"How'd you do that?"

"Buckyb.a.l.l.s," he says with genuine and utterly charming enthusiasm.

"But what about Brock particle phase shift?"

"Now, see, that's the cool part. The fullerenic properties reinforce the icosohedral substrate, creating a completely stable crystalline structure."

"Ingenious."

"I know, huh?" Is he actually blushing? "Ask me about my orbiting death ray."

"You've got an orbiting death ray?"

"With targeting precision at about plus or minus three feet, but I'm working on that. I was tempted to do a demo during my last heist, but I thought it might be overkill."

"Yeah, you want to save a device like that for serious world domination action."

"Exactly. Look, I know you're only getting paid to hear the monologue, but are you interested in taking a look? I've got a pretty nice lab in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I don't mean to show off, but you really seem to know your death rays, and it's just so d.a.m.n cool."

His grin is as infectious as a well-designed bioweapon. "I'd love to," I say.

His lab isn't pretty nice- it's stunning. And it isn't so much in the bas.e.m.e.nt as part of an underground lair so vast you'd need a map to navigate: this way to the lab, this way to the firing range, this way to the master control room, this way to more storage than most Megapolites could even imagine.

We talk shop while he gives me the tour. His enthusiasm is boundless- he's obviously in it for the science.

"Take the orbiting death ray," he says. "Next to the challenges of maintaining the power supply, you'd think ultraprecise targeting from a geosynchronous...o...b..t would be a snap. And to be fair the current margin for error isn't that bad, but it does limit it to villainous applications."

"So there are nonvillainous uses for an orbiting death ray?"

"Well, there'd be a certain amount of rebranding involved." He looks a little sheepish. "Anyway, do you want to give it a try?"

"Seriously?"

"Of course. Go on, pick a target."

He shows me the controls. I've never seen such a clean interface. In only a moment I've got it locked on The Puzzler's 1937 Bugatti.

"Ouch," says Burn Rate.

"He painted question marks all over it. I'm putting it out of its misery."

"Fair enough," he says, and the car disappears in a cloud of parking garage debris.

"That was amazing."

"I always find it a bit distant. Now the handheld version of the Demoleculator, that's a much more immediate experience."

"Okay, I was already impressed. A handheld?"

"Well, it's just a prototype. Terrible battery life. Every shot means overnight on the charger." He looks shy again. "Look, I know I'm being a terrible show-off, but I just spend so much time working on this stuff by myself . . ."

"Don't worry. You have a lot to be proud of here."

"So do you want to try it?"

"Of course I do."

"You're not worried about Brock particles?"

"I trust you."

We go to the firing range. There's a wooden bowl of fruit on a pedestal about fifty yards away. When Burn Rate stands behind me, unnecessarily helping me aim the Demoleculator, a pleasant sensation runs up and down my spine.

I fire.

I walk over to the pile of dirty-looking sand that used to be the bowl, the fruit, and the pedestal.

"The handheld version leaves more residue," he says apologetically. "It just doesn't have enough power to properly vaporize."

"Is it safe to touch?" I ask, kneeling over the pile.

"Oh, yes," he says. "It's completely inert."

I let the grains run through my fingers. "It's perfect," I say. I look up and see a strange smile on his face, probably a reflection of my own.

"So it's not particularly villainous," he says, "but do you want to check out the wine cellar?"

"This is extraordinary." The complexity in the first sip of Chateau Petrus is unlike anything I've ever tasted.

"It is nice, isn't it?" He looks a little surprised by the taste himself. "I have to admit I bought most of the cellar in one go at an estate sale, so I can't take credit for its quality. I am learning, though. Mastering oenology was one of my New Year's resolutions."

"You do realize compulsive truth-telling is a very unhealthy quality in a supervillain, right?"

"I know," he says. "I need help."

"We never got through your monologue. I think we should give it another try."

He checks his watch and looks both embarra.s.sed and hopeful when he says, "Can we do it in the morning?"

I swirl my wine in its crystal gla.s.s, inhaling the scent of a vintage older than either of us. My research says he's about my age, but he looks so young I can't help smiling at him.

"Okay."

A bottle of wine later he says, "Have you ever thought about working with someone? Not just on the monologuing, I mean."

"I don't do sidekick."

"I didn't mean sidekick. I meant partner."

I look at his handsome face and think about his beautiful lab, his elegant weapons, his vast storage s.p.a.ce. I'm so lost in visions of the future I'm not really listening to him anymore, but I think he's saying, "All this could be yours."

And now the world knows the Angel of Death very well indeed.

That wasn't the case at first. In the chaos of the early days, supervillains all over the city stopped talking and started shooting. A few turned on other heroes, or each other. A lot of them, like Carl, retired once they took out the archnemesis they'd built their lives around. Carl did go after Civetman, but he said it just wasn't the same. He has a nice garden allotment near his apartment now. He seems happy.

Most of the surviving villains knew about my insurance policies. I've heard their monologues. I've seen their weapons. I know their weaknesses.

I emerged from the mayhem with my finger on the trigger of Burn Rate's...o...b..ting death ray and a business plan that was just waiting for the right a.r.s.enal.

I like to think I've been a benign global overlord, for the most part. Yes, some people complain about my banning cell phones on public transport, or more specifically the fact that phones explode if they try to talk into them on a bus or a train. Or in a restaurant, or at the movies, or in any of a dozen other public places. But I think most of the population appreciates the peace and quiet.

I try to stay away from too much social engineering, though, and concentrate instead on more profitable ventures. My home dry-cleaning cabinet, licensed to Whirl pool, has been quite a little moneymaker. And of course it's terrible for the planet, so it's in keeping with my villainous brand. Image is so important in this business.

The giant statue of me with my boot on the actual White House might be a bit much, but I stand by adding my head to Mount Rushmore- it's about time there was a woman's face in that granite boys' club.

After a challenging year things are ticking over nicely now. I'm still running the whole show from Burn Rate's lair. It has everything I ever wished for while I was trapped in my c.r.a.ppy bas.e.m.e.nt apartment.

I did make one change- I installed my dream desk in the master control room. It's huge, and glossy black. Retractable compartments across its glorious broad surface let me indulge my love of paper and my love of order at the same time.

The only item I never clear off my desk at the end of the day is a dull metal cylinder about the size of a beer can. It holds Burn Rate's grainy remains. The recharged Demoleculator worked beautifully.

I keep it there to remind me of the first rule of this business, the one the poor kid forgot: evil geniuses work alone.

Heather Lindsley's work has appeared several times in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, as well in the magazines Asimov's Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, and Greatest Uncommon Denominator. Her fiction has also appeared in John Joseph Adams's dystopian anthology Brave New Worlds, in Year's Best SF 12, edited by David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer, and in Talking Back, edited by L. Timmel Duchamp. She is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop and currently lives in London.

In the modern world, pharmaceuticals rule. Drug companies influence Congress, buy ads on prime-time TV, and wine-and-dine doctors' a.s.sociations, all for the promise of health. After all, pills help roll back aging, fight disease, even combat depression. But can the drug manufacturers really be trusted, or do they have their own agenda?

Our next author, who was once a pre-med student and has retained an interest in the field, says of the drug industry, "Very often I will read stories about promising medical experiments, such as those used to boost intelligence, and then never hear a word again. It makes me wonder- are the drug companies holding out on us?"

This next story is a tale of a madman with access to all the resources of a powerful pharmaceutical company. He has chemicals to influence women's desires. He has drugs to make him stronger and smarter. Is immortality the next potion in his bottle?

Now that really would be better living through chemistry.

h.o.m.o PERFECTUS.

DAVID FARLAND.

Drinks Asia Nicita had the flawless face of an angel, with tightly braided hair of rusted honey and sea-green eyes that proclaimed her innocence, yet her figure was that of a succubus- athletic with intoxicating curves. But it was her mind that intrigued Damian. It hid encased above her heart-shaped face, behind a forehead and cheeks dusted with opalescent glitter. Damian wondered what secrets he might pry from it.

As she folded her napkin onto her lap and scooted into the seat of the booth, Damian smiled. The club here in SoHo smelled of Thai-spiced chicken, vague perfumes, and female musk. The air throbbed with music from an Irish runic band, with electric violins, and Celtic women's voices synched in stunning harmonies.

"You look wonderful to night," Damian said softly.

"I am wonderful," she teased, as if she had just reached that conclusion.

Damian smiled. He knew that she found him attractive. Most women responded to his short dark curls, his gray eyes. If she didn't think him desirable now, she soon would. They were seated in a booth at the back of the restaurant. The pheromones that he had slathered on his neck would sublime into the air and then attach to the chemoreceptors at the back of her tongue. She'd be aching with desire for him within fifteen minutes.

"Have you eaten here before?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm new to the city."

"It's very popular with the after-theater crowd. We should leave before the place really fills up."

She pouted for a microsecond, dismayed at the thought of having to rush. "The food smells sooo fantastic!"

"Oh, don't worry. We have plenty of time. So . . . how do you like the new job at . . . the company?"

It was a casual-sounding question, as if spoken from lack of anything better to talk about, but Asia, instantly wary, fell silent. "Uh, let's not talk about work."

That was almost all that Damian did want to talk about, but he'd circle the subject. It was a technique gleaned from the master interrogator Hanns Scharff, whose efforts for the Luftwaffe during WWII had nearly decimated the Allied Alliance.

"Don't be worried," Damian said. "After all, I'm in the Personnel Department. I know everything . . ." he trailed off, leaving her to wonder what he really did know. The truth was, he did know everything about the company. The pheromones that he wore were a tightly controlled company secret. They were but one of many that he kept, and he longed to share some of them with Asia.

She was employed in the C Wing at Chancellor Pharmaceutical as a research chemist. She'd held the job for only a week. At twenty-four, she was young to be a Ph.D. Asia was half Greek and half Swedish. Women from such stock were often gorgeous. She had an IQ of 184 and a bust that was 34D, hidden beneath a red-sequined blouse that was a bit too conservative. It concealed her beauty rather than revealed it.

On the basis of breeding alone, she was perhaps the most perfect woman he'd ever had the plea sure to meet- a fine prospect for biological upgrades.

"There is nothing wrong with talking about your job with fellow workers," Damian suggested. "You're on the Methuselah project, and you're studying toxicity levels of common contaminants- dioxin, bisphenol A, chlorine and the like- in long-lived animals."

"We're not supposed to talk about it outside the compound," she said sharply. Her voice sounded loud as the singers on stage worked a soft crooning melody to a solitary drum.

"It's all right," he said, seeking to redefine her fear. "With me, it's safe to talk about what you do; you just can't reveal what your research teaches you." He did not wait for her to agree. She had been told during her employee orientation to keep silent. But as her desire for him grew, he knew that she would begin to open her mouth. "Even I don't know what Chancellor Pharmaceuticals has discovered, and I have a Level Six security clearance."

That was a good line, he thought, delivered with authority. He needed her to see him as the authority here.

He hurried on, "Yet the implications of your research . . . hint at astonishing things. Think of it: the only reason that the company would want to know how toxicity levels affect people with life spans of a thousand years, or ten thousand years, suggests that some discovery is about to be unveiled, something monumental!"

"Is that what you think I do?" she asked coyly, struggling to change the subject.

She had to know more than she feigned, of that Damian was sure. But even with her high IQ, he doubted that she could guess what was really going on. The world was about to change. Mankind was about to change at a fundamental level. He wanted her to embrace that change.

"You have beautiful eyes," he said, suddenly wanting to possess her completely.