2.

Two hundred and thirty-three floors above the Warren lobby, the elevator stopped at last, its doors opening onto the executive suites of GlobeNet, Inc.

"Ms. Argenti," purred the aide Naomi had sent to greet her. He bowed low, but not so low that he lost sight of the women before him. He licked his lips. "We're so honored to have you visit us. May I escort you to Ms. Warren's office?"

Nicole gave him a stare that curled the man's toes and dampened his palms. "You may," she said, and he shuddered visibly.

The aide walked quickly, ushering the group into A-Wing and bowing again as he threw open the door to Naomi's office. "Ms. Nicole Argenti and...guests," he announced, then scuttled away with one last, longing glance at the Trixies.

Naomi Warren, heir to the Warren billions and CEO of the world's most influential news outlet, looked up from her cluttered desk. She'd crowded it with paperwork the moment she heard Argenti was coming. Naomi had straightened her suit, too, and freshened her lipstick and fluffed her hair - cursing herself for vanity all the while. But she'd known Nicole for almost two decades now, and they hadn't always been enemies.

Her eyes flashed indigo as her nemesis stepped into the room. "Nicole," she said, plastering on a fake smile, "how lovely to see you again. But I must say I'm surprised to see you in person."

Argenti settled herself in a chair, swinging one long leg over the other as the Trixies took up station behind her. They formed a perfect arc, those at her left hand cocking their left knees toward her, those at her right cocking the opposite knee. Their arms were limp but gently curved, their breasts thrust out just so. Like models on a catwalk, thought Naomi, but even blanker.

"Oh, I wouldn't have it any other way," said Argenti. "I want to see the look on your face when I give you my gift."

Warren's glance flicked from the Trixies to Nicole and back to the Trixies. Their eyes, she saw, were crystalline blue, the irises distended and sparkling like cut glass. Dolls' eyes, she thought. And doll's hair - but it looks a bit like mine, too.. She suppressed a shudder. "A gift, Nicole? You shouldn't have."

"I thought you might like some cheering up," purred Argenti, running a nail down Trixie5's flank. "I understand one of your reporters has gone missing."

Naomi pressed her lips together. She and Nicole both knew what Renee Goodwin had been up to when she disappeared. She was investigating Argenti's adult entertainment company. Recycled Toys was licensed to brainwash convicted criminals and political prisoners, but Goodwin had learned that for the right fee, RT would recycle citizens as well. What better way to rid yourself of a witness, a rival, a nagging spouse, than by wiping their minds and warping their bodies? You could make them over into anything you liked, even make them thank you for it. Best of all, when you were done, neither they nor anyone else could tell who they'd been.

"I'm surprised you've heard about Renee's disappearance," said Naomi. "It wasn't publicized."

"GlobeNet isn't my only source of information." Argenti shifted and her jacket fell open a little further, flashing a hint of aureole. Unconsciously, Naomi licked her lips. "So sad. I understand she was working on a major story. Corruption in the recycling industry, or some such thing." Her finger, on Trixie5's flank, traced the letters R and G.

Renee had known this was the risk she took, investigating a woman as ruthless as Nicole Argenti. When she'd disappeared almost a month ago, Naomi immediately assumed the worst. Now here was Argenti confirming her suspicions - in fact, taunting her with them. Well, two could play at that game. "I understand you've had some security breaches at Recycled Toys. Trade secrets leaked to the press, irregular procedures - even a break-in, I believe."

"A break-in, yes. But no break out. The intruder was caught in the act and processed in accordance with law." In other words, thought Naomi, recycled. "But I didn't come here to talk shop; I came to give you a gift."

"I don't take bribes."

"Oh, this isn't a bribe," Nicole chuckled. "It's an opportunity." She reached out with her other hand and cupped Trixie6's ass in her palm. "These are my newest line of toys. They're designed to be 100% interchangeable." She snapped her fingers, and like clockwork, all ten Trixies cocked a hand on their hips and shifted from one foot to the other. The movement made Naomi realize just how still they'd been before. In fact, they hadn't even blinked since their arrival.

"Same programming," Nicole continued, "same altered gene structure, same brainwaves - such as they are. The Trixies come closer to flatline than any previous Recycled Toy model. Their thought processes are controlled almost entirely by microchips, giving them a truly robotic degree of homogeneity. Imagine the possibilities, Naomi: two or ten or twenty identical dolls, acting in perfect synch!"

And one of them Renee, thought Naomi. But which one? She fought to keep a poker face. "So this is what you're giving me? A set of Trixies?"

"For awhile, yes. Appearances to the contrary, I can't just hand them out like party favors. They'll make their public debut at the next Toy Fair, but it's still six months away. In the meantime, GlobeNet will have plenty of time to review the product."

"You are bribing me, then."

"Absolutely not. You know what they say: there's no such thing as bad publicity. You can write whatever you like at the end of the six months. If you're lucky, you might even get to write about decycling a recyclee. Think what a story that would make!"

An almost impossible one, Naomi thought. Of the thousands of recyclees churned out by the hundreds of recycling companies, not one had ever been restored to awareness; and Argenti's programming set the benchmark for its field. They both knew there was little chance of decycling Renee.

As for Nicole's claim about publicity, RT was the Cadillac of recycled goods. Argenti didn't need anything Naomi could give her, except perhaps the opportunity to watch her squirm. But surely that wasn't the only reason for her gift. Did she hope to take over GlobeNet? It was illegal to recycle citizens, of course, but Nicole never let that stand in her way before. And what better revenge could she take on the woman who had broken her heart, than to sweep her and her company up into her own net?

The fact was, if Naomi accepted the Trixies, she was more likely to doom GlobeNet than she was to rescue Renee. But how could she say no when her new lover was hostage to her old lover?

3.

Naomi glanced around the table, taking in the faces of the nine men and women who'd known Renee best. Not Renee's nine best friends - two, in fact, she'd counted as enemies - but the nine with the best chance of reaching the woman beneath the doll. They knew the odds as well as Warren did; but love, friendship, greed and fame were powerful motivators. Besides, Naomi had taken every precaution she could against subversion. Nicole's "gift" had spent the last five days in the hands of a team of tech-medics.

"All right, folks," Naomi said, laying her hands on the table, "the Trixies have been poked, prodded, and scanned from every direction; and our tech-meds found no evidence of weapons transmitters, or recycling devices. We've tested all their bodily fluids, and the only foreign substances we found were the residues found in every recyclee's saliva. As you know, these residues are harmless. Many people actually find the taste arousing."

Naomi had practiced that line long enough that she could say it without grimacing, but the thought was as hateful as ever. It was necessary, of course: her teammates must feel free to try anything, no matter how bizarre, which could shock the reporter back to herself. The only bounds would be those imposed by Nicole Argenti: no cutting, burning or inflicting any other permanent damage on RT property.

Oh, but if she could, Naomi would have imposed many more barriers. No one else would even taste Renee, much less sleep with her.

Naomi punched a button and a hologrammatic Trixie appeared above the table, arms and legs spread as though she'd been caught in the midst of a jumping jack. Her skin was transparent, revealing a network of silver lines that concentrated in her skull but spread through every inch of her body. "Physically," said Naomi, "the Trixies are identical down to the down to the last skin cell. Their DNA has been re-sequenced; their teeth and retinas replaced; and all identifying scars, marks and moles removed. Even their fingerprints are gone. Body scans show a typical configuration of recyclee implants, as well as some modification of organs and muscles." She punched another button and the hologram changed, displaying the changes she spoke of.

"Unfortunately," said Naomi, "exploratory surgery is prevented by our contract, and Argenti will be sending 'social workers' around to be sure we comply."

"And to spy on us," grumbled anchorman Walter Brown.

Naomi nodded. "Almost certainly. But I'm more concerned about the Trixies' body modifications than I am about the social workers. Some of the changes we understand, like the tear duct enhancements that reduce their need to blink. Others, like the additions to the Trixies' stomachs, we can only guess at. But of course the biggest question mark here is their programming. Even if we're able to hack into their implants - and that's a very big 'if' - we'll never be able to read their minds."

"But that shouldn't matter," Kari Tomlinson protested. "I mean, they can barely think at all anyway."

Kari had the decency to wince as she said it, but Anne Jacobs sneered in response. "Kid, even the dumbest dog can be taught tricks. Sit, stay, beg...lick." She twiddled her pen and smiled. "I, for one, can't wait to see what Renee will do...and what I can teach her to do."

Naomi bit her tongue. They don't know, she reminded herself. None of them know about you and Renee - and they mustn't find out. At least a few of them -- she glanced at Kari -- would be too inhibited to do their jobs.

She took a deep breath and continued, ignoring Anne as best she could. "In order to remain interchangeable, the Trixies must periodically synch their minds. They do this during down times, via cranial implants and the data cords which connect them while they're 'packaged.'" She used the Recycled Toys term intentionally, steeping it in disgust. "For the record, we've investigated the packing boxes just as thoroughly as we investigated the Trixies themselves. They seem harmless - relatively speaking, of course. And after discussion with the tech-meds, I've decided to let the Trixies keep them. The synching might reinforce Renee's programming, but it might also give her ten times the chance at recovery. After all, the shock you give one Trixie will eventually be felt by them all."

Anne snickered, and Naomi gave her a baleful glare. "We'll also rotate the Trixies once a week so that everyone here will have the chance to work the real Renee. Make the most of it."

4.

Trixie8 lay snug in her storage box, pressed into a woman-shaped indentation in the candy-colored foam. The clamps that bound her hands, feet and neck were designed to look like twist-ties, and the visor over her head resembled the plastic band that holds a doll's hair in place during packaging. In fact, although the band was transparent from outside, its inner surface flashed with strobes and spirals, reinforcing the message that came to her through hidden ear plugs, cranial jacks, and dildoes.

Trixie8 lay perfectly still, eyes unblinking beneath the barrage of her visor, lips frozen in a wide dolly smile. Her muscles had been reconfigured to make this her "neutral" expression, and it would have been hard for Trixie8 to be more neutral than she was at this moment. Synching left her mind as limp and pliant as her body.

Outside her box a group had gathered; she could see them dimly behind the swirls of her visor. Not that she actually noticed them. Trixie8 focused on nothing, neither the strobing of her visor nor the pounding in her head and cunt. She merely waited: first, for the box to tell her what she was, and then for her new owners to take her out and play with her. Until that happened, she would float in this cotton candy cloud and be content.

"Holy shit," came a voice from outside the plastic, "they're in doll boxes!"

The words washed over her without meaning.

"That's not real cardboard, is it?"

"No, it's just supposed to look like it. And this plastic?-" tap, tap - "it's a lot harder than it looks."

"Ugh, cartoon flowers and everything! And what's that writing say?"

"'Ages 18 and up.' I think I'm going to be sick."

"Poor Renee. Which one do you think is her, Naomi?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. All right, everyone, line up and choose your Trixie. You'll have them for one week, during which time you can do anything you like as long as you a) don't leave any permanent marks, b) keep them in A-Wing and c) meet your deadlines. Now open your boxes."

A shadowy shape positioned itself in front of Trixie8; a hand reached toward her through the haze. There was a soft thump and her plugs retreated into foam as the lid on her box swung open. Her eyes found their focus as the visor arced up over her head. She blinked prettily. "Hello," she chirped, conscious now of the chorus of greetings around her. Her sisters were awake, too. "Are you my new owner?"

The woman before her looked slightly abashed. "That's, that's right," she stammered. "My name is Kari. And your name is Renee."

"Yes, Mistress," Trixie8 agreed, widening her smile. "My name is Renee."

"Good, good." Kari reached out hesitantly to take the doll's hand. "Um, Renee, do you remember me?"

Trixie8 studied her new Mistress. She was a pretty young woman with a pre-Raphaelite body, curly brown hair, and the hunched look of someone who wished she were smaller. "Do you want me to remember you?"

Kari looked startled, then excited, and finally doubtful. "Yes, Renee. I do want you to remember me."

"As you wish, Mistress. What would you like me to remember about you?"

Her new owner's face dropped. "Everything, Renee. I want you to remember who you really are. I want you to remember me working for you. I was your intern, remember that?"

"As you wish, Mistress," Trixie8 beamed. Microchips buzzed within her brain, dutifully storing the information. "I will remember who I really was. Who was I?"

"Renee! You were Renee!"

"Yes, Mistress. I was Renee. You were my intern. What else would you like me to remember?"

Kari cast her eyes around the room, checking to see if any of her team members had better luck with their Trixies. Only Anne Jacobs looked satisfied; she already had her doll collared and on her knees. Kari squeezed her charge's hand and whispered earnestly, "You were a real person, Renee, and you'll be a real person again."

There was a moment of silence, broken by Naomi Warren. "All right, folks," she called. Nineteen heads turned toward her, the Trixies' moving in synch. "Let's have one last equipment check before we disperse." She held up a device a little larger than a calculator, aimed it at her own forehead, and pressed the power button. Lights flashed rapidly across its surface, accompanied by rapid ticks. A series of messages scrolled down the central screen. "All functions within normal range," Naomi translated, then turned the device toward her Trixie. Its ticks and flashes slowed to a crawl. "Forebrain activity 2%," Naomi read. "Hindbrain activity 15%, emotional development 1%, autonomic development 120%, electrical activity 755%. Those last two readings are implant-related." She gazed grimly around the room. "Your turn," she told her team.

One by one they tested their scanners, first on themselves and then on their Trixies. Naomi's results had already taught them what to expect, and indeed, the readings on all ten dolls were identical. But the team would keep testing its Trixies every day, at least once a day. Eventually someone might get lucky

Kari frowned at her readout, then put away her scanner and took her Trixie's hand. "Come on," she sighed, "I'll take you to my office."

5.

Almost midnight. GlobeNet was busy 24 hours a day, but here in A-Wing, the halls were fairly quiet. The team members' offices had all been transferred to Naomi's wing, and no one went in or out except them and their octet of guardians.

Two of that octet sat in the observation booth now, gazing hungrily at their monitors. John O'Reilly and Martina Henderson were longtime GlobeNet security guards who'd been handpicked by Warren for this assignment. They'd proved their loyalty a dozen times over, and just as importantly, they had no close friends or relatives who could tempt them to share Warren's secrets. But just to be on the safe side, she'd promised them ridiculously large salaries - which, providing their mouths stayed shut, would continue for as long as they lived.

It was a necessary expense, considering what the eight had to keep their mouths shut about. Warren had installed hidden mikes and cameras in every corner of her wing, and it was the guardians' task to monitor the Trixies every hour of the day. They'd be the first line of defense if Argenti's dolls turned on their owners.

Until then, the guardians would just have to keep their minds occupied with scenes like this: Anne Jacobs and Marsha Pendleton, laughing on the sidelines as their Trixies bit patterns in one another's thighs; Walter Brown, the venerable old anchorman, crouching blissfully under a saddle and riding crop; and Naomi Warren herself, schooling her charge in the finer nuances of Renee-style lovemaking.

Only Kari Tomlinson actually slept with her Trixie, she and the doll side by side on the floor of Renee's office. Kari had brought an air mattress to make them more comfortable. Her teammates used everything from hammocks to harnesses to (in Naomi's case) Renee's old bed from home.

"Hey," said O'Reilly, zooming in on the scene in Jacobs' office, "you ever wish you were down there?"

Henderson cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you kidding? With all the money she's paying us to sit and watch?"

"Yeah, but we're just watching. Wouldn't you like to be doing more?"

"A thousand dollars says we will be...eventually."

"A thousand?"

"We can afford it." She grinned at him, then glanced at the wall clock. "Well, it's time to put the toys away. You can do the honors this time." She thumbed the mike as he unlocked the door. "Attention, team members, the time is now 12:05. Please send your Trixies to the storage room."

O'Reilly stepped out of the booth, emerging halfway down the length of A-Wing. Ahead and to his left lay the team offices, a blankly smiling Trixie emerging from each door. To his right lay the storage room, stretching all the way across the rear of the wing. Through its open door he could see the boxes, lined and gaping. He looked back at the Trixies, already chained together and awaiting his orders, and wondered if they always lined up in the same order. They were interchangeable, of course, but were they that interchangeable? Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to ask.

He led them into the storage room and, when they continued to stand in formation, gestured weakly at the boxes. "All right, ladies," he said, "time for bed."

"Yes, John," they chorused. The lead Trixie detached herself from the chain and stepped forward. "Good night, John," she chirped; and to his surprise she leaned forward to kiss him. O'Reilly felt the sharp dart of her tongue and tasted spicy sweetness. His cock hardened instantly. Then the Trixie slipped into her box and the restraints closed around her.

"Good night, John," chirped the second Trixie, and gave him another mouthful of heaven. This time he kissed her back. There goes a thousand dollars, O'Reilly thought giddily. Henderson was watching every second of this performance. Well, better make the most of it, then.

O'Reilly squeezed the third Trixie's ass and the fourth Trixie's breasts, and he was starting to unbuckle his belt for number five when his earphone beeped. "That's enough, loverboy," drawled his partner, inaudible to everyone but him. "These girls need their beauty sleep." O'Reilly flipped a bird at the hidden camera but settled for kissing the remaining Trixies. When all were tucked safely into bed he sat down in a corner and pulled out a book.

At first it was hard to concentrate with the Trixies lying there, still and glassy-eyed as a pack of zombies, but O'Reilly had seen worse; he'd been in combat. There was no pain or violence here, just the quiet, happy women and their buzzing boxes. He glanced up at the hidden camera, then, confident that Henderson had his back, he returned to his book.

What O'Reilly and Henderson didn't know, what even the tech-meds had missed, was that the Trixies weren't as identical as they seemed. For instance, one of Trixie8's cranial ports was very slightly misaligned. The displacement was less than a millimeter, too slight even for the experts to catch, but it was enough. Less than half an hour into her sleep, the feedback in Trixie8's head had built to a critical level. With a snap that she neither heard nor felt, her connection shorted out.

Trixie8 was suddenly aware.