“You also do not think you are handsome,” Jian said. “This proves your judgment is questionable.”
The zip of a pants zipper told him it was okay to look her way once again. She was pulling on a Hawaiian shirt—lime-green with yellow azaleas—over her sweat-stained, white T-shirt. Heavy black hair still hung wetly in front of her face, but through that hair he could see the dark rings under her bloodshot, haunted eyes.
She walked to her bizarre computer desk, sat down and switched on the power. Seven flat-panel monitors flared, coating her in a whitish glare. The setup surrounded her in a semicircle of screens. Three down at desk level, the side monitors angled in. Four monitors in the row above that, slanted down and around her so she actually had to turn her head from left to right to see them all.
Colding put the medicine bottle back and walked over to the computer station. All seven screens showed flowing strings of the letters A, G, T and C. Sometimes the letters themselves were in different colors, sometimes bright hues lit up long strings, sometimes both. To Colding, it looked like multicolored digital puke.
The immune response was the hurdle that the scientific trinity of Genada’s geniuses—Claus Rhumkorrf, Erika Hoel and Jian—simply couldn’t surpass. It was the last big theoretical hurdle that stood between Genada and saving hundreds of thousands of lives every year. Now that Jian was awake, she’d prep for the test, or, more likely, prepare for yet another failure and the resultant wrath of Dr. Claus Rhumkorrf.
“You need anything?” Colding asked.
Jian shook her head, her attention already fixed on one of the big monitors. Colding knew from experience that she probably wouldn’t register another word he said. Without looking away from the scrolling letters, Jian opened a small dorm-room fridge that sat under her desk and pulled out a bottle of Dr Pepper. Her hand shook a little as she opened it and took a long drink.
“Well, I guess I’m off to bed,” Colding said. “Holler if you need anything, okay?”
Jian grunted, but Colding didn’t know if it was a reaction to him or to a piece of data.
He’d almost made it out of the room when she stopped him.
“Mister Colding?”
He turned. Jian pointed to one of the computer screens.
“I see the date is November seventh,” she said. “I am sorry. I wish I had known her.”
Tears welled up instantly. He swallowed against the knot in his throat, clenched his teeth against the pain in his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
Jian nodded, then turned back to her multimonitor array. Colding left before she could see him cry.
Three years to the day since Clarissa had died. Sometimes it seemed like a tick of the clock, like he’d kissed her just yesterday. Other times he had trouble remembering what she looked like, as if he’d never really known her at all. At all times, though, every minute of every day, the ache of her absence hung on him like an anchor.
He pretended to cough, giving him an excuse to wipe at his eyes in case Gunther was watching him on the hall cams. Colding walked toward his room. The research facility still reminded him of a school building: cinder-block walls painted a neutral gray, speckled tile floor, fire extinguishers paired with fire axes in each hall. There were even little handles with the words PULL HERE mounted shoulder high, although those weren’t for the fire alarm—they would close the airlocks tight in case of any viral contamination.
Colding reached his room and shut himself inside. “All secure, Gun.”
“I like the part where she said she’s not stupid,” Gunther said. “The understatement of the century.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Get back to bed, boss. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Colding nodded even though he was alone in his room. No way he’d get back to sleep. Not today. Besides, Jian’s dreams were getting worse. The last two times that had happened, she’d started hallucinating a few weeks later, then finally tried to kill herself. For her most recent attempt, she’d locked herself in a bathroom and filled it with nitrogen gas. Her assistant, Tim Feely, realized what she was doing and called for help. Colding had broken in far ahead of the proverbial “nick of time,” but how close she came to success wasn’t the point—the pattern was the thing. Nightmares, then hallucinations, then a suicide attempt. Doc Rhumkorrf had already adjusted Jian’s meds, but who knew if that would work?
Colding had to report this. Claus Rhumkorrf was brilliant, Erika Hoel was a legend, but without Liu Jian Dan, the project simply ceased to exist.
NOVEMBER 7: EVEN FUCKING COLDER
SHOULDERS SLUMPED, COLDING walked into the secure communications office and sat down at the desk. He’d put on his clothes for the day—jeans and snow pants, snow boots and a big, black down jacket embroidered with the red Genada G above the left breast. Wouldn’t do to talk to his boss while wearing a bathrobe.
This terminal was the facility’s only way to call in or out. It connected to a single location—Genada’s headquarters outside of Leaf Rapids, Manitoba. A Genada logo screensaver spun on the monitor. Colding hit the space bar. The computer was designed to do only one thing, so the logo vanished and the connection process began. Right now, Danté’s cell phone was ringing a special ring, telling him to get to his own secure terminal.
Colding waited patiently, wondering how to phrase his message. In just over two minutes, Danté’s smiling face appeared
“Good morning, P. J. How’s the weather?”
Colding forced a grin at the hackneyed joke. On Baffin Island, latitude sixty-five degrees, there were only two temperatures—Fucking Cold, and Even Fucking Colder.
“Not that bad, sir. Mind you, I don’t go outside much, but at least everything is working great in the facility.”
Danté nodded. Colding had learned long ago that his boss always liked to hear something positive, a process Colding referred to as “giving a little sugar.” He couldn’t blame Danté’s need; if Colding had spent nearly half a billion dollars on a project, he’d want to hear some good news as well.
Danté’s skin held the rich tan of a man who can afford a private spa even in the deepest, darkest isolation of Manitoba. His thick raven-black hair looked like he’d just stepped out of some Hollywood hairdresser’s chair, and his bright-white grin looked like it had put an orthodontist’s kids through college. The crazy-big jaw featured prominently in caricatures and political cartoons. This was the face of a billion-dollar biotech company, the face that kept investors pumped up and enthused.
“I was just about to call you,” Danté said. “We acquired some additional mammalian genomes. Valentine is flying them out as we speak. He should be landing at your facility in about thirty minutes. Make sure you’re ready for him, I need him back right away.”
“Consider it done,” Colding said.
Danté leaned toward the camera, only slightly, an expectant look on his face. “So since you called me, I’m assuming you have good news about the latest immune response test?”
“They’re starting it now,” Colding said. “We won’t know for a few hours.”
“It has to work this time. Has to. If not, I think it’s time to bring in more people, top-level people.”
Colding shook his head. “I still strongly recommend against that. We’re secure right now. You bring in more people, you open the door to a CIA plant.”
“But we have background checks—”
“Let it go, Danté,” Colding interrupted, not wanting to have this conversation yet again. “You hired me for this reason. We’re a lean operation. Four scientists, four security people and that’s all we need.”