by Marita Smith
“That Fletcher kid?” Kate crossed her arms. “A bear,” she repeated lamely.
“There.” Kara tapped at the keyboard to bring up the article.
Double murder in Durham. Local professor Rob Lowman and wife Denise found dead, son Fletcher missing and feared dead. A photo of a wooden house, the clearing covered in police unspooling crime scene tape. Police are asking anyone with information to please come forward.
“Shit,” said Kate.
“Robyn’s out in these woods somewhere.” Kara pulled up a topographical map of North Carolina. “We need to figure out who’s hunting her.”
Kate nodded. “And why. Jesus, Robyn.” Kate rolled her shoulders and pulled up her chair. “Who else knows about Robyn’s research? I didn’t even know her crackpot theory until the other day.”
“She doesn’t talk to her family about her research.” Kara’s fingers sped over the keyboard. “So that leaves –”
“Yeah, her supervisor,” finished Kate. “I’m on it.”
The heady cheesy scent of pizza made her head swim, and Kara almost regretted the midnight dash to Fat Tony’s. The box lay open on the table where the congealed mozzarella caught the glare of the harsh fluorescent tubes. The basement was their space. The ops room. She and her sister built the bank of computers from scratch. Programming was easy money; the real challenge was intel. People paid a king’s ransom for the right information, and Kara and her sister were experts at finding it. For the right price.
Kara sighed. She’d spent hours working out the feasibility of routes through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, but the bear posed a problem. A big hairy one.
“Okay, I think I’m ready,” said Kate, waving with a drooping slice of salami. “Shit, you’re not going to believe this.”
Kara rested her hands on the back of Kate’s computer chair. “The supervisor?”
“Yeah, Brock. His email is encrypted, but I chipped my way in. He’s been sending off weekly reports about Robyn for nearly two years.”
“Two years?” The length of Robyn’s PhD so far. Kara’s grip on the chair tightened. “What sort of stuff?”
“Lab results: pages and pages of data. Robyn’s mood, the compounds she’s doodling in her notebook. Everything. He keeps mentioning some program.”
Kara shivered. “Brock?” This was the guy with a rota of knit cardigans. Robyn looked after his cats when he went away. “Brock is spying on Robyn?”
Kate pulled up a company website crowded with lab-coated scientists in spacious laboratories. “Introducing the Mitochondrial Research Institute, or MRI, located in Washington DC.”
Kara stared at the screen as her sister continued. The idea that some man was watching Robyn made her sick to her stomach. Now she did regret the pizza; she didn’t want to taste it again on the way back up.
“Ostensibly, the MRI is a non-profit organisation funding research into genetic diseases. Registered six years ago, it provides nominal quarterly returns, and just quietly exists.” Kate guided her slice into her mouth and Kara swallowed past the bile in the back of her throat.
“What has this got to do with Robyn?” Kara said. Robyn was just one student, plodding away in a shoebox lab on the edge of campus. In Australia.
Kate clicked on a page entitled Current Research Students. Five faces appeared. “Recognise anyone?”
There was a tight-lipped African-American guy, a tall blonde woman, a bespectacled, mussy-haired guy and a stern-looking Asian woman. Kara stared at the last photo.
Robyn smiled up at them, lab coat and all, with an accompanying bio about her research.
“Holy shit,” breathed Kara. “What the hell have you got yourself mixed up in?”
“We need to find out as much as we can about the others,” said Kate.
Kara looked more closely at the other four scientists, all of them strangers. “Yeah, we do.”
8
Wild
Robyn’s phone vibrated in her jeans pocket and she jerked awake. Even wearing every piece of warm clothing she’d stuffed in her backpack, she was still freezing. Fletcher was curled against Eva, a slack expression on his face. He looked toasty warm.
It was early morning, a crimson glow stealing around the edges of the cave, curls of moisture condensing in the air. Robyn dug her phone out with difficulty, the three jumpers making her movements stiff and wooden. Like a proper scarecrow, she thought with a grimace. She hated the childhood nickname.
A message from Kara listed four names:
Terence Jones, University of Edinburgh.
Catherine Heather, McGill University.
Derek Smith, Duke University.
Xiaofang Fisher, University of Beijing.
They meant absolutely nothing to Robyn. She scrolled down.
Brock is a plant – he’s monitoring your research. Head for Derek, he’s closest. Talk soon.
Robyn downloaded the military-grade map Kara had sent through, trying to commit the key points to memory while hoping her battery would last. Wishful thinking. It had a conniption at the huge file and went dark. Robyn jabbed at buttons but couldn’t coerce it to restart.
“Damn it,” she groaned.
Eva yawned, dislodging Fletcher completely. He sat up and stretched.
“Hey, I know where we’re going,” Robyn told him by way of a good morning. She so wanted Kara to be mistaken. Brock couldn’t be mixed up in all of this. For one thing, he was all the way back in Canberra. Plus, his cats would never be so trusting. The Bombay and Persian were excellent judges of character.
Fletcher watched her. His eyes were puffy. Robyn wondered if he knew, or cared. “So?”
“Duke. There’s another researcher there, like me.” At least, she hoped so. Was that what Kara meant? Robyn screwed her eyes shut, willing the map to surface. “I think we head northwest.”
“Do you know them?”
“No,” Robyn admitted. “I don’t. But my friend thinks he’s our best bet, and I trust her.”
“Those men are probably still after us, and you want to pin our safety on some stranger.” Fletcher’s level voice made Robyn’s stomach plummet.
“No, that’s not what I want. But I don’t think we have a choice. Either we stay here and get picked off eventually, or we hedge our bets with Derek.”
Fletcher turned to Eva. Robyn found their silent exchanges unnerving. “Fine,” Fletcher spat. “Eva can get us there. I’ve been there before, on a school trip.”
Stuffing clothes into her backpack, Robyn got to her feet. “How long, do you think?”
“Four days.”
“Four days?” Robyn repeated. Fletcher just nodded.
It turned out that cycling fitness didn’t equate to hiking fitness. It must have been pure adrenaline that had carried her to the cave with Eva. Robyn’s legs ached, and the straps of her backpack had worn angry red creases into her shoulders. Fletcher seemed to bounce beside Eva, the duo always ten paces ahead of her. She’d start running again, she decided. Just as soon as this was all over and she was back home. Though Canberra winters were bitter. Spring, definitely in the spring.
Fletcher turned and pointed. “There’s a stream this way,” he said in the clipped tone she’d become accustomed to over the last couple of days. Robyn nodded, picking her way down the slope behind Fletcher and Eva, keeping her distance.
It’s my fault; she wanted to say, though she didn’t understand why and doubted it would help him. My plan sucks, and I don’t have a clue what’s going on, wasn’t much better.
The water was cool and clear, and she drank until her stomach felt bloated. Exhausted, Robyn lay on the grass and watched the trees dance in the breeze.
“Hey, Robyn.”
Robyn tipped her head back, narrowing her eyes against the glare. Fletcher sat wedged on a high branch holding an orange
frisbee. Blinking, she sat up.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Fletcher waved the frisbee above his head. A stack of orange discs protruded from the trunk above him.
“Chicken of the woods. Can I throw them down to you?”
Robyn pulled the bottom of her shirt out, a makeshift net. “Sure. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”
Only one disc was obliterated, shattering into angry, soggy pieces by Robyn’s feet. The mushrooms she’d managed to catch wafted butterscotch into the air and left orange fuzz on her shirt. Fletcher shimmied down the tree, stopping to kneel at the base before returning with a handful of greenery.
“Dandelion greens,” he said, holding them aloft. “Eva says they’re good to eat.”
Taraxacum officinale. Robyn recognised the indented leaves, even though it had been a while since she’d rooted around in the garden with her mother. Too long.
Eva huffed by the stream, splashing a paw now and then.
“No fish,” Fletcher said. “But we’ll still eat well.”
The mushrooms did taste like chicken. Robyn’s mouth was watering by the time the rough skewers had cooked. The firm, pink flesh seared with charcoal filled her belly, and the bitter green leaves left a familiar tang on her tongue.
Robyn shivered in the cool night air despite her multiple layers. Fletcher and Eva shared another one of their silent glances.
“What?” Robyn sighed, tired of being the third wheel. “I wish you’d just talk to me.”
“Eva says you should sleep with us tonight.” Fletcher met her eyes, a trace of softness in his voice.
Robyn nodded, not sure if she could handle another night of cold seeping into her bones. She’d take any truce measure that involved warmth.
Eva’s thick fur against her back felt better than any sleeping bag. They slept head-to-toe against Eva’s belly, and Robyn drifted off to sleep dreaming of four other people in her laboratory, poking around and making a general nuisance of themselves. Derek. Terence. Catherine. Xiaofang.
Fletcher twitched in his sleep as the now-familiar dream overtook him. Their faces changed in a collage of time and place. Icy plains, misty forests, dark city alleyways. Fletcher blitzed through them like an old-fashioned slide projector. Click click click. Strange clothing of times long past, a cacophony of languages. Different faces, but somehow familiar. A thread of something, like spotting a friend’s face in a crowd but looking up into the eyes of a stranger when you tapped them on the shoulder. Click.
Fletcher always woke clinging to the thread of two faces: the girl with the tiny lizard and the boy hunched beneath an enormous bird of prey. They reached out toward him, calling his name.
On the third morning, Fletcher twigged. There are others, aren’t there?
Yes. There is also a walker of the air and the sea. Eva finished his thought. We must find them.
Fletcher rolled the words in his mind. Earth, air and sea. Robyn sighed in her sleep, nestled into Eva’s abdomen. Shaggy curls of caramel fur hung over Robyn’s side. Something in him had eased, though he couldn’t name it. What happened might be Robyn’s fault, but he felt certain she could help them. He didn’t have anything to go back to now.
Fletcher nudged her shoulder. “Robyn.”
She groaned and brought her knees to her chest. “Robyn,” he repeated.
Eva huffed lightly and Robyn sat up, leaning against the bear’s warm flank.
“I’m up,” she mumbled, running a hand through her hair, looking anything but awake.
“Can your science explain what’s happening between Eva and me?” Fletcher asked. He moved to the fire, blowing on the coals to coax them back into life.
Robyn stretched her arms above her head but didn’t get up. Eva began to hum, and Fletcher closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the way the sound relaxed him.
Robyn caught the brunt of it, her shoulders dropping. A vertical shaft of light flickered across her right eye then disappeared. Fletcher blinked, not sure if he’d imagined it or not.
“Maybe.” Robyn twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t know, Fletcher. To be honest, I’m still freaking out. When I came to your house, I wasn’t expecting to find this.” Robyn stroked Eva’s belly as her voice softened. “I don’t want anything to happen to you or Eva. I don’t want you to end up in some laboratory.”
Robyn flopped back against Eva.
“There are two more of us.”
Robyn’s head snapped back up. “More?”
Fletcher nodded. Air and sea, he thought.
“I promise I’ll do everything I can. It starts with finding Derek, working out who’s after you.”
Fletcher dropped more twigs on the coals. “Us,” he clarified. “The people who are after us.”
9
Derek
“What about Robyn?”
“No sign of her. We barely cleaned the scene before the local police arrived. The bodies were torn apart by animals, Brock. More than one. This new candidate is much stronger than I envisaged. Can you imagine the power his DNA could give us?”
“I’m still not convinced it’s a power we deserve, Miranda.”
“Your concern for the girl is misplaced. If the power exists, it deserves to be utilised.”
“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Don’t quote Newton at me, Brock. Nature’s laws are broken and rewritten by every subsequent generation. What we are doing is no different. Darwin, Margulis. This has existed within us for millennia, shrouded and forgotten as time marched on. You’re not a religious man, are you, Brock, I forget this.”
“No.”
“This transcends all of our limited human perception of spirits, of gods to be worshipped. These children? They hold the key inside them. We are simply taking it. They’ll remember us, Brock. It will be the beginning of a new era.”
“History is not always kind to its subjects, Miranda.”
Derek shoved the keycard into his back pocket as the door slammed shut behind him. Dusk seeped up from the ground, the trees turning a sweet auburn in the growing darkness. Derek barely noticed it; he was too busy replaying the conversation with his supervisor as he strode away from the biology department.
Haven’t you finished the target synthesis yet? Surely the genetic mapping, at least?
No.
What do you mean, no?
Not yet. I’m working as hard as I can.
Well, it’s clearly not hard enough.
The wall behind Vulcan was plastered in certificates like you see in a doctor’s surgery. Shiny frames and calligraphy glared down at Derek, a constant reminder that even if he finished his doctorate, he’d never be a real doctor. Not that he needed it – his father was reminder enough. Derek gritted his teeth. It will never be enough. Scattered data and piecemeal maps of mitochondrial genes aren’t enough. Vulcan’s close to chucking him off the program, he can feel it. The late night phone calls, the overseas trips. His supervisor was around less and less. Just like his faith in Derek’s ability.
Another disappointment.
Derek felt like screaming into the darkness. Instead, he pulled out his phone with shaking hands.
“Maria,” he said.
“Derek.” Warmth flooded her voice. “Hang on one second, Damian’s just finished dinner.”
There was a scraping noise in the background. Derek took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his free fist.
“Okay, he’s here.”
“Hey, buddy,” Derek said.
The response came as a high-pitched shriek.
Derek imagined the grin breaking out across his older brother’s face.
“I just wanted to say hi. I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit for a while. It’s been busy, which isn’t really a good excuse.”
A d
isjointed clapping sound followed a strangled gurgle.
“It’s hard, actually. Much harder than I thought it would be.” Derek sighed. “Anyway, enough about me. What have you been up to?”
The stress fell away as he listened to Damian’s burbling, punctuated now and then by loud claps. By the time he neared home, Maria’s voice came back over the line.
“Bedtime, sorry, Derek. Say goodbye, Damian.”
Another shriek.
“Goodnight, buddy, talk again soon.”
The phone fell silent. Derek closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp night air. He’d missed the sunset.
“That’s him.” Derek whirled around at the voice, feeling disoriented after talking to Damian. It was another world, where he could divine happiness and anger in a string of moans and hiccups.
“Hello?” he said into the darkness. He could just make out his apartment block on the edge of Duke Forest, well-lit and welcoming. He licked his lips. “Who’s there?” Leftover lasagne and a glass of red called his name.
The forest edge rustled and a sapling sheared onto the footpath. Derek took a step backward.
“You go first –”
“Robyn, no –”
Derek stared as two people stumbled out from the trees: a woman and a teenage boy. Derek blinked, seeing Rebecca’s face for a moment. He bit his lip as the woman stepped forward, worrying the end of a frayed shoulder strap. She had Rebecca’s dark hair, but the likeness ended there. The woman’s jeans were splattered with mud and the bridge of her nose was sunburnt. The strip of red made her dark hair stand out like the edge of an eclipse.
The unexpected rush of bitterness hit him in the gut. He hadn’t thought about Rebecca in weeks, but maybe the songs were right. Once cheated, twice shy.
“Derek Smith?” The woman stepped into the street light. Now that he could see her properly, the fleeting resemblance evaporated.
“Yes?” he managed. He wondered if he could make it to the sanctuary of the apartment complex if he turned and ran, right now.
“I need to talk to you about your research,” not-Rebecca said as she took another step toward him.