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like all good pansies, I belong firmly planted on Earth.”
    “That’s just fine—more room in the cosmos for me, then. Did I miss anything important this morning?”
    “Just your first orientation,” Shelley said dryly. “But no worries—Dr. Emrich wanted to trade for the morning group anyway.”
    Monica stopped dead in front of the reception desk and stared at her. “I can’t believe I slept through the start of orientation. My God, that’s one of the main reasons I’m here, to help get these women—”
    “Chill, Gothchild. Like I was saying, you’re taking his afternoon session, where you’ll get to orient just as many doomed women as you would have this morning, if not more. Now get a move on. The commander’s looking for you, remember?”
    “Right.” Heat flooded her cheeks as the memory of her dream surfaced, and Monica looked away, her pulse spiking. She could lie to herself all she wanted, but it had been him. Damn it. Why couldn’t it have been George Clooney all snuggled up to her backside, fondling her nonexistent breasts under the tropical sun? There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d ever have to look him in the eye.
    “So why aren’t you moving?” Shelley asked when she hesitated.
    “Just thinking.”
    “Well, think about doing your roots. Your hair is pretty funkedelic this morning.”
    “Already!” Monica’s hands flew to her hair.
    “And think about giving Laundry hell, too, for leaving you the wrong scrubs. You look like you’re expecting a flood.”
    Monica glanced down at her woolly ankles and frowned.
    “Gee, I’ll get right on that. Anything else, Mother?”
    “Yeah—get your rear in gear!”
    *
    Thankfully, other than the bevy of stone-faced guards lining the halls lately, the only soul she passed on the way to her airless little broom closet was Jasmine King, one of the shared secretaries.
    “Don’t tell me—your car wouldn’t start,” Jasmine teased, handing over a cup of fragrant coffee from the gourmet machine behind her desk. “Or was traffic murder?”
    Monica bared her teeth in a snarl over the rim before taking a too-hot gulp. There were definite disadvantages to living where you worked, chief among them being that there was no excusable reason for being late. And there was no playing hooky, either, because the minute you called in sick, a gaggle of doctors was beating down the door, trying to take your vitals, palpate every inch of your skin and culture your every orifice.
    She knew this from personal experience and would never try it again.
    22
    Alien Overnight
    Jasmine’s grin broadened. “So, are you auditioning for the lead in a vampire flick today or what?”
    “Everybody’s a comedian,” Monica muttered.
    “Seriously, woman, you totally look like a corpse. And what’s with the shades? Did you finally piss somebody off enough to take a swing at you?”
    Tipping her sunglasses down, she glared at the lovely Jasmine, tall and elegant as ever in a beige business suit that emphasized her tasteful curves and made her peaches-and-cream complexion glow like she’d swallowed the sunrise. Was the little witch even wearing any makeup? If she was, it was good. Really good. Such understated perfection made Monica feel even more like the frump-slash-freak she was, but Jasmine was so nice—when she wasn’t being a pain in the ass—that she just couldn’t hold it against her.
    “I have a headache, Stepford, and if you tell anyone, you’ll need more than sunglasses to cover what I do to your face.”
    “Nice. Didn’t you take some kind of oath to do no harm?”
    “Knowing I was bound to run into people like you, I crossed my fingers.”
    Jasmine’s short laugh made Monica hide a grin as she started down the line of cubicles toward her office.
    “Hey, Monica—wait a minute.”
    She stopped and looked at Jasmine, who was waving her back with a furtive look on her face. Curious, Monica approached her desk once more, and Jasmine stood up and looked