by Marita Smith
“On it. Order the muesli for me, okay?”
Kate muttered something in the background that sounded distinctly like “health nut”.
Kara cleared her throat. “I’m the one on the phone, okay?”
Robyn hung up and pulled yesterday’s shirt over her head, adding it to the hamper by the window. Maybe she was getting too comfortable here.
The pink-tipped mohawk was easy to spot. She waved, but the twins were hunched over Kara’s laptop. Kate’s neon hair bobbed as she nodded at something Kara said. Different disciplines, different haircuts, still twins.
“Whatcha working on?”
Kara slammed the laptop lid down. “Robyn. You scared me.”
A waif-like waiter interrupted them, balancing two enormous stacks of pancakes and Robyn’s muesli. Kara used the distraction to slip the laptop into her bag. Robyn reached out for the bowl and the girl looked ready to cry with relief. Her wrist shook as she deposited the other two meals.
“She could use a pancake or two,” said Kara, watching the waiter rub her wrist in retreat.
Robyn made a noncommittal noise, wondering if the girl was just busy, or if she scrawled lists in the back of her notebooks like Robyn used to, post-Levi and pre-Travis. Monday: Oatmeal, green tea. Salad. Salmon and green beans.
Kate ignored them both. “Hot damn.” She forked a huge, buttery slice into her mouth.
Robyn stared into her bowl. Half-serve muesli, soy milk. No, that was behind her now.
Robyn couldn’t shake the feeling that her best friend was keeping something from her. “How’s the thesis going?”
Kara tipped her hand in a so-so motion. “Getting there.”
“She’s already bound it,” said Kate around a huge mouthful.
Kara elbowed her sister in the ribs. “Kate.”
“What?” Robyn glanced between them, then settled on Kara. “You’re done?”
“It’s different to science, honestly Robyn. It’s all regurgitation and discussion, not hard data like your research.”
Robyn separated pumpkin seeds to one side of her bowl. “I’m not even halfway.” An understatement.
“Plus, it’s just a Master’s, not a PhD like your project,” Kate interjected. “Not even comparable.”
Kara’s phone vibrated, sending her fork clattering.
“I’ve got to go.” Kara shovelled in a massive hunk of pancake. “See you later, okay?”
Kate reached over and added Kara’s last pancake to her stack. “I told her to bind it in snakeskin, but I think she’s going to get leather.”
“Snakeskin?” Robyn couldn’t believe it. “Great ecological choice.” She waved as Kara jogged away, wondering where Kara had to be in such a hurry.
“Hey, can I come work in your office this morning? I’m sick to death of the Econ crowd.” Kate crammed six chunks of pancake onto her fork.
“The more the merrier.” Robyn smiled into her bowl as Kate tipped her head back to enjoy the sun. A thin trickle of syrup was all that remained of the pancake mountain. Jesus. Robyn loaded up her spoon with muesli.
It was always weird having someone else in her office, especially now that it was starting to feel like a mini-apartment. As Kate wandered around, Robyn kicked the clothes hamper under her desk and cracked open the window. Robyn hadn’t realised how stuffy it was without an outdoor reference point. She hoped Kate didn’t notice. Her effortless coolness made Robyn’s office seem cramped and dated.
Kate tapped on the poster Blu-tacked to her wall, one of those terrible 3D renderings of a mitochondrion labelled ninth grade science class style. The adenosine triphosphate molecules had little happy, smiling faces. It hid the gash where she’d hurled a textbook, though.
“This is what you study, right?” Kate’s leather jacket creaked as she crossed her arms.
“Yeah.” Robyn switched on her monitor as Kate peered closer to read the labels. A queue of last night’s chromatograms began popping up. So much data to work through. Each sample would have dozens of individual compounds to identify and quantify.
“These are the energy guys, right?” Kate pointed to the poster, pink hair catching the sunlight. Robyn didn’t need to look.
“Mmmm.” Robyn wondered if she could get out of her shift at the wholefoods co-op tonight. These samples weren’t going to analyse themselves.
“So, you look at blood samples hoping to find weird mutations?” Kate turned to face her.
“Kind of. I’m looking for unusual compounds. My theory is a little left field.”
Pulling out her laptop, Kate settled at the desk wedged against the window. “Remind me again.”
“Well, you know about symbiosis, right? Different animals co-operating in nature? Algae in coral and all that. You can also see symbiosis on a cellular level. The mitochondria in each and every human cell are the product of an unintentional, long-ago symbiosis between two bacterial cells. Over time, these two cells became one cell, indistinguishable from their original parts and instrumental for sustaining complex life.”
Kate nodded, somewhat blankly. “So …”
“So, I think it’s possible that mutations in mitochondrial genes might enable humans to form symbiotic connections with animals. Maybe even direct communication.”
Kate snorted. “Holy shit. What does your supervisor think about all this?”
Robyn frowned. “He’s been really encouraging, actually.” Brock had always been excited about her work, even when she was deep in a data slump, hurling textbooks at walls and feeling like giving up.
Kate turned to face the window, but Robyn saw her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her laughter. Flushing, Robyn turned to her computer. Well, they couldn’t all be law or economics prodigies.
Sunlight angled across her desk, and Robyn found her right leg cramping. A faint thread of music over Kara’s headphones reached her as the pain came into focus. The morning had zipped past as she hunched over her computer. She uncrossed her legs and switched them over, pins and needles erupting in protest.
Robyn ignored the pain. This sample was different. Several tall peaks preceded a big hump of unresolved compounds.
She tapped her fingers on the desk, picking up a rhythm. It’s hard to tell what a mutation will do. Some mutations disrupt existing pathways in the cell. That’s generally bad. There’s a whole spectrum of bad – it might slow down the system, or it could terminate it altogether. It’s rare for a mutation to be advantageous. But that’s the basis of evolution. Some of them are.
A mutation can result in the synthesis of a new compound. She cross-checked the sample ID. The blood bank samples included a mix of age, race and gender. This particular sample came from a sixteen-year-old Native American boy.
Kate sighed at the window and Robyn blinked in surprise. Kate was working so quietly she’d almost forgotten she was there.
“What’s up? I’m assuming you’re not practising for a highland dance recital, so what is it?” Kate yanked her headphones out.
Robyn gaped at her for a moment, then stilled her bouncing leg. “I have something,” she managed. “But I don’t know what to do next.”
The chair groaned as Kate got to her feet. “What have you got?”
“I have a hit. The first hit in over two years, actually.” Robyn tried to tamp down her giddiness. A result, a real result. She didn’t know whether to dance around her office or throw up.
“So what’s the problem?” Kate leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the squiggles on the chromatogram.
“There’s no way I can get access to information about a blood donor.” Robyn rubbed her eyes with both hands, working out the crusted sleep she found there. She needed more samples. But to do that, she needed a name, an address.
Kate pulled out her phone, snapping a photo of the sample ID. “Leave it with me. I have a friend
who could maybe help you out.”
Robyn’s hands dropped to the desk. “Seriously?”
“Look, I still think your theory is batshit crazy, but it’s the least I can do.” Kate looked up from her phone. “Seriously.”
Attempting to distract herself, Robyn half-heartedly began organising her desk. A real-life result, finally. And so young – sixteen. Robyn tried to imagine what the boy looked like, just walking around, going to school, completely oblivious of the mutation in his mitochondria. She stacked textbooks next to her computer. Or maybe it was nothing.
Robyn spun in her chair. She felt sick to her stomach. Two years she’d been screening blood samples. There was just something there in the back of her mind, urging her onward. Some strange conviction that this ability existed. Maybe she was a freak; a cursed, marked freak. She flicked a glance at Kate, tapping away at full speed by the window. Kate certainly seemed to think so.
God, it wasn’t fair. The don’t-mess-with-me attitude, genius IQ and she could touch type. Robyn envied her. The best she could do was a weird half-type where her right hand skittered across the keyboard and the left hand had dominion over three or four keys.
“The kid’s name is Fletcher. Fletcher Lowman.” Kate turned around.
Robyn snapped upright. “What? You got a name?”
“My friend got a name. Durham, North Carolina. Goes to the state school there.”
Robyn felt Kate’s eyes boring into her.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
Robyn scooted backward in her chair. North Carolina, half a world away. An expensive half a world away.
Robyn ran a hand through her hair and tried to still the rising nausea in her gut. Was there still alcohol on her skin? The room seemed closed in, too warm.
The boy in her mind had a name now. Fletcher.
“I’m sorry I laughed at you, before.” Kate watched her from the window. “That was rude.”
Robyn studied the faint mould patches on the ceiling, taking shallow breaths to calm her stomach. Penicillin. “It’s fine. It is a stupid idea.” Everyone else thought so. Everyone except Brock. Robyn closed her eyes. Even her parents stepped carefully around her work. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. She’d show them. She’d show all of them. Robyn stared at the mould until the tears receded.
Kate’s chair whirled and keys clattered. “Yeah, it is. But you should girl the hell up and follow it through.”
Girl the hell up? Robyn got to her feet and shuffled over to Kate’s desk.
“What are you doing?” Robyn had a bad feeling about this.
Kate grinned. “Booking your flights.”
“No way in hell.”
“Too late. You leave in three hours. Better get packed.”
The ancient printer stirred to life, hacking out an itinerary with a sound like a cat regurgitating a hairball. Robyn held the paper at arm’s length. “I’m going to America?”
“Yeah. You owe me like, six hundred dollars.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Robyn clutched the edge of her desk.
Kate grabbed her laptop and satchel. “Have fun.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Robyn rested her head on the desk. Brock. She needed to talk to her supervisor.
“Come in.” Usually Robyn loved her supervisor’s cosy office, its teetering shelves filled with books that seemed to tilt toward you. She was sure one day she would find Brock buried beneath a hardcover avalanche, all unforgiving corners. Today she barely noticed. She was busy concentrating on not vomiting on his rug, like she was trying to convince her fourth-grade teacher she had only said “sheesh” instead of “shit”.
“Robyn.” Silver fox, she’d heard some of the other students call him that when she managed to drag herself to postgrad barbecues. Frozen bubble and squeak patties, no-name sausages, white bread. A gastronomic nightmare. Brock rolled up his shirtsleeves as he turned in his chair, the wheels grating. Nothing in this department was new, or brand-name.
“What can I do for you?” He gestured to the faded armchair next to him. It was a well-rehearsed dance, and she knew her lines. A bit of everything, she would say, and he would smile and throw his hands in the air as if she’d asked for ten new gas chromatographs.
“I may have done something rash,” she said, deviating from the script.
Brock exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh but close. “Rash?”
“I found some unusual compounds in one of my samples and tracked down the donor, a boy in North Carolina.”
Brock jumped as if someone had struck him. A flash of excitement crossed his face but disappeared so quickly Robyn convinced herself she’d imagined it.
“And the rash part?”
“I’m flying there to meet him, get more samples. Tonight.”
Brock didn’t say anything for a long moment. Robyn fidgeted in the armchair.
I swear, I just said “sheesh”.
You swear, Robyn? Is that a confession? I’m taking away your gold star. I’m very disappointed in you.
“Let me know how much the ticket cost you. I’ll reimburse you.”
Robyn jerked her head up. “Thank you, sir.”
“Let me know how it goes.” Brock’s hands were clasped tight in his lap. She could see the whites of his knuckles.
Robyn nodded. “Of course.”
3
Fletcher
“Robyn’s found something. Maybe another candidate. She’s en route to North Carolina.”
“Excellent. I’ll send the reactionary team. This couldn’t have come at a better time. The first is proving … difficult to examine.”
“Intercept only; I don’t want Robyn to get hurt.”
“I can’t make any promises, Brock. You know that.”
“The Mystic Paw?” The cashier twisted a dreadlock between thumb and index finger, examining the book.
“Yeah.” Fletcher shrugged. “School project.”
“Cool, man.” Dreadlocks peered at the barcode. “Twelve dollars.”
Fletcher pushed a handful of bills across the counter and tucked the book under his arm. Pressing open the door to the tinkle of wind chimes, he left the oppressive aroma of incense. The alternative bookstore always freaked him out. He crossed the street head down in case he bumped into anyone he knew.
Flipping the book over in the relative safety of the bus shelter, he read the blurb: From ancient times, the bear has stood alone among animals. Gifted with senses beyond man’s reach, yet still close to the crucible of life, his paw is mystic beyond all comprehension.
Fletcher stifled a snigger. Spiritual mumbo jumbo, but he was desperate enough to be looking for answers. He shoved the book into his backpack and caught sight of his watch. “Shit,” Fletcher muttered, dragging the zipper closed and tossing it onto his shoulders. He ran back toward the school.
Jake threw a basketball at him from across the court as the whistle blew sharp, persistent blasts. Fletcher caught it against his chest and slowed to a stop. Late.
“Where’d you go?”
“Dentist.” Fletcher bared his teeth in a huge grin. “Only a dozen cavities, so she says I’m on the mend. Sugar rehab is working.” The lie came easily.
“Yeah, sure. Coach is annoyed.” Jake jogged to the stands, where a group of boys clustered around a broad-shouldered man. Coach Dustin.
Fletcher ran over, stifling a yawn. These weird dreams were doing his head in. Just this morning, he could have sworn he’d seen something off the roadside on the school bus ride – an enormous shadow following him. He had been freaked out enough to go to the hippy bookstore, but not stupid enough to tell his parents or visit the school psychologist. It made him dread sleep, knowing the bear would be there.
“Fletcher, you got a problem?”
Fletcher started, sha
king his head. “No, sir.” He had no idea what Dustin had just said. Damn it.
“Then you won’t mind running ten laps.”
Fletcher gritted his teeth. “No, sir.” He dropped his backpack and headed for the track field. Great, his layups would never improve at this rate.
Each silent lap was interrupted by reverberating impacts for twenty seconds or so as he passed the basketball court. Sweat dribbled onto his eyelashes. He flicked his head to clear the droplets without breaking stride. It felt good just to run. On the court, you had to be hyper-aware of everything, but here his mind could drift. An ancient, sacred presence. The book looked readable, despite his misgivings about the bookstore. He wondered if he’d sleep easier tonight. Maybe. He ran faster, outpacing the patches of darkness between stadium lights.
Pulling up in front of the stands, Fletcher rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Practice was over. Chugging water, Fletcher reached the knot of players as Dustin read out names for next week’s game. Fist pumps accompanied each one. Fletcher dropped onto the bench, his likely starting position. Sure enough, his name wasn’t called.
“Be on time,” Dustin muttered as he passed Fletcher, collecting the bright orange cones arranged in a logarithm curve before the hoop. Fletcher sighed. He couldn’t exactly explain why he had been late, not even to himself.
Headlights flashed through the wire, and Fletcher blinked against the glare. His Mom always came to pick him up. Someone sniggered by the cluster of bikes and Fletcher felt his neck grow hot.
He dropped into the passenger seat and the antiseptic smell of the clinic hit him instantly. He dumped his backpack next to the bundled bag of scrubs on the floor. Mom went out of her way to pick him up from practice. He shouldn’t be so ungrateful.
Turning out of the carpark, she glanced at him. “Why didn’t I see you on the court?”
“I was there, Mom. We took turns running laps, and I was last.” Another lie.
“No need to get defensive.” Her arms tensed around the wheel as they turned onto the main street. Scattered bike lights appeared behind them, bobbing in the rear-view mirror. Fletcher wondered what it would be like to ride home with them, to be part of the pack.