by Dan Koboldt
I didn’t know if it was unusual for the Director of Dragon Design to train a new employee, but I didn’t ask. Maybe Evelyn needed something to fill time during the endless wait as much as I did.
The points system in DragonDraft3D made the design process more challenging. I suppose the purpose was to prevent us from creating a super-predator. I could create a big, strong dragon that was too dumb to fly, or a clever dragon that couldn’t claw its way out of a cardboard box. I understood the safety angle, but it seemed to me that the whole system prevented one from designing something that matched people’s expectations for dragons. But that was a problem that only mattered once we cracked domestication. The original Reptilian product, the hog-hunter, fulfilled its purpose well. Only the amino acid deficiency—the ecological failsafe—kept it within the point restriction.
At last, the incubation period ended. I may or may not have been staring at the holo-clock on my desk when Evelyn showed up. “Are you ready?”
“Sure.” I stood and followed her through the airtight doors to the hatchery. Warm air smothered me like a blanket, and I had to shade my eyes against the bright skylights. The sparrow-egg lay on the other side of the Plexiglas, resting on an honest-to-god nest of straw and synthetic grass.
Evelyn and I settled into two of the six conference room chairs that lined the window. I glanced over in time to see her lace her fingers, close her eyes, and whisper something.
“Did you just say a prayer?”
She smiled and looked down at her hands. “Every little bit helps.”
“You really care about your designs, huh?”
Her smile fell away. “It’s not just this design. This company needs a domesticated dragon, or we won’t stand a chance at hitting our sales target.”
“How can that be? No one else makes dragons.”
“There’s only so much demand.”
“What about zoos, and wildlife parks?”
“They don’t generally go for animals with a two-week shelf life. Most of our sales are to ranchers and farmers.”
“There are plenty of those, aren’t there?”
“Sure. The only problem is that our dragons are too good at their purpose. Hogs aren’t as big of a problem now.”
I laughed and knew how nervous it sounded. “You’re making me worried, Evelyn.”
“We should be worried. If nothing changes, we’ll be operating a very expensive factory for something no one can buy.”
Oh, shit. “How long do we have?”
“Without domestication? Probably a month.”
“Christ.” I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. If the company went under, all my recent efforts would have been for nothing.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure we have it this time.” Evelyn checked her watch. “Should be any minute now.”
I forced a chuckle. “Oh, come on. Is it really that precise?”
“Usually.”
I’d never witnessed a dragon hatching, let alone one that I’d helped design. Now that the wait was over, it was hard to imagine that just two weeks ago, I’d watched the egg roll out of the God Machine.
A small part of me fear that nothing would happen. That it had all been some heartless ruse.
Then the egg trembled. I grabbed Evelyn’s arm, probably a little ungently. “Did you see that?”
“You know, I’d forgotten what it’s like to see your first egg hatch.”
I hardly heard her, because a fracture appeared down the middle of the egg. “Look!”
The crack widened, spawning other fractures left and right across the eggshell. Something sharp and triangular poked its way through. My chest hurt, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe.
One of the white-garbed egg handlers entered the hatching pod. Judging by the height and the husky build, it was the one named Jim. Nice guy, but as quiet as they came. He carried a stainless-steel bucket.
“What’s in the bucket?” I asked.
“Raw beef. He’ll try to get the hatchling to eat from his hand.” Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward.
The dragon’s claws followed its snout, and it ripped the egg in half. Little pieces of it stuck to the dark green scales, which glistened wetly in the sunlight. The dragonet lifted it head, blinking its catlike eyes. A pink tongue flicked out of its dark snout. It turned toward the handler.
“It smells the meat,” I whispered.
The handler drew a long piece of bright-red meat from the steel bucket. He tossed it in a gentle arc. The dragon skittered out of the way.
I chuckled. “He’s quick, isn’t he?”
“That’s the fast-twitch muscle response.”
“The Olympic sprinter gene?” It was called alpha-actinin 3. Years ago, researchers had found that having mutated copies of the gene makes your fast-twitch muscles behave like slow-twitch ones, which makes you a better long-distance athlete. In contrast, almost all Olympic sprinters had two functioning copies, and thus plenty of fast-twitch muscle fibers. “Nice touch.”
“I thought so.”
“We might want to put the endurance mutations in, though, if you’re trying to make a pet. A game of fetch doesn’t exactly require quick reflexes.”
She gave me a side glance. “Maybe you are right, Noah Parker.”
The dragonet put its snout down, tested the meat, then, snapped it up. It tossed its head back to finish it in a single gulp, like a dolphin flipping a fish. The handler took out a second piece but didn’t throw it. Instead, he held it out so that it swung back and forth, a tempting high-protein pendulum.
“Now’s the real test,” Evelyn said.
I nodded, too anxious to talk.
The dragon’s head moved back and forth in time with the meat. It spread its wings, then folded them along its back. And crept forward, tasting the air. The handler stood motionless, the proffered meat held out at arm’s length.
“Come on, buddy,” I muttered.
The dragonet crouched. Oh my God, he was going to eat it! I made a fist in pre-emptive celebration. Then it leaped past the meat and clamped its jaws around the handler’s arm.
Evelyn gasped. “Oh, no.”
The handler stumbled back into the wall, shaking his arm. The dragonet held on, thrashing against him. Bright red points of color bloomed in the white sleeve. The door flew open, and two men in khakis ran in. One had a wooden pole with a wire loop at the end. He slid this around the dragonet’s body and pulled it taut. Held the thing still while the other one approached and jabbed a syringe into the dragonet’s neck. It slumped to the floor while the bleeding handler made a hasty exit. I suppose he went right to medical. The two guys in khakis lifted the dragon’s unconscious form—at least, I think it was unconscious—and carried it out.
Evelyn and I sat there in silence, almost shell-shocked.
Finally, I said. “So, I guess we haven’t cracked domestication.”
“That was nearly as bad as Design 32.” She shook her head, and sighed. “Know what this means?”
“Back to the drawing board, I’m guessing?”
She didn’t answer but bit her lip and looked away. Which surprised me a little, given that she’d been in this position forty-seven times before. Hell, I’d have thought that my present might even be a boon: maybe I could help make the design even better. But she didn’t look excited at the prospect. If anything, she looked worried.
What isn’t she telling me? “Come on, it’s not like this is the first design that didn’t work.”
“Exactly. The board’s patience with us won’t last forever.”
Her tone gave me a chill inside. I had another card in my back pocket, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to play it yet. Then again, if things were really so precarious, then Evelyn needed a win. “What if my simulator could predict behavioral traits?”
“You told me it didn’t.”
“That’s true. But a while back, I did some tinkering with a module for basic temperament.”
&nb
sp; “Define ‘tinkering.’”
“It’s still experimental, but it attempts to simulate basic behaviors.”
“How quickly could you get it up and running?”
She hadn’t asked if the module actually worked, which was a hell of a compliment. “Assuming I can find the code, just a few days,” I said, hoping both parts were true.
“We could design a few models and choose the one with the best temperament,” she said, almost to herself.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes, Noah Parker. But work fast.”
CHAPTER TEN
INTERLUDE
ASU’s accelerated graduate school program was unique. In a period of six years, you got your undergraduate degree and a PhD, compared to the typical eight or nine years. I plunged headlong into the genetics curriculum. Three years in, I was starting to make the shift towards a dissertation project. However, I’d also picked up a beautiful but temperamental distraction.
Her name was Jane. We met in a pottery class, of all places. I only took it to meet the fine arts credit, but Jane was an art history major. She took classes in just about every medium. She preferred two-dimensional stuff like sketching and painting, which is why it had taken her so long to get around to clay.
We started dating in early fall, and by winter we were spending almost every day together. Because I was still living at home with Mom and Connor, Jane and I spent most of our time at her place. She had a dingy two-bedroom apartment close to campus, so it was convenient. Of course, she also had a crunchy, tree-hugging roommate named Summer who I couldn’t stand, but nobody’s perfect.
Jane and I would sit on her lumpy couch and binge old Aaron Sorkin TV shows. She needed me there to keep her steady, but I didn’t mind. It was easy. After two years of working my ass off with no social life, I liked easy.
My course work suffered, though. I admit that. I missed some classes, and I didn’t put nearly enough time into my laboratory work. The unexpected turning point came in springtime. March 15th. I remembered because it was the ides of March, and I expected a vaguely threatening prank phone call from Connor at any moment. Beware the Ides of March. My phone did ring, but it wasn’t him. It was mom.
“I should take this,” I said.
Jane rolled her eyes and refused to hit the pause button.
“Hi, Mom,” I whispered, stepping outside to Jane’s tiny porch.
“Connor,” she said. Her voice sounded thick, and I thought maybe she’d gotten into the box wine a little early.
“No, it’s Noah. You called me.”
“Connor,” she said again. “He fell. We’re at St. Luke’s.”
I don’t have a distinct memory of hanging up or running to my car. The next thing I knew, I was shoving my way into a cramped hospital room to find Connor in a paper gown. He looked pale, but at least he was conscious.
“What happened?” I blurted out.
“He fell down the stairs,” Mom said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was holding it together.
“Halfway down the stairs,” Connor said. “I tripped, that’s all.”
“You said your legs gave out,” she said.
“It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone.”
He didn’t believe that; though. I could see the uncertainty on his features. Damn, it was hot in the little room, and my sudden arrival had put everyone on edge.
“What happened to your face?” I asked.
He brought his hand up to his cheeks, feeling around. “What do you mean?”
“You must have hit it, what, five or six times?”
“I didn’t—” he started, and then smirked when he caught on. “Oh, really?”
Mom swatted at me, but a smile flickered across her face. Our banter always either calmed her or annoyed the tar out of her. Often it depended on the status of the box wine. I wondered if she’d tapped it already that afternoon.
Dr. Miller barged in and said without preamble. “Hello, Parker family.”
“Hi, Dr. Miller,” we chorused.
“What happened?”
“He collapsed on the stairs,” Mom said.
“Halfway,” Connor said.
Dr. Miller did her routine exam of Connor’s extremities and reflexes. She ordered an MRI of his legs to be sure it wasn’t a circulation issue, but her frown told us what she really thought.
“How bad is it?” Mom asked quietly.
“He should avoid stairs as much as possible,” Dr. Miller said. “Physical activity is only going to get harder for him, and we don’t want to risk a more serious injury.”
After that, her bedside speech was more of the same. The disease continued its relentless course, and all we could do was take steps to help Connor avoid further injuries. He didn’t seem to be hurt this time, but we were lucky. Things like broken bones would be very hard for him to recover from.
I left the hospital in a kind of stupor. We’d gotten lucky this time, but the accident offered a grim reminder of the future Connor faced if I didn’t do something about it. Which meant I had to buckle down and get back on track, if I wanted to go through with my plans.
“Where did you go?” Jane demanded, the moment I got back to her place.
“The hospital.”
“Why?”
“Connor fell,” I said.
“I didn’t know what happened. You just left.”
She didn’t ask about him or his condition. She never asked. I’d told her everything when we first started dating, but she didn’t like the idea of me “playing God” so she tuned it out. Now, I remembered the pale look of fear on my brother’s face, and her attitude made me furious. “I have to go,” I said, not looking at her.
“Again? Why?”
I took a breath and forced myself to meet her eyes. “Because it’s over. We’re done.”
I stormed out of her apartment and didn’t look back.
The rest of the breakup involved things I’d rather not put into words. It was hard, but I escaped relatively unscathed. Or so I thought. Only later did I realize that I’d left something important at her place: my backup data drive. Of course, I realized this after spilling a soda on my laptop, causing it to go dark. With my entire thesis work on it. Six months of coding and debugging that, as it turned out, had never made it to the cloud because of Jane’s crappy wi-fi service. I needed my drive, and getting it was going to suck.
As my car rumbled down the narrow street beside her run-down building, the familiar stomach-tightness settled in. I didn’t want to face Jane, especially so soon. But I backed out now, I’d never work up the courage again.
I blamed my Systems and Data Recovery instructor for this impending awkwardness. He’d instilled me with my obsession over backing up stuff on portable hard drives. I thought I was so damn clever to keep it at Jane’s place, both so it would be in a different physical location from my home laptop, and so I could work on my project whenever I was there. In retrospect, it would have made more sense to keep it at Mom’s house.
I coasted into an open spot and put it in park. Shut it off and prayed that the trembling whine didn’t represent my jalopy’s final death rattle. I climbed out and didn’t bother locking the doors. Two of the door locks didn’t work anyway.
My feet found the solid spots in the sea of broken pavement that passed for a sidewalk up here. Loose gravel crunched under my shoes. As I climbed the rickety stairs, I tried to focus on what I was going to say. A month had passed since I’d last been here, but the stomachache felt like it had never stopped.
The sun had bleached the door’s paint to a sickly sea green. Pale, colorless voids marked the spots where the numbers (2-0-8) had fallen off years ago. I knocked four times, half hoping that no one would answer. Muffled sounds from the other side dashed those hopes. The cheap deadbolt clicked.
The door swung open wide enough to reveal the face of Jane’s roommate, Summer. Thin braids of her blonde hair hung in disarray around her thin face. She saw me and wrink
led her nose. “What do you want?”
I managed not to snarl, but only just. Summer and I had never gotten along. “I just came for one of my drives.”
“Jane’s not here.”
Faint sleep lines marked the right side of her face, even though it was almost ten in the morning. I pretended not to see them. “It’s a shoebox in her closet.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
The first tendrils of cold dread settled about my shoulders. “I think I stashed it on shelf in the corner. Where you wouldn’t see it.”
“I’m pretty sure she burned everything of yours.”
“Not this.” I whispered it like a prayer. Even Jane at her worst would know what the drive meant to me. Would she have destroyed it? God, I hoped not. “At least let me look.” My mouth twisted and fought me, but I managed to add, “Please.”
Summer let out a long sigh, like I was asking her to give up a kidney or something. “Fine.” She turned and walked away, leaving me to push the door open so I could come in. I made a beeline for Jane’s bedroom.
“She didn’t come home last night,” Summer called over her shoulder.
I shook my head. “Not my business anymore.” And not my problem, either.
“She didn’t come home the night before, either.”
The way she said it rankled me. Like she saw the wound and wanted to rub salt in it. I glanced back. “Don’t you have a rave to get to?”
She snickered and stalked off to the kitchen.
Jane’s room smelled like her, felt like her. Charcoal sketches plastered her “art wall” opposite the door. She sketched constantly, mostly vague cameos of total strangers she saw during the day. She’d gotten even better since I’d been here last, but I knew her style in the way that you know your parents’ handwriting. The ghost-faces that stared back at me might be mistaken for black-and-white photographs.
As many times as I’d been here, I never felt comfortable in this place. I tried not to look at Jane’s bed. Did my best not to check where the pillows were, and whether or not the sagging mattress bore two indentations instead of just one. I didn’t want to know.