by D. K. Mok
His earpiece buzzed, and he tapped it with a finger.
“Docker?” came a voice crisply over the channel.
“Report,” said the man.
“They found the bug,” said the voice. “I think they flushed it down the toilet.”
“Destination.”
“I don’t know. Something knocked the tracking unit from their car,” said the voice, slightly petulant.
Docker’s voice was patronisingly calm.
“Then do things the old-fashioned way,” he said. “Over.”
He tapped the earpiece, and the desert returned to silence. He hauled the scanning equipment back into the Jeep, pulling the tarpaulin over it. Life was full of choices, and regrets happened when you didn’t know what you wanted. When you did the wrong thing for the wrong reason. You could bury a mistake, but you couldn’t forget it.
If you knew what you wanted, uncoloured by other people’s wants and hopes and pain, then your choices were clear.
No regrets.
9
They splurged on the car this time. It was a tough little hatchback with only a couple of dents, and it smelled of pine and car shampoo. The engine grunted a little, but nothing rattled or came loose in your hand. It did, however, become quickly encrusted with bugs.
“Wow, when they said they were having a problem with locusts, they weren’t kidding,” said Chris.
Luke wound up the window tightly.
It’s not a sign, Luke told himself. Apparently, Corrawong often had plagues of locusts and Bogong moths, blown off-course by strong inland winds sweeping across the Australian outback.
Chris and Luke had flown in across the desert, over shadeless, stony hardpan and parched dirt plains. On approach, the tiny airport terminal looked like a demountable classroom that had landed in the middle of the desert. Luke wasn’t unfamiliar with isolated townships, but the sheer scale of space around Corrawong was staggering.
As soon as they pulled onto the highway, it was vivid red dust and wide-open skies from horizon to horizon. The land was weathered flat, like an expanse of cloth pulled taut by time. It wasn’t hard to imagine this place in the heart of prehistoric Gondwanaland. Spinifex and the odd desert oak dotted the landscape, and the open road stretched into a scorching haze.
Chris felt her spirits lifting as they sailed along the road beneath a broad, clear sky. The air smelled clean and crisp, and she wondered if it had smelled like this when the world was new, after the volcanic sulphur fumes had settled down. This place would have been unrecognisable then, but even now, transformed to arid desert, life thrived. Plants were patient—they were used to thinking on a geological time scale, and they could wait until the world changed again.
Being out here seemed to have a positive effect on Luke, as well. He had seemed quite shaken by the spider incident, but driving through the empty plains, red dust kicking up in a smoky trail behind them, he seemed almost relaxed. Chris was used to bugs and assorted creepy crawlies—it came with the territory. Wherever you had plants, you had bugs. Mostly, it was in the context of battling it out with hungry caterpillars and hordes of aphids, but occasionally, you came across combative mantids, aerodynamically challenged bees, and things with more segments than really necessary.
Luke, however, sometimes seemed so absorbed with what was going on inside his own head that he didn’t seem to notice what was going on around him until it was squashed on his hand. But then, sometimes, he would have moments of insight and intuition that just came out of nowhere. It was hard to tell what was going on in there sometimes.
“Why were you carrying a bottle of eucalyptus oil?” asked Luke.
“It’s a good disinfectant,” said Chris. “And, you know, for werewolves.”
“Werewolves…”
Luke wasn’t sure where this was going, but he had experienced a similar feeling when accosted by the campus fairy-card reader. Allegedly, Luke’s animal spirit guide was a budgie who had died angry.
“Didn’t you bring holy water and stakes, just in case?” asked Chris.
“It hadn’t actually occurred to me. And isn’t it silver bullets that kill werewolves?”
“Apparently, it’s to create decoy scent trails. Aren’t you guys supposed to know about fighting demons and stuff?”
“You can’t take everything literally,” said Luke with exasperation.
As they drove onward, stands of mulgas began to patch the landscape, their silver-grey foliage flung skyward like umbrellas turned inside out. In the distance, a mob of red kangaroos loped across the desert, flying across the ground in graceful, suspended bounds. Further ahead, where the highway turned back into road, the town of Corrawong rose from the dust. It was a collection of squat brick buildings, serviced by a series of badly cracked roads. The largest building was a long, two-storey facility resembling a public high school.
As Chris pulled over to the kerb, they could read the blistered sign at the front: Corrawong University. Several locals on the porch of a nearby pub watched as Chris and Luke got out of the car, and one pointed to his eyes before stabbing a finger towards Luke, who adjusted his clerical collar uncomfortably.
Chris and Luke headed towards the front doors, the red gravel crunching beneath their feet. The short walk felt much longer in the baking heat, and their clothes stuck damply to their skin. The building wasn’t much cooler inside, although the students strolling the corridors seemed unbothered by the heat. Noticeboards hung with limp papers, advertising local events and items for sale. Dusty glass cabinets displayed trophies, student engineering projects, and unusual biological specimens.
Chris’s gaze searched the homogenous grey doorways, stopping at one designated “Front Office.” Inside, a tall, sunburnt young man bustled steadily behind a reception desk, casually ignoring a knot of lost-looking first-year students waving forms. Chris tried politely to get the young man’s attention, but his gaze swept over her lazily with the distinct message that, short of her spontaneously catching on fire, he had better things to do.
“I thought small universities were supposed to be friendlier,” said Chris.
“Shane’s a lot friendlier when he’s not doing the work of three people,” came a voice from behind them.
Chris and Luke turned to see a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a colourfully printed blouse and neat slacks. She had smooth, dark-brown skin, and her frizzy black hair was pulled back in a loose bun. She carried a folder with the name “Professor Fuller” taped neatly across the top corner, and she had eyes like an academic who made sure she got her damned funding.
“You’re new in town,” said Professor Fuller.
“We didn’t mean to be rude,” said Luke. “We’re looking for Professor Holloway.”
“Is there some kind of trouble?” said Professor Fuller, glancing at Luke’s collar. “Heresy, perhaps?”
Chris stepped forward, looking archly at the professor.
“My mother was a former colleague of his,” said Chris. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Chris steered Luke out of the crowded office, and footsteps followed them.
“I’m sorry,” said Professor Fuller. “That was rude.”
Chris and Luke slowed as the professor fell into step beside them.
“It’s okay,” said Luke. “I’m used to it.”
The professor sighed, glancing through a window to the campus grounds.
“We’ve just had a funding audit, and everyone’s a bit on edge. We’re being told we’re teaching too much theoretical science and not enough hospitality. We’re spending too much on lecturers and not enough on business placements. I had an auditor sit through a week of lectures to tell me I don’t make enough eye contact when I say ‘You.’”
“I think excessive eye contact can be a bit confronting,” said Luke.
The thing Luke had liked best about taking confessions was not having to look at people. However, there had been an awful lot he hadn’t liked about taking confessions.
�
�Exactly,” said Professor Fuller. “But that’s beside the point. We’re a small university, and we can’t offer as varied a range of electives as a larger campus, but we turn out a significant number of high-quality researchers and practitioners every year who end up in places like the CSIRO and the World Health Organisation.”
Chris and Luke followed Professor Fuller as she ascended a concrete stairwell onto the second floor. Windows lined the outer wall, and hot sunlight splashed through the halls.
“You can’t buy genuine talent, enthusiasm, and innovation,” continued Professor Fuller. “You might think you can, but the real innovators follow their own road, and you have to provide a means to support that. Holloway’s an excellent example of that.”
“How do you mean?” asked Chris.
“Holloway could work in any of the major pharma labs in the US. His discoveries have applications in every field of medical research, and his findings are nothing short of astonishing. But he insists on staying here, doing his research on borrowed equipment in an office the size of a walk-in wardrobe. He’s an eccentric, but mark my words, when they find a cure for cancer it’ll be because of his work.”
Chris felt a sudden pang in her chest, and for a moment, she had to struggle for breath. She swallowed hard and tried to push the surging thoughts away.
He would be sitting in the living room right now, watching a documentary on TV. Or he might be carefully frying a fish, making sure he hadn’t eaten more than two servings this week, for fear of mercury poisoning. Or maybe he’d be looking through old photos, family videos playing silently in the background. Or maybe he was lying on the floor—
Why wasn’t she there?
Luke glanced at Chris, and she turned her face away quickly, pinching the bridge of her nose discreetly.
“Where’s Professor Holloway now?” asked Chris.
“His office is at the end of the corridor. Take a left, and it’s the second door to the right. Good luck, and if you’re ever thinking about getting a degree, keep us in mind.”
Professor Fuller gave them a crooked smile, then disappeared into an office with the sign “Faculty of Biomechanical Engineering.” Chris felt a strange fluttering in her heart, like a sloshy blend of dread and excitement.
“I think I’d like to see him first. Just me,” said Chris. “Is that okay?”
Luke looked down the empty corridor, then out the window at the sunlight glaring from the opposite building.
“Sure,” said Luke. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
“Emergency word is ‘beanstalk,’” said Chris as she headed down the corridor.
“How are you going to work ‘beanstalk’ into a normal conversation?” called Luke.
But Chris had already disappeared around the corner. Luke sighed to himself as he tracked back along the corridor. It occurred to him that deep-sea fish with glowing lures dangling above ravenous mouths had evolved with people like Chris in mind. Oh, grandma, what big teeth you have. Can I count your molars and measure your canines, and maybe take a teeny sample of fur where you’ll hardly notice any missing at all?
Luke paused, a door plate catching his eye. Perhaps there were advantages to boutique universities after all.
* * *
Generic grey linoleum covered the floor, and the walls were the colour of old cream. This end of the university was silent, lined with cramped offices occupied by throbbing brains hunched over computers and microscopes.
Chris knocked softly on a wooden door with the tin nameplate “Prof. T. Holloway.” There was a shuffling sound, followed by a noise like a very small avalanche.
“Come in,” hollered a male voice, which sounded like it would have no trouble carrying across a mountain range.
Chris pushed the door open gently, feeling slight resistance as several large jars and boxes were shunted across the floor. She squeezed through the doorway into a small, cluttered office, and found herself standing in rather intimate proximity to a lean man in his early fifties. His mousey-coloured hair was shot through with grey, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal skin that had spent a good many years under outback sun.
He was sitting in a rolling student chair, the desk before him piled with papers and books. The office was lined with shelves that were heaving with folders, jars, and chunks of rock. The floor was covered with boxes overflowing with similar odds and ends.
“Professor Holloway?” asked Chris.
“How can I help you?” replied Marcus Flute.
A billion different questions plastered Chris’s brain, and almost every scenario ended with Marcus sprinting out the door, never to be seen again. Or possibly campus security being called and Chris being run out of town by the local law.
She reached into her jacket, pulling out the specimen bag containing the remains of the clown-faced spider.
“I was wondering if you could identify this?” asked Chris. “It’s some kind of arachnid, but like nothing I’ve seen before.”
Marcus pulled a pair of spectacles from a pile of dried sea urchins and pushed the plastic frames onto his nose. He inspected the squashed spider with fascination, and unzipped the bag.
“May I?”
“Go ahead,” said Chris, watching as Marcus removed the mashed spider from the bag with a pair of tweezers.
He pulled a battered light microscope from a nearby shelf and cleared a space on the cluttered desk. Adjusting the microscope’s concave mirror, he placed the arachnid corpse under the lens.
“Incredible,” said Marcus, face pressed to the eyepiece. “Very distinctive colouring, patterns still clearly visible.”
Marcus pulled back, adjusting his glasses.
“Not in great condition, though,” said Marcus. “You’re better off using jars.”
“It was actually like that when I found it. What is it?”
“It was Mopsus fossor. Sightings are rare and poorly documented. I’ve only ever seen sketches myself. No one even knows if they’re toxic, but I bet I could get a biochemical sample from this. Where’d you find it?”
“It was in my car,” said Chris. “In Melbourne.”
The temperature in the office dropped slightly, and she could see Marcus stiffen almost imperceptibly.
“Professor Holloway,” said Chris. “I’m Chris Arlin, Rana’s daughter.”
Marcus’s expression changed, turning razor sharp and defensive as his gaze darted expectantly to the door. When no one rushed in wielding guns or business cards, he turned warily back to Chris, his voice low.
“What do you want?”
“I want… I wanted to…” Chris faltered.
I want to know what my mother died for. I want to find out what my mother was trying to hide. I want to know why she left us. I want to know what was so important she was willing to die for it.
Eleven years of pent-up questions and repressed resentment boiled through Chris, and she clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.
“I just wanted to talk to someone, about my mother,” said Chris, her voice tight.
Marcus studied Chris for a few moments, as though struggling to find some trace of Rana in her. Finally, he dragged a stool from behind a pile of fallen boxes, motioning for her to sit.
“I wanted to go to the funeral,” said Marcus, sagging back into his chair. “Too gutless, I guess. It was just too… strange and unreal.”
Marcus stared out a small side window, looking at a red dustbowl where several students were kicking around a soccer ball.
“Rana was always the sensible one, the one who knew how to make things happen,” said Marcus. “I was the eternal boy, hiking through the mountains with my bucket of rocks.”
“Everyone here seems to think you’re a genius.”
Marcus grinned wryly.
“Yeah, they said that about Beethoven. But they also said he stank and bit people.”
“I’ve never heard that,” said Chris dubiously.
“PR,” said Marcus, eyes sparkling. “I
t’s all about PR.”
“You don’t bite people, right?”
“No, just corporations.”
The smile faded.
“I’m not cut out for all this funding justification crap,” he said. “Politicking and campaigning and showing cause. Some days I feel like I’m standing on the deck of a burning ship, giving the finger to the Coast Guard. But after Rana… After she died, I swore I’d never work with the big firms. They chew you up and spit you out, and all the good work you could have done becomes grist in the profit mill.”
“What work is it that you do now?”
“Slime,” said Marcus, leaning towards Chris with a boyish grin.
“Like ectoplasm, or like protoplasm?”
He smiled with pleasure.
“Biologist?”
“Botanist,” replied Chris.
“Rana said you’d go into medicine, but I knew it’d be geology or botany,” said Marcus, eyeing Chris thoughtfully. “You’ve got perspective. Like looking at bands of light and shadow in the heart of a stone and seeing something that lived a hundred million years ago.”
“Or seeing the key to human cellular function in primordial slime mould.”
“Exactly!” said Marcus. “Independent amoeboid entities, capable of joining together to form a larger, multicellular plasmodium slug creature to achieve a common goal, with each amoeba acting like a single cell in an animal. Then, when the goal is achieved, they can separate again into single-nuclei amoeba and go their own way.”
Marcus seemed luminous with the indescribable passion of slime mould research.
“Like people,” said Chris.
“It is people,” said Marcus. “We just don’t separate back into individual cells.”
“That would be pretty gross,” said Chris, imagining people melting into masses of individual cells, all mooching away in different directions.
“And disadvantageous. Somewhere along the evolutionary track, it was beneficial for some single-celled organisms to remain in large communities, to become specialised and cooperate for the common good. Again, like people.”