In Death 21 - Origin in Death

medical experts thus far in the investigation. Their input could also be useful. I'll need a warrant for records at the school and would like to take Feeney or his pick with me to go through data on-site."
    He nodded. "Consider this investigation as Code Blue status. Need-to-know only, full media block. Put your team together." He glanced at his wrist unit. "Brief in twenty."
     
    SHE D ALTERED HER APPEARANCE. SHE WAS GOOD
    at it. Over the past twelve years she'd been many people. And no one. Her credentials were impeccable- meticulously generated, flawlessly forged. They had to be.
    Brookhollow Academy was red brick and ivy-no contemporary glass domes or steel towers, but dignity and blue-blooded tradition. It was expansive grounds, sturdy trees, lovely gardens, thriving orchards. There were tennis courts and an equestrian center, two of the sports deemed suitable for Brookhollow students. One of her classmates had won Olympic gold in dressage at the tender age of sixteen. Three years before she'd been sent away to marry a young British aristocrat as keen on horses as she.
    They were created for a purpose, and they served that purpose. Still she'd been happy to go, Deena remembered. Most of them were.
    Deena didn't begrudge them their happiness, and would do all she could to protect the lives those like her had built.
    But every war had its cost, and some might be exposed. Still more would finally, finally taste the freedom that had forever been denied them.
    What of those who had resisted, or failed, or questioned?
    What of them?
    For them, and the others to come, she'd risk anything.
    Here at the Academy, there were three swimming pools-two indoors-three science labs, a holo-room, two grand auditoriums, a theater complex that rivaled any on Broadway. It boasted a dojo and three fitness centers as well as a fully staffed clinic for healing and for teaching. Inside its walls was a media center where students earmarked for media careers trained, and yet another studio for music and dance.
    Twenty classrooms with live and automated instructors.
    There was a single dining hall, where the food was well-balanced-tasty, and served three times a day, precisely at seven A.M., twelve-thirty and seven P.M.
    Midmorning and afternoon snacks were available in the solarium at ten and four.
    She'd loved the scones. She had good memories of the scones.
    The living quarters for the students were spacious and well decorated. If, at the age of five, you passed all the tests, you were moved into those quarters. Your memory of those first five years was... adjusted.
    In time, it was possible to forget-or nearly-the experience of being a mouse in a maze.
    You were given uniforms, and a suitable wardrobe. One that was designed to suit your personality type and background.
    You had a background, somewhere. You'd come from something, though it was not what they gave you. It was never what they gave you.
    Instruction was rigorous. A Brookhollow student was expected to excel, then to move on to the college, and continue. Until Placement-She herself could speak four languages fluently. That had been handy. She could solve complex math theorems, identify and date archaeological artifacts, execute a perfect double-gainer, and organize a state dinner for two hundred.
    Electronics were like toys to her. And she could kill with efficiency, using a variety of methods. She knew how to pleasure a man in bed and could discuss interplanetary politics with him in the morning.
    She had been intended not for marriage or mating, but for covert ops. In that, she supposed, her education had succeeded.
    She was beautiful, had no genetic flaws. Her estimated life span was one hundred and fifty years. Which might be considerably extended through continued advancement in medical technology.
    She had run at twenty, and had lived a dozen years in hiding, forging her way underground, honing the skills she'd been given. The thought of living another century as she had to this point in her life was her constant nightmare.
    She did not kill coldly, however efficiently. She killed in desperation, and with the fervor of a warrior defending the innocent.
    For this death, she wore a stark black suit custom-tailored for her in Italy. Money was no problem. She'd stolen half a million before she'd run. Since then, she'd accessed more. She could have lived well, avoided any detection. But she had a mission. In all of her life, she had only one.
    And was well on the way to