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theaters to the more pertinent medical and testing facilities and proving grounds set apart from the rest of the carefully monitored populace. The majority of employees never left the premises, and most of them had families. That meant schools, stores, parks, gymnasiums, all maintained by crews that included everything from landscapers to waterless latrine service persons . . . all of whom had at least a Top Secret Security Clearance. It wouldn’t be far off to estimate the daily headcount at five thousand plus.
    It wasn’t until a person arrived at the main gate that it became apparent just how difficult it could be to get in there if you weren’t an actual L.L.D.D. employee. But the girl on the sleek light green Ninja motorcycle (Hondasaki’s latest model and the fastest one to date) had been expecting a hard road of it, and she had all her papers in order and, so to speak, her ducks in a row. Her high confidence showed—she was wearing a shimmering LCD overcoat capable of reflecting any color or image. In keeping with the latest fashion trends in Hollywood and Paris, this one was set to reflect her mood; right now, it was a bright, optimistic yellow.
    The guard at the gate didn’t even notice, or if he did, he certainly didn’t care. He was heavily armored around his sidearms, and his eyes were small and dark, difficult to see behind the vision guards of the military breather mask covering most of his face. What she could see of his gaze was narrow and suspicious. He didn’t bother to speak when she pulled up and cut off the engine. He didn’t have to—the rider knew what was coming next.
    “XPD-154,” she said calmly, then passed him a laminated identification card with a gloved hand. “Clearance classified courier. I’m expected.” There were at least a dozen other people milling around the entrance, civilians and guards coming and going, and none of them paid any attention to her.
    He wasn’t impressed by her identification and she didn’t expect him to be—he probably saw a dozen couriers like her every day. He plucked her ID from her fingers and she saw that he was also wearing gloves—of course—but his were much heavier and more industrial. It looked like they made it hard for him to work, but he still managed. She watched as he slid the card into a computer scanner and the virtual centrifuge registered the drop of blood sealed inside the ID. A moment later a line of light went left to right across the surface of the computer monitor, leaving a clear image behind.
    “Remove your head covering,” the guard ordered.
    She unsnapped her chin strap without comment, then reached up with both hands and lifted her helmet off her head. Before it fell against the shoulders of her plasticene coat, the young woman’s hair, purple neon and fine, sprang free and waved in the breeze, moving back and forth like a minifield of bright lavender-colored wheat. Protecting the soft skin of her face from the helmet’s inner fabric was a softer, almost sheer lamé veil; when she unclasped that, she revealed finely honed features and bright, clear brown eyes, full lips barely brushed with a touch of cherry-colored lip gloss. To match her coat, each strand of her hair was coated in a microsheen of optical polyurethane so she could change her hair color at will to any one of more than seven million colors.
    Score one for the guard’s professionalism: if he noticed she was beautiful, he gave absolutely no sign. He simply took her card and held it up next to the screen, very carefully comparing the digital photograph on the card to the computer image. Finally he handed it back to her and stepped to the side at the same time he pressed a button on the inside of the guard shack. In front of her, the heavy gate slid open without a sound. “Stage one clearance,” he said in an utterly emotionless voice. “Proceed for verification and sterilization.”
    Sterilization,
she thought wryly. That word had meant something