“I’m almost set,” the young monk said, working at the keyboard.

And so was she.

Joan leaned her left breast more firmly against his shoulder as she peered at the tray. She had picked Anthony as her guide because of the youth’s age; clean-shaven and dark-haired, he could not be much older than twenty. But besides his impressionable age, she had selected him from all the others for another reason. When she had first entered the labs, guarded by Carlos, Joan had noticed how the young man’s eyes had widened in appreciation. She saw how his gaze had settled upon her breasts, then darted away. Back at Johns Hopkins, she had taught enough undergraduates to recognize when one seemed interested in more than just a scholarly education. Usually, she gently rebuffed any advances, but now she would exploit these feelings. Cloistered here among the monks, Joan suspected this youth could be easily unnerved by the attentions of a woman—and from the youth’s reaction now, she had been proven right.

Anthony swallowed hard, his cheeks reddening. He pulled away slightly from her touch.

Joan took the advantage. She slid onto the neighboring stool, one hand crossing to rest on the youth’s knee. “I’d be most interested in hearing your own theories, Anthony. You’ve been here a while. What do you think of el Sangre del Diablo?” She squeezed his knee ever so slightly.

Anthony glanced back to the glass partition, toward Carlos. Her hand was hidden from view by their bodies. The young monk did not pull away this time, but his face was almost a shade of purple. He sat frozen, stiff as a statue. If Joan’s hand had wandered any higher up his leg, she expected she would have discovered exactly how stiff the young man was.

She had spent the entire afternoon brushing against him, touching him, whispering close to his ear. With gentle cajoling and urging, she had finally guided him to this last lab, where actual samples of the mysterious metal were being analyzed. Now the truly tricky part began.

Joan tilted her head, attentive to the young monk. “So tell me, what do you think the metal is, Anthony?”

He almost choked on his words, “Maybe nan… nanobots.”

Now it was Joan’s turn to startle, her hand slipping away from his knee. “Excuse me?”

Anthony nodded rapidly, relaxing slightly, now able to discourse on familiar territory. “Several of us… the younger researchers among us… think maybe the metal is actually some dense accumulation of nanobots.”

“As in nanotechnology?” Joan said. She had read a few theoretical articles that had discussed the possibility of building subcellular machines—nanobots—that could manipulate matter at the molecular or even atomic level. A recent article published in Scientific American described a crude first attempt to construct such microscopic robots by scientists at UCLA. In her mind, she remembered her own electron microscope scan of the metal: the tiny particulate matrix linked together by hooklike appendages. But nanobots? Impossible. The youth here had obviously been reading too much science fiction.

“Come see,” Anthony said, suddenly excited to be able to show off for his audience. He reached to the tray and lifted one of the pellets of metal with a pair of stainless-steel tweezers. He fed it into the machine before him. “Electron crystallography,” he explained. “It’s our own design here. It can isolate one unit of the metal’s crystalline structure and construct a three-dimensional picture. Just watch.” He tapped a monitor screen with the tweezers.

Joan leaned closer, fishing out her eyeglasses, forgetting for the moment her seduction of the young monk. When she had asked Anthony to show her the metal, she hadn’t meant such a close look. But now the scientist in Joan was intrigued.

An image appeared on the screen, in crisp detail, rotating slowly to show all surfaces. Joan recognized it. A single microscopic particle of the metal. It was octagonal in shape with six threadlike appendages: one on top, one on bottom, and four radiating out from midsection. At the end of each were four tiny clawed hooks, like sparrow’s talons.

Anthony pointed to the screen with the tip of a pen. “In overall shape and architecture, it bears a clear resemblance to a hypothesized nanobot proposed by Eric Drexler in his book Engines of Creation. He theorized a molecular machine in two sections: computer and constructor. The nanobot’s brain and brawn, so to speak.” He tapped at the central octagonal core. “Here’s the central processor, its programmed brain, surrounded by six nodes, or constructors, that manipulate the arms.” The young monk moved his pointer along to the thin talonlike hooks. “Here is what Drexler called its molecular positioners.”

Joan frowned. “And you think this thing can actually manipulate matter at the molecular level?”

“Why not?” Anthony said. “We have enzymes in our bodies right now that act as natural organic nanobots. Or take the mitochondria inside our cells… those organelles are no more than microscopic power stations, manipulating matter at the atomic level to produce ATP, or energy, for our cells. Even the thousands of viruses in nature are forms of molecular machines.” He glanced to her. “So you see, Mother Nature has already succeeded. Nanobots already exist.”

Joan slowly nodded, turning back to the screen. “This thing looks almost viral,” she mumbled. Joan had seen blowups of attacking viral phages. Under the electron microscope, they had appeared like lunar modules landing on cell membranes, more machine than living organism. This image reminded her of those viral assays.

“What was that?” Anthony asked.

Joan tightened her lips. “Just thinking out loud. But you’re right. Even the prions that cause mad cow disease could be considered nanobots. They all manipulate DNA at the molecular level.”

“Yes, exactly! Organic nanobots,” he said, his face flushed with excitement. He pointed back at the screen. “Some of us think this may be the first inorganic nanobot discovered.”

Joan frowned. Maybe it was possible. But to what end? she wondered. What is its purpose? She remembered Friar de Almagro’s warning etched on the crucifix. He had been frightened of some pestilence associated with the metal. If the monk was correct, was this a clue? Many of the natural “organic” nanobots she had mentioned to Anthony—viruses, prions—were disease vectors. She sensed that with more time she could unravel the mystery. Especially with the use of this facility, she thought, glancing around the huge laboratory.

But first, she had one experiment to perform. Before handling disease vectors, it was always best to have a way of sterilizing them. And the dead friar had hinted at a way in his cryptogram: Prometheus holds our salvation.

Prometheus, the bearer of fire.

Was that the answer? Fire had always been the great sterilizer. Joan remembered the assessment made by Dale Kirkpatrick, the metallurgist. He had noted that Substance Z used energy with perfect efficiency. But what if the metal received too much heat, like from a flame? Maybe as sensitive as it was, it couldn’t handle such an extreme.

Joan had come down here to test her theory, to steal a sample of metal on which to experiment. She risked a quick glance back at Friar Carlos. Her guard dog was clearly bored, too confident in the defenses of the Abbey to be worried about a mere woman.

Casually, Joan removed her glasses, then leaned more tightly into Anthony as he reached for a pen. The young man flinched at the sudden contact and jerked his arm back. His elbow knocked Joan’s glasses from her hands. She made sure her eyewear landed atop the tray of precious samples. Small gold droplets danced and rolled across the desktop, like spilled marbles.

Anthony jumped up. “I’m sorry. I should have watched what I was doing.”

“That’s okay. No harm done.” Joan scooted off her stool. She quickly palmed two of the rolling teardrops. Others tumbled to the floor. Technicians scurried forward to help Anthony gather the stray samples. Joan backed away.

Carlos appeared suddenly at her side, gun at the ready. “What happened?”

Joan pointed with one hand, while quickly pocketing her pilfered samples with the other. She nodded toward the flurry of activity. “It seems not even this blessed lab can escape Murphy’s Third Law.”

“And what’s that?”

Joan turned an innocent face toward Carlos. “Shit happens.”

Carlos scowled and grabbed her by the elbow. “You’ve been down here long enough. Let’s go!”

She did not resist. She had what she had come for—and more.

From where he knelt on the laboratory floor, Anthony raised an arm in farewell. She graced him with a smile and a wave. The young man deserved at least that.

Carlos quickly led her back through the underground labyrinth. She thought it fitting that the dregs of the Spanish Inquisition should end up holing themselves in the equivalent of an Incan torture chamber. She wondered if the choice of location was purposeful. One torturer taking up residence after another.

Soon Joan found herself before the door to her own cell.

Carlos nodded for her to enter.

But Joan hesitated, turning to him. “I don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you.” She didn’t smoke, but he didn’t know that. She scrunched up her face in feigned discomfort. “It’s been two days, and I can’t stand it any longer.”

“The abbot forbids smoking in the abbey.”

Joan frowned. “But he’s not here, is he?”

An actual smile shadowed his lips. He glanced up the hall, as a packet of cigarettes appeared in his hands. Nothing like the communal secrecy of a closet smoker. He shook out two. “Here.”

She pocketed one and slipped the other to her lips. “Do you mind?” she mumbled around the filter, leaning toward him for a light.

The perpetual scowl returned, but he reached to his robe and removed a lighter. He flamed the tip of her cigarette.

“Thanks,” she said.

He just nodded toward the door of her cell.

She backed up, pulled the latch, and entered her cell.

“Those things will kill you,” Carlos mumbled behind her, closing and locking the door.