by Dan Koboldt
I drove away, watching Reptilian’s shining building shrink in the rearview mirror. Picturing my foot in the door — because it was. If they licensed my simulator through ASU, I’d have to send them the source code. All of it could have been done through electronic channels, but they’d asked me to come in. That meant something. Even if Reptilian claimed they weren’t hiring now, even if we didn’t talk any specifics about a job, this was an audition. All I had to do now was nail the call-back.
But here’s the ugly truth about academic software. There are few of the strict programming rules like those you’d find at a commercial shop. In other words, we don’t have to write perfectly clean code, even to get published in journals like JCB. I stood behind my simulator’s functionality, but the code that ran it might have gotten a little sloppy in some places. I spent the next week polishing it up.
In that time, Reptilian signed their license through ASU and paid the fee, which told me that they wanted it pretty badly. That was good. There was something I wanted badly, too, and they were the only place to get it.
I could have sent Evelyn the code when I’d finished, but 3 a.m. e-mails didn’t seem like the best approach for a hopeful job applicant. So I set a timer-delay, and the message kicked off at the far more respectable time of 9:30 in the morning. Let her think I was a responsible early riser, when in truth I was dead to the world, sleeping off the effects of the necessary caffeine binge. I finally roused myself at around 10:45, got dressed, and put my phone on maximum volume. Evelyn might need to peruse the code and run some tests, but it shouldn’t take too long.
At any moment, I’d get the call. The official word that Evelyn wanted to bring me on. I kept my phone beside me at every moment. I couldn’t even shower, for fear it would ring right after I put the shampoo in.
But the day came and went, and no phone call. No e-mail reply. I started to panic a little. Maybe Reptilian Corporation’s servers flagged my e-mail, so she never got it. That happened sometimes when you sent programming code around. And like a moron, I’d forgotten to switch on message tracking, which would have told me when she opened it.
I started another e-mail to her, asking if she’d gotten the code, but forced myself to delete it. Be patient. I didn’t dare let her glimpse how much I wanted the job. How I needed to get in there and see what those servers could do.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain concocted all kinds of scenarios in which Evelyn didn’t get my simulator code, or couldn’t open it, or read through it and changed her mind about me. When I finally did fall asleep, I had nothing but self-doubt nightmares in which I showed my incompetence to the entire scientific community.
The next morning, I awoke groggily to the soft chime of an incoming message. She’d replied to my e-mail with a single sentence:
Thanks for sending this; I’ll be in touch soon.
This response reassured me—she’d gotten my message, and now could review the code—but my confidence fled in about ten seconds. First, why did she take an entire day to get back to me? Her message implied that she hadn’t even looked at my code yet. How long was that going to take? I knew, intellectually, that she had a regular job to do on top of recruiting people like me, but the vagueness of “soon” rankled. Maybe that meant four hours from now, or maybe it meant a month.
There was nothing to do but wait.
The day slipped away without further word from Evelyn. I started to doubt myself. I replayed the meeting in my head, wondering how I might have blown it. Maybe the code didn’t impress her enough. I pored over it line by line for another day. Sure, some parts were a little rough around the edges, but this was Evelyn Chang. She could connect the dots.
So what the hell was taking her so long?
When I didn’t hear from her the next day, panic set in. I felt a strong and foolish temptation to go down to Reptilian and beg for a job. I’d probably never have made it in the door, and I’d certainly be flagged as a total nutcase. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Thankfully, some of my friends from grad school invited me out for margaritas. Their treat. I drowned my angst in tacos and cheap tequila. Way too much cheap tequila.
The next morning brought too-bright daylight and a lot of regret. My head felt like someone had put a vise on it and kept tightening the damn thing over and over. I wanted to sleep it off, but a persistent buzzing jarred me awake. It was my phone, vibrating against the glass-top nightstand.
I fumbled for it and looked at the screen, wincing at the brightness of it. The blurred figures resolved into a phone number I recognized. “Oh, God.” I scrambled out of bed to my desk. Where the hell are my notes?
On the third ring, I coughed up half a lung and it tasted like tequila-soaked tacos. On the fourth, I hit the answer button. “Hello?”
“Noah Parker.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Evelyn Chang.”
“Hello.” It took a lot of effort to keep the strain out of my voice. Christ, why couldn’t I have slowed down last night?
“My team and I reviewed your biological simulator. It’s impressive.”
“Uh, thank you.” I held my breath and crossed both fingers.
“This morning, I convinced the board to make an exception to our hiring freeze.”
I pumped my fist in the air. “Really?”
“We can bring you on as a trainee.”
Ugh. That didn’t exactly have the ring of staff scientist like I wanted it to. In the academic world, post-doctoral trainees were glorified graduate students. Cheap labor with no prestige, no authority. I didn’t know what it meant at Reptilian, but I doubt it entailed unfettered access to their lab and equipment. “I see.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“No, just surprised.” I recentered myself and tried to remember that job within those walls was probably all I needed. I could work my way up. All I need is access. “But hey, I’m ready to learn.”
“Good.” She sounded pleased.
“When would you like me to start?”
“How about today? I’d like to get that simulator code talking to our design software as soon as possible.”
I stifled a groan. I hadn’t shaved in three days, and I needed a shower that I probably couldn’t afford the water for. But the sooner I started, the sooner I might climb my way out of poverty.
I checked my watch. “See you in an hour.”
CHAPTER THREE
INVENTOR PROFILE
Name: Simon Redwood
Companies Founded: 13
Claim to Fame: The Dragon Genome Project
Current Venture: Reptilian Corporation,
A GENETIC ENGINEERING FIRM
Many successful businesses arise to address a real-world problem. In the case of Reptilian Corporation, that problem was hogs.
Feral hogs are the descendants of domestic hogs that escaped (or were released intentionally) from captivity. Most forms of livestock depend on humans for food and protection, and don’t last long in the wild. Not so with feral hogs. They don’t simply survive in the wild. They thrive.
A feral sow breeds once or twice a year, producing a litter of four to six young. They can eat about anything—grasses, roots, mushrooms, acorns—but given the choice, they prefer domesticated crops. Corn, rice, and soybeans are particular favorites. A pack of feral hogs (called a sounder) can wipe out a two-acre farm field overnight.
An Invasive Species
With each generation, feral hogs develop longer hair, larger tusks, and other traits that help them survive in the wild. A fully grown adult animal weighs a hundred pounds and has no natural predators. As recently as a decade ago, feral hog populations were growing virtually unchecked in the southwestern United States. They drove out natural species, destroyed grazing grounds vital to ranchers, and devoured entire farm fields. Ironically, the species that we bred as livestock made food more expensive.
Five years ago, a thousand scientists, ranchers, and wildlife experts convene
d in Phoenix, Arizona to discuss the hog crisis. Everyone agreed on one thing right off the bat: the methods tried so far weren’t working.
Feral hogs are nocturnal, and their incredible sensory perception—especially smell and hearing—helps them avoid humans during daylight hours. They hole up in the most unforgiving of environments, like swamps and briar patches, that most humans can’t get to. These behaviors have frustrated would-be hunters and trappers, who make only a small dent in feral hog populations.
The Redwood Solution
Simon Redwood is no stranger to tough problems. The eccentric, wild-haired inventor has often proposed unconventional—if not entirely successful—solutions to some of our world’s most daunting scientific challenges. Solutions like SolarMesh, the roll-up solar panel system that brought power to much of the Caribbean after last year’s devastating hurricane season. And no one will forget MedicFT, the medical triage robot that Redwood claimed would replace the modern emergency room.
It isn’t clear who invited him to the convention in Phoenix, but he got five minutes on the podium, and made them count.
“The only way to effectively control hog populations is the introduction of a new predator,” he said. “A synthetic organism designed to hunt feral pigs in the wild.”
Many in the audience uttered a groan. Synthetic biology was an often-maligned branch of the life sciences. Synthetic biologists had thus far developed single-cell organisms, like bacteria and brewer’s yeast. Efforts to make larger, more complex animals always failed.
The creature that Redwood proposed was a new level of ambitious. A carnivorous reptile with a lizard’s claws, an alligator’s teeth, and a taste for “the other white meat.” Few in that convention hall in Phoenix believed that it would succeed, but all of them were desperate. And no one had any better ideas.
The Dragon Genome
The first step to reach Redwood’s vision was to create a genome sequence for this so-called reptilian predator. Even with advances in DNA sequencing, the cost of this endeavor went considerably beyond what the farmers and ranchers could provide. Given the agricultural industry’s lobbying power and their keen interest in addressing the feral hog outbreak, Redwood felt certain that the funds could be had to undertake this venture. He didn’t name his campaign the “Synthetic Reptilian Predator Design” fundraiser. Nobody would back such a thing. Instead, he proclaimed it the Dragon Genome Project.
Dragons have captivated human imagination for millennia. They’ve also inspired a certain primal fear. Wouldn’t it be incredible to bring that myth to life? A two-minute video posing that question appeared online at the start of the fundraiser. It had to be faked—clips of dragons living in the wild, feeding their young, and casting long terrible shadows across the path of fleeing gazelle—but it was, in a word, majestic. Simon Redwood never formally admitted to creating it. But he never denied it, either. In an era when crowdfunding campaigns seem to be everywhere—and often fail to attract any donors whatsoever—the DGP met its goals within three weeks. Part of that was simply Redwood’s name. It’s no secret that he enjoys support from legions of fellow dreamers. And funders as well: Angel investors have been betting on his ideas for years.
Of course, the idea of creating a synthetic animal raised ethical concerns. Environmental groups threw a fit about it, and made fairly cogent arguments about the possible dangers, and the ecosystem impacts. The public seemed to pay little attention. The magic of dragons was simply too strong. By the time the project funded, Redwood’s scientific endeavor already had tacit approval from the EPA. They wanted the hog problem addressed as much as anyone.
With the financing secured, Redwood’s team began assembling the genome for his synthetic predator. As source organisms, they used sequences from various members of the animal kingdom. Reptiles, mostly, but some rodents as well. The dragon genome would be an amalgam of nature’s cleverest and most resourceful hunters.
To Build A Dragon
Fast forward a couple of years, and Simon Redwood’s dream seems well within reach. The so-called Dragon Genome specified a lizardlike creature about four feet long, with razor-sharp teeth and claws, whose circadian rhythms and night vision made it a nocturnal hunter. Its olfactory and taste receptors are fine-tuned to feral hogs, and the slender build lets it prowl the unforgiving habitats that they prefer.
At least, that’s what the instructions said.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature did not bend so easily to the whims of a synthetic genome. Try as they might, Redwood and his team could not get an egg to hatch. Feral hogs continued to plague the Southwest, and many of the farmers and ranchers who’d backed Redwood’s project from the get-go wondered if they’d made a mistake. The donors for the crowd-funded research project began grumbling about having their donations returned.
Those were grim days for Simon Redwood. He disappeared into his private laboratory, working round the clock to crack the secret of bringing his creation to life. Six months later, he emerged once more, gaunt, emaciated, but triumphant. A clutch of “dragon” eggs appeared viable and was about to hatch.
Hog Hunting
Redwood’s reptilian predator was the answer to every rancher’s prayer. They proved adept nocturnal hunters and targeted only feral hogs, just as the inventor had promised. They were short-lived, too: thanks to a built-in amino acid deficiency, Redwood’s dragons only lasted for around ten days. Yet it was hard to argue with the results. At three designated test sites in the American Southwest, feral hog populations fell precipitously following the dragons’ release. Just as Redwood had predicted, a synthetic predator succeeded where so many others had failed.
Following the success of early trials, Redwood built a company around the synthetic dragon design. The Dragon Genome might be public domain—that was a federal requirement for publicly-funded genome sequencing—but the aptly named Reptilian Corporation holds exclusive rights to the mysterious process that uses it to produce living reptiles. Admittedly, Redwood had little experience in the corporate sector himself. For help, he turned to an old friend who had been his roommate at Stanford.
Robert Greaves, who had studied chemical engineering and then law, was then a VP at Bingham Pharmaceuticals. He left considerable stock options and a high-profile clinical trial behind to lead Redwood’s new venture. This looks to have been a fortuitous move. Ranchers, farmers, and even conservation agencies lined up to purchase the hog-hunting predator. Analysts estimate that Reptilian Corporation earned tens of millions of dollars in its first two years.
Not everyone was happy with Reptilian’s success. Animal rights groups continued to protest the use of a predator as unnecessarily cruel. Environmental organizations raised concerns about possible ecological consequences. These complaints only intensified with reports of the reptiles living independently in the wild, claims which Greaves was quick to dismiss. He maintains that the reptilian predators can’t survive on their own for more than a couple of weeks, and that tests conducted by his team confirm that they are only targeting feral hogs.
Though demand for the hog-hunting predator seems to have slowed, Reptilian Corporation has recruited some of the best genetic engineering talent in the country to build upon their early success. Greaves handles the day-to-day operations at the company, leaving Simon Redwood free to do what he does best.
Dream.
CHAPTER FOUR
Intercepted
My jalopy was the first thing to let me down. I threw myself into the driver’s seat with twenty-two minutes left in my promised hour and jammed the ignition button with my finger.
The engine made a high-pitched whine but refused to turn over.
“Aw, come on.” I waited three seconds and tried it again. This time, the car didn’t so much as whimper. “Shit!”
I bailed out and ran to the bus stop. Nineteen minutes. In a sheer miracle, a bus from the red line pulled up a minute later. I jumped on and grabbed a ceiling loop, swaying in the crowded aisle and sweating as the minutes tic
ked down. I had fourteen left. Then ten minutes. Reptilian’s shiny building swung into view at last. I hit the bell and jumped off at the next intersection.
Damn, it was stifling outside. Heat rolled off the sidewalk like it was a furnace. I half-walked, half-jogged the two blocks to Reptilian Corporation’s mirrored building.
I checked my phone as I walked into the blessedly cool lobby. One hour and two minutes had passed since I’d hung up with Evelyn. I figured that was within the margin of error.
The same redhead waited at the reception desk. Well, then. Batter up.
“Well, we meet again,” I said.
No flicker of recognition crossed her features. Maybe she was a robot. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Noah Parker.”
She looked back to her screen. “And?”
Her dismissiveness put me off. It was one thing to do that to an interviewee, but I worked here now, damn it! I cleared my throat. “Well, it’s my first day today.”
Her brow furrowed prettily, which almost made up for the total lack of eye contact. “I don’t have anything on the schedule.”
Oh, God. Please tell me it wasn’t a dream. “I just found out an hour ago.”
“Who’s your supervisor?”
“Evelyn Chang.”
“Really?” She actually looked at me, in all my sweat-soaked glory, for more than half a second. “You’re a designer?”
“A trainee, technically,” I could feel the grin on my face.
“How did you pull that off?”
I put my hand on the desk in front of her, palm down. “Bribery.” I lifted my hand away, revealing a tiny pewter figurine.
“Ooh.” She picked it up. “It’s a little dragon! Is it for me?”
“Yep.”