By C. L. Werner

Prologue

A hot breeze played across the veranda of the old plantation house, evoking a discordant clatter from dozens of wind chimes. The old structure, built in the days of pirates and slavers, was the only building standing on the small island off the coast of Costa Rica. The rest of the island was given over to lush tropical growth, its white sandy beaches devoid of the sunbathers that covered the shores of the Caribbean. The man who owned the island had no desire to make a living from the tourist trade. Indeed, he had very little desire to remain among the living.

The old man emerged from the house and leaned against the railing, letting his gaze linger on the dancing waters of the sea. He was Japanese, his face wizened, withered by despair rather than hardship. His hair was shock white, an unkempt mass atop his head. A thick, bushy moustache covered the old man's upper lip while pearl-rimmed glasses covered his dark eyes. A slight smile flickered on the figure's face as he watched the waves crash against the island's beach. But it was only a faint moment of pleasure, banished as memory intruded upon his quiet interlude.

In another life, when the old man had not been quite so old, and youthful pride and ambition still held a place in his heart, the name of Shinji Mafune was not unknown to the world of science. Mafune had been one of the founders of biotechnology, one of the first men to unravel the secrets of manipulating DNA. His brilliant mind had brought him fame, the esteem of his colleagues, and prosperity. He was employed by an American genetic research company called BioMajor. For nearly a decade, Mafune put his genius to work for his employers, advancing the field of genetic manipulation by years with every month he spent in BioMajor's labs. Then, Dr. Shinji Mafune discovered just who he was really working for.

It was an accident, really, a memo sent to the wrong department. A careless, stupid mistake that destroyed Mafune's life. The memo was intended for the man in charge of BioMajor's research department. Instead it had come to Dr. Mafune. It was a simple thing, a few lines discussing military applications for Dr. Mafune's work. The memo originated from the desk of a man named Vander Van Hise. Mafune recalled the name. Days later, searching archived newspapers on microfilm at the New York public library, Mafune discovered why the name was familiar. Vander Van Hise was president of the U. S. branch of MARS, the notorious munitions manufacturer and developer. Horrified, the Japanese scientist resigned from his position at BioMajor.

Mafune had no intention of revealing what he had learned. To do so would have been dishonorable. But MARS was not going to take any chances. As far as they were concerned, there was only one way to ensure their secret ownership of BioMajor remained a secret. Through still another cruel twist of fate, Mafune survived the assassination attempt.

It should have been him, that cold November morning. On any other day it would have been. He always drove to the museum on Sundays. But on this day, his teenage daughter Katsura wanted to use the car to rendezvous with some friends from the college. Her father relented at last to her repeated pleas. He was only twenty feet away when Katsura started the car, waving at him from behind the glass. He was only twenty feet away when the vehicle exploded into a blossom of fire.

Tears streamed down Dr. Mafune's cheeks. The short, shriveled, ghoul-like figure of his ancient Japanese manservant pressed a saucer and teacup into his master's hands. Mafune wiped his face and smiled kindly at his servant. Then the recluse turned his eyes again to the sea and the distant horizon.

Many years had passed, but his pain had not dimmed. Only one thing had kept Mafune going during the long, bleak years. Someone was going to pay for Katsura's murder. That someone was the MARS corporation. It had taken the scientist decades to make his revenge possible. He had spent those years prostituting himself to anyone who would fund his research. He had developed better strains of coca plants for drug lords in Columbia and Argentina. He had created toxins and germs for the militaries of several nations. He had even created horrible mutants for the U. S. military during his time in Puerto Rico. All the many evils he had abhorred, Mafune embraced to fund his revenge.

Mafune looked again at the distant horizon. Soon, the world would hear from Dr. Shinji Mafune. Soon MARS would discover that when they killed his daughter, they sealed their doom.