In The Falling Light by John L. Campbell Page A

before, but someone had
muted the volumes. Joanna saw a hysterical Hispanic woman being
restrained by her husband on some suburban street, the camera
soaking up her grief, then panning over to an overturned twin
stroller. It was empty. Joanna was glad she couldn’t hear the woman
wailing.
    “You never had any kids, Colonel?” Major
Peck said quietly. She hadn’t noticed him walk up beside her.
    “No. I put my career first. You?”
    “I always figured there would be time later.
Any regrets?”
    She stared at the image of the empty
stroller. “Sometimes.” Her headache was back, her joints had begun
to ache, and now her lower back was throbbing near her kidneys. She
closed her eyes. Peck smelled good. “New cologne, major?”
    “Not wearing any.”
    They looked at each other, his desire
apparent, and her attraction to him both inappropriate and
undeniable. She took his hand and led him from the command
center.
    “We’ll miss the Pentagon call,” he said, but
didn’t resist her pull.
    The sex was strange and savage, a wild
tangling not without pain. Joanna’s headache pounded through it
even as he pounded into her, and the moment he climaxed she shoved
him off, staggering to her feet, dizzy and holding onto a wall, her
vision blurry. He reached for her but she slapped his hands away.
“Get the fuck out,” she said, pushing him out of her quarters.
    It was a half hour before she returned to
the command center, her uniform sloppy and unbuttoned, and now the
left side of her face was paralyzed with Bell’s Palsy, a classic
symptom of Lyme. She looked like a stroke victim. There was no one
here, the watch stations unmanned, and she looked towards the glass
wall of the conference room. Major Peck, wearing only his skivvies,
was standing at the table talking on the phone, rubbing briskly at
his upper lip. It was warm in here, and a glance at a monitor
showed Joanna that the complex’s air conditioning had been shut
down and the heaters turned up. A digital readout indicated a
general temperature of seventy-eight degrees. She returned to her
quarters, passing numerous closed doors, the thumping and growling
of rough sex coming from behind them.
    Major Peck could barely stand as he listened
to the general on the other end of the phone. His heart was
thudding and his respiration was ragged. A pair of hairy growths
had erupted from his top lip – his knowledge of Project Blackleg’s
primary research subject informed him they were referred to as
palps – and it was difficult to speak. Plus they itched like
hell.
    “Yes, general, that’s correct. Completely
unfit for command. Yes sir, a risk to project security.” A twitch
was developing in his right eye, and his body seemed to hurt
everywhere at once. “No sir. No, I won’t. Yes sir, right away.”
    He looked up to see Joanna Bishop standing
in the doorway to the conference room, and his eyes widened at the
sight of her. It wasn’t the 9mm service pistol she held that froze
him in place.
    “Who are you talking to…Spencer?” Joanna
wasn’t feeling like herself, pain rippling through her body and her
brain feeling like it was misfiring, clear thoughts replaced by
dark flashes that were more irresistible feelings and impulses than
anything else..
    The major slurred when he spoke, still
holding the phone. “I’m supposed to…relieve you…of command.”
    Joanna made a clicking sound deep in her
throat, then managed the word, “Traitor.” She shot Peck three times
in the face. Stumbling back into the command center, she dropped
the pistol, grunting as she started tearing off her uniform. It was
so damned tight! She tried to sit at one of the terminals but her
ass had grown too large for it, was still growing, and she kicked
the swivel chair aside with one of the thick, black legs which had
sprouted from her left hip. Her left hand was twisting and
expanding, becoming a claw, so she used her still-normal right hand
to call up the lab.
    Although the video link