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Genescope deepened for a few seconds.
    When DAN gave its verdict Jasmine listened to its metallic words and shook her head. She was proud of her achievements. But at that moment, as she heard the fortune-teller predict her goddaughter's death, she felt almost ashamed of what she'd helped create.

    THREE

    The same day
    London

    "I am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen..." Scrape went the blade across the scalp. "May my armor of righteousness be unblemished..." Scrape. "And may my shield of faith be strong." The cutthroat razor skimmed through the stubbly growth, parting white foam and leaving a swathe of smooth, hairless scalp in its wake. With every stroke Maria Benariac chanted a line from her three-line mantra:
    "I am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen," she repeated as she continued her ritual.
    When the skin on her scalp felt smooth once more she wiped the mist from the bathroom mirror to check her handiwork. Her striking, intense eyes--one blue and one brown--stared back at her. They were the only features the surgeon hadn't been able to alter. Turning her head, she noticed the tiny, decade-old scars behind her ears, the last traces from when she had made her once beautiful--too beautiful--face less remarkable.
    Maria put the blade beside the sink, next to the tubs of theatrical makeup. Her fingers lingered on the razor for a second, tempted. But as she glanced down at the fresh scars that crisscrossed her right thigh she decided to wait for release.
    Turning her naked body, she walked out of the small bathroom into the large single-room apartment that housed everything she owned. Enjoying the feel of the cool polished wood beneath her bare feet, she glanced out of the six-foot picture window. The Thames swirled gray and cold, a hundred feet below her. She walked to the far corner of the warehouse apartment and stood beneath the exercise rings hanging from the high exposed beams.
    With a leap, she gripped her sinewy fingers around the rings. Well-muscled forearms tensed as they took up the weight of her body, lifting it high off the ground until the waist was level with the hands, and the elbows locked the arms rigid. Then she extended her legs straight out in front, forming a perfect right angle with her naked taut stomach.
    "One...two...three..." she counted under her breath, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead of her. She didn't pause to rest for a second, as she performed her exercises.
    "...Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen..."
    With each grooved repetition the only visible signs of effort were the small rivulets of sweat that coursed down her sculptured back, and an almost imperceptible shake of the hands.
    "...Forty-eight...forty-nine...fifty."
    Eventually she allowed herself a smile of triumph, and released her grip on the rings. Bracing her legs for the drop, she landed catlike on the polished floor. Barely pausing, she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised the naked body in her view.
    She studied her tall physique carefully: the shaved head, the uncommonly broad shoulders, the powerful arms, the minute waist, the boyish hips, and the long tapered legs. There was no vanity in her gaze, only objective evaluation, as if checking the condition of a valued instrument or weapon. This dawn inspection was no different from that carried out every morning, and today as with most days she was satisfied. At thirty-five years of age there was not an ounce of fat on her body and the muscles were as supple as they were powerful. The only blemishes were the scars:
    the tiny ones behind her ears, the raised cross-shaped scar on the underside of her right forearm, a crosshatch of self-inflicted cuts on her right thigh, and the two anchor-shaped scars beneath each nipple. These marked where her once full breasts had been removed, leaving androgynous mounds that no longer hampered movement or drew un-welcome glances.
    After evaluating her body, Maria Benariac turned and checked her aerie. The tall room on the