will show you. But you must collect his wife too, or she might summon help.”
    One terrorist whistled softly. Another said, “Shee-it, these vars ain’t got no loyalty at-tall!”
    “Okay, Beautiful, lead on.”
    Little Worker conducted the men to the bedroom door behind which slept Mister Michael’s wife. They slapped an illegal unscrambler to the lock. The device ran through all the possible combinations in three seconds, and they were in.
    Mister Michael’s wife lay sleeping in the arms of the Stallion. The men made various apparently honest grunts of shock, which awoke Mister Michael’s wife and her bedmate.
    Soon, she and the Stallion had been herded into Mister Michael’s room, where the Prime Minister was found in a similar situation with his new gynomorph.
    One of the terrorists flicked on the lights, which seemed unnaturally bright at this forlorn hour. The men removed their goggles and shut off their suits, which had begun to hurt Little Worker’s eyes. She was grateful.
    The two human captives and their morphs stood shivering in the center of the room, the morphs naked and Mister Michael and his wife in robes. Three of the terrorists seemed calm, but one swiveled his gun nervously from side to side.
    Little Worker curled unconcernedly at Mister Michael’s feet. She knew that Mister Michael was trying to catch her eye, but she ignored him.
    “Who—who are you from?” at last demanded Mister Michael.
    “Sons of Dixie, folks. We felt our point of view wasn’t reaching the proper ears. So we’re aimin’ to change things. Ain’t that right, boys?”
    “You’re—you’re all wired on something.”
    “Mebbe so, boss. But that don’t prevent us from shooting straight. ’Zact opposite, in fact. So let’s just follow orders, if you don’t want to get hurt.”
    “What do you intend?” asked Mister Michael’s wife.
    “We’re taking you ’n’ the Pee Em on a little vacation. You’ll go free when the gummint listens to us and does somethin’.”
    A second terrorist spoke. “What about these friggin’ vars?”
    “Slag those sex toys,” said the boss. “Make it quiet though. But save the one that helped us—it might come in handy again.”
    One of the men unholstered a pistol. Before anyone could react, it spat twice.
    Gelatin capsules hit the morphs and burst, releasing lysis catalysts. In under a minute, the two morphs were a single mingled puddle of thick slime, atop which for a minute floated the Moon Moth’s tougher gemmed wings.
    “Okay, folks—” began the leader.
    Unnoticed, Little Worker had slyly extended an arm toward the bare ankle of Mister Michael’s wife. Now, she pricked it deeply with a newly unsheathed razored claw.
    Mister Michael’s wife screamed.
    The terrorist with unsteady nerves shot her through the eye.
    Before the man’s trigger-finger could relax, or any of the others could tighten theirs, Little Worker moved.
    The part of her inheritance that was 30 percent wolverine took over.
    The four intruders soon lay dead with their throats torn out, soaking the carpet with their blood where once the Bull and Lyrical had coupled.
    Little Worker calmly licked the blood from her lips. She really preferred the taste of jelly. Wetting her palms repeatedly with her tongue, she meticulously cleaned the fur on her face. When she was done, she turned toward Mister Michael.
    He had collapsed across the body of his wife and lay