Genome

by A. G. Riddle

  “So. Welcome, Desmond. We’re looking forward to your input on the IT and finance side, and of course anything you see fit to feed in on.”

  When the meeting broke, Lin held out her arm to Desmond. “Care for a tour?”

  “This is our biggest pain point,” Lin said. They stood in the middle of the data center.

  “You could outsource it to Rook.”

  “True. But it would complicate things for us. We promise our clients that the data they give us will never leave our custody. And even if we didn’t, we still want control. We need to be able to build out as needed, when we want to.”

  “All right. I’ll talk with my brother. Maybe they can consult, help you scale up and advise you on hiring the right people.”

  “Good.”

  On the elevator, Lin said, “There’s another Rook project we’d like to integrate with—their emergency response system.”

  Desmond bunched his eyebrows.

  “We can sequence genetic samples faster than any company in the world. In outbreak responses, we could analyze patient samples, sequence viruses and identify mutations, possibly even help with contact tracing—on a genetic level.”

  “What are you asking?”

  “For sales help. We’d like the Rook sales force to carry Phaethon’s outbreak response solution in the door and bundle it with their emergency data response services.”

  “I’ll run it by Conner.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked past a sea of cubicles. Narrow corridors ran between them, a maze with rows of heads slightly bowed, staring at screens, headphones on. It was like a labyrinthine garden of hedgerows made of plastic.

  Lin closed the glass door to her office and sat behind the desk. For the first time that day, her tone softened.

  “It’s good to see you, Desmond.”

  “You too.”

  “Yuri doesn’t need to worry.”

  Desmond exhaled through his nose. Lin Shaw was direct. Fearless.

  Her frankness inspired Desmond to ask the question he had wanted to since Yuri asked him to be on the board, the question he dreaded hearing the answer to.

  “How is she?”

  Lin didn’t move a muscle. “As well as she can be.”

  The answer was like a shot of morphine: it stung at first, then a bizarre numbness settled over Desmond, like his mind was blocked, keeping him from the pain that was still there. He couldn’t think straight. He sat, as if in a trance.

  Lin broke the silence. “It will heal all wounds, Desmond.”

  “It?”

  “The Looking Glass.”

  That night, Desmond did something he had sworn not to do. He opened Internet Explorer 7 and Googled Peyton Shaw.

  The first hit was a page welcoming her EIS class at the CDC. It featured a picture of a crowd of roughly a hundred people standing in front of a glass building. She was in the back row, not smiling. Seeing her was like falling down a hole. He clicked the next link, then the next, going deeper down the trail. He paused on a picture of her on the Johns Hopkins website, where she was listed as a resident physician. He saw so much of Lin Shaw in Peyton: the delicate, Chinese features, porcelain skin, dark hair. And something he hadn’t seen when they were together: the start of crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. Worry lines. Her smile was serious, her gaze focused. Gone was the carefree girl he’d met at a Halloween party twelve years ago. That broke his heart all over again.

  He kept searching but didn’t find what he feared most: an engagement announcement. There was no wedding website telling a story of how she’d met her soulmate, mentioning their shared pet, no write-up detailing the bridal party or the wedding venue. The revelation made him both happy and sad. He wondered if she was waiting—or if he had turned her into what he’d become: a person unable to truly love.

  He was so engrossed in his search that he didn’t hear the door open. Or the footsteps behind him. Conner’s voice startled him.

  “You know that’s not healthy.”

  Desmond turned back, away from the screen. “I know.”

  Conner pulled up a chair from the long table. “What happened?”

  “I saw her mother today.”

  “And?”

  “We talked about her. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Are you going to contact her?”

  “No,” Desmond said quickly. “I can’t. I want to. But…”

  Conner nodded. “You said you wanted to talk about Rook.”

  “Yeah. It’s actually related to Lin’s company. They need some help. ”

  Desmond oversaw Rook’s collaboration with Phaethon and watched as their data center scaled up. He dedicated his remaining time to building Rendition. The work was conducted through a front called Rendition Games, and the project seemed to drag on. Yuri urged patience, but Desmond and Conner only grew more eager to see the Looking Glass completed.

  On a warm summer day in 2015, Desmond’s life changed again, unexpectedly. Phaethon’s biostatistics group had been constantly clashing with the business and science sides of the company, and Desmond was brought in to try to make peace. He failed miserably.

  The head of biostats was a man in his sixties named Herman. Herman had a PhD in the field, wore round wire-rimmed glasses, and seemed to always speak in an acerbic tone.

  Herman interlocked his fingers, placed his hands on the desk, and exhaled. “The problem is quite simple. I do not have the manpower to program reports to satisfy their every whim and curiosity—in the outrageous time frames given.”

  “Then prioritize,” the CFO said. “I’m getting on a plane at eight a.m. tomorrow for an investor meeting. If I don’t have those reports, there won’t be any money for more resources—for anybody.”

  “And how long have you known about this meeting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We received your request yesterday. I will simply assume the meeting has been scheduled for longer.”

  The CFO rolled his eyes.

  “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

  Desmond stared at him. “Really?”

  Herman didn’t respond.

  “You work for a tech company,” Desmond said. “Everything is an emergency. If you don’t like emergencies, this isn’t the place for you. There are plenty of places with no emergencies. Would that be better for you? ” He glared at the man, challenging him.

  Silence filled the room.

  Finally, Herman said, “Mr. Hughes. With all due respect, when everything is an emergency, nothing is an emergency. Everything is urgent.”

  One of the clinical project managers spoke up. “Well, I agree, but… our client has an FDA reporting deadline coming up.”

  Herman had brought three of his employees with him: two overweight men, one on each side, both of whom shared his stone-faced expression, and a younger blond woman with dazzling blue eyes. Thus far, the woman had been relegated to a hardback chair against the wall, behind those around the conference table. But now she stood, leaned forward, and whispered in Herman’s ear. He didn’t even look back, just shooed her away. She didn’t budge. Instead, she whispered more forcefully, though the words were still a little too quiet for Desmond to hear. Herman turned and glared at her. Still she didn’t flinch, like a fighter sizing up an opponent.

  Herman swiveled his head back to the group. “We’re aware of all of your requirements. Was there anything else? As you know, my overworked people need to get back to some urgent reports.”

  The next morning, Desmond awoke to find two emails from a name he didn’t recognize: Avery Price. One was addressed to the CFO, and contained a secure link to the report he had requested. The other was to the project manager—with a link to the FDA report she needed. The first email was sent at 2:38 a.m, the second email four hours later.

  There were also responses of thanks from the recipients. Desmond replied as well, requesting a meeting—only to get an automatic notification that his
message to Avery Price had bounced.

  At the Phaethon Genetics office, he stopped at the first cubicle in biostats. “Hi.”

  A short-haired, twenty-something guy pulled off his headphones. “What’s up?”

  “I’m looking for Avery Price.”

  The guy raised his eyebrows.

  “He’s a biostats programmer—”

  “No he’s not.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure—”

  “He’s a she, man. And she got canned this morning.”

  “What for?”

  The guy raised up from his chair to peek over the cubicle walls. Then he whispered to Desmond, “Going off the reservation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The guy sat back down. “Wait, who are you again?”

  Desmond took a step back. “Forget it.”

  He had spent enough time at Phaethon to have an office, and a login to the network. He opened the Oracle HR program and looked up Avery Price. A picture of her stared back at him with cold, arresting eyes. This was the woman he’d seen in the meeting, whispering in Herman’s ear. He scanned her bio. She was a graduate of UNC-Chapel Hill where she’d been on the tennis team. Most recent job was at a VC firm called Rubicon Ventures, doing due diligence.

  Her employment status read: Terminated for Cause. There was a footnote: theft of company time and direct insubordination. Desmond typed the address into Google Maps on his iPhone. Just as the route appeared, a figure ducked in his doorway. Lin Shaw.

  “How’d it go with biostats?”

  “Not well.”

  “Solution?”

  “Not sure.” He glanced at the directions. “I’m working on something though.”

  Conner was standing in Desmond’s bedroom when he heard the first pop. Then another.

  One of his men spoke over the comm. “Zero, we’re under attack. They’re shooting the tires.”

  Conner pressed the mic button on his collarbone. “Back up to the garages. All units, covering fire!”

  Chapter 37

  The campaign signs were in every window. Hillary. Pelosi. The 2016 election seemed to get more brutal each day.

  Desmond drove past them into one of the more run-down parts of San Francisco. Or formerly run-down. It was slowly changing, becoming gentrified, the cars now mostly Priuses and Teslas. The morning sun burned against his shoulder as he climbed to the second floor of the apartment building and knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again.

  Still no answer.

  He took out his phone and dialed the number listed in Avery’s employee profile.

  A groggy voice answered. “Price.”

  “Hi. It’s Desmond Hughes. We’ve never met—”

  “What do you want?”

  “Um. I’m on the board of Phaethon Genetics.”

  Silence.

  “I know you were terminated today.”

  Movement in the background, like sheets rustling.

  “I’d like to talk. In person. About the reports you sent this morning.”

  Swooshing, like fabric being pulled across the phone’s receiver. “Where?”

  “Ah. Actually… I’m at your apartment.”

  A second later, the door swung open. Her hair was wild, the blond strands sticking out like Einstein’s gray mop.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He couldn’t help but take her in. She wore a shirt, long and tight around her body, and boxer shorts. Nothing else.

  “I’m going to need your full name for the restraining order.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  She released the door, letting it swing open. “Just messing with you. Come on in.” Her accent was southern, not thick, but noticeable.

  The place was furnished like the apartments of practically every startup founder he knew. An IKEA couch. A flat-screen TV sat on the box it had come in. A faux distressed wood coffee table. The strange medley of magazines was different, though: TENNIS, The Economist, Time, Us Weekly, and the Alzheimer’s Foundation of America’s Care Quarterly. The recycle bin was filled with empty Gatorade G2 bottles, and the necks of two wine bottles protruded from the pile, as if they had washed up on a plastic beach.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Maid’s late this morning. I usually entertain board members in the evening.”

  Desmond let out a laugh. She was bold. He wondered if it was because she was recently fired or if it was simply her nature. Either way, it was refreshing. As a board member, he found that most employees spoke to him in carefully measured, mentally rehearsed words.

  “Want something to drink?” She walked into the small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and peered in. She pulled out a bottle of Cupcake chardonnay, eyed it, found it nearly empty, and took out another bottle as well, Yellow Tail. She rinsed a coffee mug in the sink, dumped in the Cupcake wine, and began unscrewing the Yellow Tail to top it off.

  Desmond held up a hand to stop her. “I have a better idea.”

  She didn’t look up, merely focused on the pour as if she were in a lab mixing the contents of two beakers. “You have a better idea than wine at nine a.m. on the morning I got fired?” She glanced up. “It would need to be really good.”

  He walked over, took the wine bottle from her hand. “It’s pretty good.” He screwed the cap back on. “How about we go get some breakfast, talk, you get your job back, and your old boss gets put in his place.”

  “Okay. But for the record, I was going to say no until that last part.”

  “Noted.” He glanced at her hair again. “I can wait if you want to shower or—”

  She walked past him, toward the bedroom. “I’m not really that kind of girl.”

  Before he could react, she was through the door, pulling her shirt off, her back turned to him, but the profile of her bare figure in full view. His eyes lingered a second before he was able to pull them away. He turned and took a few steps into the living room. Maybe she was still a little drunk. Or an exhibitionist. Or both.

  She emerged wearing gym shorts, a t-shirt that read Carolina Tennis, and a white cap over her untamed blond hair. A green plastic wrist coil wrapped around her right wrist, curling like she’d gotten caught in an old phone cord. A single key hung from it.

  “Figure this will keep you from taking me anywhere too fancy.”

  He smiled. “I’m not really that kind of guy.”

  The breakfast place was filled with hung-over Stanford students, a few professors, and locals on their way to work. Desmond and Avery fit right in.

  Avery ordered half the menu—eggs, hash browns, pancakes, and toast. Desmond wondered if she had a hollow leg.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She folded the toast, lathered it with strawberry jelly, and mauled it. “Pulled an all-nighter, did my job, got a call at eight a.m. telling me not to come in—indefinitely. Fired, just like that.”

  “Why were you fired?”

  “Paranoia.”

  She was finally slowing down. The pancakes seemed to be a hill she couldn’t climb. Nevertheless, she was applying butter and syrup, as if greasing the path.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s happening at Phaethon happens to every company. We saw it all the time at Rubicon at the companies we invested in. The founders and first hires are people with a ‘can do’ attitude. Everybody’s on the same page. ‘Get ’er done’ mentality.”

  Desmond laughed.

  “It’s a popular saying back home in North Carolina.”

  “I know it.”

  Avery looked skeptical.

  “I grew up in Oklahoma.”

  “Really.” She took another bite of pancakes, yawned without covering her mouth. The all-nighter was catching up to her.

  “So what’s the real problem at Phaethon?” Desmond asked.

  “People have different priorities now. Like Herman. He’s upper-middle management. His priority is ke
eping his job, maybe moving up a bit. Making himself more indispensable to the company. Increasing his power. Adding to his head count—and thus justifying a higher salary. He wants—needs—the other units to rely on him.”

  “And if we replaced him?”

  She shrugged, put the fork down. “Things would improve for a while. But you’d get more of the same. People adapt to their environment.”

  “So we change the environment.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How?”

  Avery exhaled. “For one, probably eighty percent of the reports requested are just variations on a few templates. You write two pieces of custom software: one for the business side, one for the scientists. Then give them a small analytics and reporting group—and train some of their staff on the system. Empower them to run their own reports.”

  “And for the ones they can’t run?”

  “Biostats will still have to program those.” She picked up the fork and took another run at the stack of pancakes. “But it won’t be an issue. Half the people in that group don’t need to be managed. You tell them what to do and they’ll get it done. They’re good. Might need a little help translating the requirements from their customers, is all—and the biz group and scientists are their customers, and they should start looking at it that way.” She set the fork down again and looked around for the waitress as if she were going to flag her down.

  “I already paid.”

  She nodded. “Wonderful. I’m recently unemployed.”

  “About that.”

  She squinted.

  “How would you feel about being re-employed. As you say, biostats doesn’t need a manager. They need a translator for the customers’ needs.”

  She leaned back. “Kind of hard to get excited about going back into the lion’s den on the day I got my head bitten off.”

  “I’ll take care of the lions.”

  The drive back to Avery’s apartment was less than ten minutes, but she was asleep in the passenger seat within three.