by Dan Rix
“Where I come in?” I copied him, donning my own pair of gloves.
“We weren’t sure of anything, but we did manage to isolate DNA.”
“From the artifact?”
“Swabbed it right off,” he said. “And we ruled out contamination.”
“How so?” I said.
“For one thing, the cells have been dead for over a decade, twelve years actually. We think that’s how long it’s been buried.” He gave me a knowing look over the rims of his glasses, clearly implying something. “So maybe we weren’t the ones who discovered it, right?”
I didn’t catch his drift. “You mean the artifact?”
“The Army thought it was human DNA. Bioterrorists, maybe. They wanted a name.”
“Oh?” I still didn’t get it.
“That’s why you’re here, Jennifer. We sequenced the DNA ourselves . . . and I want you to look at it, try to figure out what it codes for.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You see, whatever DNA it was that came off that artifact,” he said, “it’s not human like we originally thought. Not quite. It’s something else . . . a life form we’ve never seen.”
***
Prickles raced down the back of my neck, and I had to force myself to swallow.
The clues were beginning to piece together. The military had discovered something in the ground, some kind of artifact. Now they were taking every precaution while investigating it.
But there was no time to properly digest the news. Charles wanted a piece of it, and that was my mission.
“I’m going to need privacy,” I said, acting magnitudes more confident than I felt. I gestured to the other scientists in the room. “Can you clear these guys out?”
“Ooh.” Dr. Anderson blew air through his lips. “I’d rather not.”
“Didn’t Professor Yager tell you?” I said, grasping for anything, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I have this condition where I can’t focus around people.” I bit my lip, waiting for his reaction.
“Well, they’re pretty important.” Dr. Anderson pulled back the sleeves of his lab coat to check his watch. “I’ll tell you what. Most of these guys head out at nine. You should get some privacy then.”
I nodded. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes I had to wait here and risk acting like an idiot. Just keep your fat mouth shut and you’ll be fine.
“Can you work an Illumina HiSeq two-thousand?” said Dr. Anderson.
“In my sleep,” I said. I scanned the room for the machine he was referring to. My eyes settled on a likely candidate—a floor to ceiling sloped black box stuffed with racks of whirring electronics. Ah . . . the Illumina HiSeq 2000.
He watched me closely. “Over there,” he said, nodding to the opposite side of the room, to a simple white contraption I had pegged as a refrigerator. My heart fell.
First test failed.
“So what sort of work does Yager have you doing?” Dr. Anderson asked, his eyes more probing now.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” I mumbled. “Pretty much what you guys are doing here.”
“Really? He tells me you’ve made some breakthroughs in predicting the quaternary structure of proteins.”
“That’s right.”
“Or was it gene expression,” he said. “I might have confused you with someone else.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s complicated.”
“Enlighten me,” he said. “We do have forty-five minutes to kill.”
Damnit. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Just up the hall,” he said, and winked.
Second test failed.
***
I spent the next fifteen minutes splashing cold water on my face and staring, horrified, at my own reflection. The lab coat Charles had given me looked like a Halloween costume.
This was suicide.
I took a slow breath, and again. Gradually, the tingling eased out of my fingertips, and I formulated a plan.
The HiSeq 2000.
The DNA would be inside that machine. But could I open it, given the chance?
I had to. I splashed my face one last time, took a final deep breath, and headed back to the lab.
“Show me the two-thousand,” I said, stepping back into the lab.
“Pardon?” Dr. Anderson scrunched his eyes at me.
“The HiSeq two-thousand. Let’s have a look at it,” I said, rubbing my gloved hands together. “See if you guys are doing this right.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to start with the PCR amplification?”
“Whatever,” I said. “Just show me something.”
Dr. Anderson peered at me over the rims of his glasses, lowering his gaze to take in my figure, then studying my face. “You have a . . . close relationship with Professor Yager?”
In other words, he thought I got this assignment by sleeping with the professor. Ew. “I told you. It’s my condition.”
“Which condition is that?”
“It’s psychological.”
“Clearly,” he said, pushing up the rims of his glasses. “Well, better start with the PCR amplification. Follow me.”
Chapter 15
He led me through a glass door marked with an ultraviolet radiation warning into a smaller, sealed lab, where a bulky fan unit whirred above a workbench enclosed in plexiglass. A bluish-white light and a gentle breeze emanated from a slot at waist level.
“We use a laminar flow hood to prevent contamination,” he said, explaining the cordoned off workspace. “Right now, we’re using reverse transcription to amplify the promoters. If this thing’s been genetically engineered, we’ll know it.”
I glanced at him. “You think it was genetically engineered?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
Nearby, several graphs displayed on a desktop computer. On the bench, a few test tubes protruded from a tray of ice, and a blue rack held a dozen plastic vials. My eyes gravitated to another high tech machine in the corner, all gleaming black plastic and polished steel.
Dr. Anderson unhinged the top of the machine and inserted a plastic container, locked it into place, and sealed it shut. He tapped a few buttons on the side, and an LCD screen glowed to life.
“What does that do?” I said.
“This?” He pressed a paper cup into a slot on the side of the machine, under a spout, which sputtered and dribbled out a black, steaming liquid. “This makes coffee.”
“Oh.”
“Now . . . where were we?” He sipped his espresso and let out a satisfied sigh. “Basically we didn’t have much of a sample, so we had to get the strain to multiply itself. We’ve got plenty of it now, though.”
At the mention of the sample, my pulse hiked. “Plenty of the DNA?”
He pointed to the computer. “You’ll want to have a look at the thermal profile, see if you’d like to tweak any of those temperatures.”
I reached for the tray of ice and carefully extracted one of the test tubes. “Is this the DNA?”
Dr. Anderson eyed me strangely. “That’s the PCR buffer. Your sample’s there—” He pointed at the blue rack lined with plastic vials but broke away for his pocket. “Excuse me . . . my phone.”
He pulled out his vibrating cell phone and stepped back into the main lab to take the call.
Third test failed.
But that didn’t matter. The DNA was right in front of me. I plucked one of the vials from the rack and slid it into my pocket.
Mission accomplished. A clean steal, when Damian couldn’t even pinch a pack of chewing gum without dragging the entire San Diego Police Department after him.
I pushed through the glass door into the main lab, a smirk tugging at my
mouth, and started toward the exit, but before I took two steps, Dr. Anderson waved me to his side. Not wanting to raise suspicion this close to the finish line, I obeyed.
But then I heard the frantic voice hissing from his cell phone. “I’m so sorry I’m running late, Doctor Anderson . . . a girl just robbed me.”
“And she took your ID cards?”
“Everything.”
“Can you describe her?”
“About five-eight, really young. Skinny, brown hair, pretty face. I don’t know, I barely got a glimpse.”
A glimpse was enough.
One look from Dr. Anderson confirmed the match. Caught.
***
“I’ll call you back, Jennifer.” Dr. Anderson lowered the phone from his ear, his expression livid. “So. How do you suppose we should proceed, miss—what is your name?”
His magnetic key card and lanyard glinted in the lab’s fluorescent haze. Without thinking, I lunged for it—sending him stumbling backwards—and the lanyard unclipped in my hand.
The other scientists glanced up from their work, but I was already out the door, sprinting down the hall. Midstride, I clipped the lanyard and looped it around my own neck.
He must not have raised the alarm right away; outside the genomics building, I speed walked right past the troops, my white coat and new lanyard earning me immunity, and sprinted into the Torrey Pines Golf Course.
Relief surged through me, but more than that an electrified heightened sense of things. My skin tingled with anticipation.
I slipped under the same loose section of fence I had used when stargazing with Josh and ran back to the south checkpoint, my nerves fried. I could hardly believe the situation I had just gotten myself into.
And out of.
***
By the time I got there, a group of soldiers gathered around Jennifer’s Cupertino Chrysler, their radios crackling with orders to investigate the car. They had used a slim jim to enter the passenger door, and now they rifled through the documents in her glove compartment. Fortunately, they wouldn’t find anything about me.
I backed into the shadows of the eucalyptus trees and, given I no longer had a car, considered my next move: hoofing it back to ISDI. No easy feat, considering we had to take a freeway just to get here.
But I couldn’t risk a cab or a bus in case the police cordoned off the few streets leading away from Scripps. Best to go on foot.
Thankfully, the military’s jurisdiction ended at the fence; I got the feeling they would be more ruthless than the San Diego police in ferretting me out. As it was, I could already hear approaching police helicopters.
I ditched the lab coat among the trees and crept inland, keeping to the vegetation. A helicopter roared overhead, and a searchlight blazed through the trees. I flattened myself against a trunk. The glare cut through the woodlands around me and moved on.
After that I ran. I ran hard, streaked through the foliage and tore my way south through the UCSD park, paralleling Hopkins Drive where the eucalyptus trees grew thickest. Their ghostly white trunks rose up from the dirt like elephant legs. I darted between them, rising to a sprint.
Gradually, the thumping helicopters and search lights faded behind me. I didn’t stop running, though, and the whole time I could feel the vial, wedged in the pocket of my jeans, digging into my thighs.
Success.
It was nearing midnight when I finally rounded the corner onto our street and caught sight of the ISDI sign, glowing dimly. It was the sight of home, of safety. Dark warehouses crowded around me, but tonight I felt no fear. Just giddiness.
In fact, I was so delirious I walked right through the front door.
My body froze, sensing my mistake before I fully realized it.
The alley, the door in the garage, the stairs up to room A—not the front door. Never the front door. I stood in the black, foreboding office, cold seeping into my blood. A shuffle perked my ears from the couch, where Damian’s slept, shirtless.
My God, did he live here?
If I woke him up now . . . if I woke up his reflection, who knew what permutations would come to pass. I tiptoed back toward the door, my eyes keen on Damian’s sleeping body, keen on his every twitch . . . keen on his sculpted abs and chest.
As I inched the door shut behind me, Damian muttered something in his sleep and flipped over. My hand stopped, and I listened through the gap. What if . . .
No, Blaire. Turn around.
But it was too late. The idea was already spreading waves of anticipation through my body, enflaming my skin.
We were in a reflection. I could do anything I wanted, anything. And he wouldn’t remember a thing.
Before good judgment could kill my buzz, I darted back inside. My heart hammered, echoing in the dark, fantasy world that had become my mind. I climbed onto him, straddled his legs, and traced the creases of his six-pack with my fingers. His stomach clenched, and his eyes snapped open.
“Blaire?” he said. “You’re back. You made it. Did you get the DNA?”
A naughty smile tugged at my lips. My back arched, and I eased my body down on top of his, trailing my palm over his chest and aligning my mouth with his ear. “Were you waiting for me, Damian?”
“What do you think?” he said, sitting up—or trying to, since I was in the way. “It’s your first solo walk . . .” He must have seen the desire dilating my pupils, though, the fact that my legs were now straddling his bare torso, because he trailed off. “What are you doing?”
“What you’ve wanted forever.” I lowered my head and kissed him, my hair falling in a tent around us.
His body tensed, like a taut spring, all his muscles rigid. I didn’t care. My hands snaked around the back of his neck. I had one goal: turn him into putty.
Finally, he relaxed. His lips returned the pressure. But I wasn’t ready for what came next, for the sensation of his hand easing under the hem of my shirt, which had tastefully slipped off the small of my back, aided by gravity down my inverted spine. Now the shirt gathered uselessly at the strap of my bra, leaving me exposed all the way up to my ribs. His palms cupped my naked waist and inched up my back, the brush of his fingers scalding each and every nerve ending. I tried to breathe, but the thrill of his raw pheromones rising off his bare chest sent my brain into a dizzy spin. My lungs constricted. No, I was supposed to turn him into putty, not the other way around.
Again, his body went rigid beneath me, and he pushed me away, only his eyes betraying his conflicted emotions. “You’re still coming down from the rush,” he said. “You’ll regret this in the morning.”
“That’s the point,” I said.
He stared at me, his black eyes once again cryptic. “You’re still coming down, Blaire.”
I lowered my head and whispered into his ear. “Then why’d you kiss me back, Damian?” My hot breath teased his earlobe. “Now I know something you don’t.”
While my words sank in, knotting his eyebrows, I untangled my limbs and climbed off him, never unlocking my eyes from his. I had won, and I wanted him to know it.
He had kissed me back.
On my way up the garage stairs to room A, I wondered if he had ever done the same thing to one of my reflections.
I mentally rolled my eyes. Of course he had—that’s why he always wore that dumb smirk. In fact, he probably made trips into reflections just to play out his sexual fantasies with me.
That punk.
I crossed over the mirror in room A back to the source, still dizzy from kissing Damian. I would stay up all night thinking about it, no doubt. With a final wistful glance at the mirror, I hit the red button and destroyed all evidence of what I’d done.
I slipped into Charles’s office, deposited the DNA in his refrigerator as he had instructed, then slipped past Damian
downstairs, still fast asleep in the source, completely unaware that I had just made out with his reflection.
And that I now knew he liked me.
There was a skip in my step as I headed for my car.
***
Charles treated us to breakfast the next morning before school. I strolled into the buffet diner late, my head still in the clouds and figuring I deserved the sleep-in—and some serious praise after last night’s mission—but saw I was still only the second one there. I spotted Charles at a window booth, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. Wow. People still read those things?
I straightened my posture and walked over to him, glowing with pride. Would he make another champagne toast, celebrating my first solo crossover? Or—I quickened my pace—would he award me with a raise?
“Good to see you, Blaire,” he said, without looking up.
That was it?
I sat down across from him, feeling deflated. “I got the job done. Did you see the vial I left in your fridge?”
“We’ll talk about that in a minute. When everyone’s here,” he said, his voice stern.
The kind of stern reserved for someone who’d done something wrong.
Uh-oh. I slumped forward and stared at the table, which had photos of waves and surfers embedded under the glass. Though my stomach had been growling on the drive over, I was no longer hungry.
Had I brought back the wrong vial?
Amy arrived at the diner and slid in next to her dad, and proceeded to glare at me with such ferocity you’d think I’d drowned her kittens or something.
“What are you staring at?” I said.
“Someone who doesn’t deserve to crossover,” she spat.
“Being expired really gets your goat, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Stop, you two,” said Charles, flipping the page with a grating crinkle.
At last, Damian arrived. The boy who, after last night, would now haunt my fantasies. On his way to the buffet, he eyed me knowingly across the diner. He wore his usual smirk, of course.
