“Yes, he was pounding at the door. Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”
“Someone you knew, ma'am?” Implication: boyfriend?
“No, not really. He was a guy who tried to get in to see me at my office in Tallahassee last week. Said his name was Ronald Fleck. I had no idea he'd trailed me all the way here to Louisiana. I have no idea what he wants.”
“Did he threaten you in any way?”
“No.”
“Is everything okay now?”
“Yes. Wait. No! He said he'd wait for me in the lobby!”
“I'll keep an eye out for him. What does he look like?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. My assistant ran him off at the office before I ever saw him. Tonight, I called downstairs, which got him to leave, before I got close enough to look through the peephole. I do know he has a deep voice and a Midwestern accent, though.”
The rent-a-cop rolled his eyes. He assured her that he’d be around the hotel all morning; she should definitely call again if he bothered her.
Definitely. That was unhelpful.
Out loud, she said, “Thank you,” and shut the door behind him.
VI.
Best Laid Scheme
Tim Schneider finished his daily morning run and let himself back into the apartment.
Sam immediately approached him, arms out, but Tim adroitly side-stepped. “I'm disgusting, let me shower,” he said, slipping into the bathroom of their one-bedroom luxury apartment and swiftly closing and latching the door. Sam, left alone in the living room, immediately stripped naked, picked up the baggie of white powder resting on the glass and steel coffee table, and began to cut it into thin lines on a black-lacquer-framed mirror. He picked up a cut straw and was about to snort, when the heady odor of Dolce and Gabbana men's cologne wafted under the bathroom door suspended in whisps of steam. He closed his eyes and savored it instead.
Out stepped the cruel love of his life, naked and gleaming with moisture, his wet dark hair slicked back, the barest trail of hair down his chest and belly.
“Your phone’s been blowing up.”
Tim glanced at it, snorted, “DD again. She can wait.” He tossed his wet hair, raining a drizzle of cool drops on Sam’s face that weakened his knees. Sam was pathetic, he admitted it; he had a weakness for anything intoxicating, like Tim’s beauty, or cocaine. He put his hand over the bruise on his own ribs. Tim was disgusted by the slightest blemish or mark, even if he was the one who had inflicted it.
“Whoa! Take it easy!” Tim said. “That coke has to last us! How much did you do while I was gone?” His brown eyes glittered with resentment.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Sam said. “Don't be mad at me!” He got up from the sleek Nigel Coates settee and put his hand soothingly on Tim’s forearm.
“Fuck you!” Tim said, twisting his wrist out of Sam's grip and flinging him face down on the thick wool rug. Sam arched and struggled. Tim grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to a kneeling position. Tears ran from Sam’s eyes…
Tim stood up as soon as he regained control after coming. He picked up the mirror and had a small toot in each nostril, then picked up the baggie and swept the remaining lines into the bag with the razor blade. Sam reclined on the floor watching him, sniffling, red-eyed still from weeping and gagging, but still full of irrational adoration.
“I don't see why you're so cheap with that stuff. It's not like you actually earn the money to pay for it,” Sam said. He didn’t know how Tim had the nerve to embezzle the way he did and still look his boss in the face every day. Sam admired Tim’s courage, cleverness, and self-discipline. He knew he, himself, would have been arrested within days, due to his transparent fear of getting caught.
“You have no idea what I do to earn that money!” Tim said. “You think it's easy posting all the expense disbursements and invoice payments so they balance and don't show the missing cash transfers? There's not one person in a hundred who could understand what I do, much less do it!”
“...and that's why you'll never get caught. I know, I know.”
Tim pinched the zip lock with his fingers, sliding them crisply three times to be sure. “Plus: I have to put up with that arrogant bitch DD. She was going on again yesterday about how we have such a great 'working rapport'. She gets the credit and I get the shit work, and the shit pay. As if I actually even gave a fuck about her stupid bacteria! If it weren't for me keeping her data files straight, she'd look like an idiot.”
“Don’t be so mean. If it weren’t for her, would Amrencorp be paying us to move to Houston?”
“It IS nice to finally get out of redneck Tallahassee. But who knows what Amrencorp’s lab purchasing system is like? I’ve only just started digging around in their computers today, when she messaged me the passwords. I’ve never even worked in a big private corporation before.”
He turned and bore down on Sam, looming over him, warming to his topic, lecturing, “I do know, let me remind you, that the Sinopec people aren’t interested in buying any more of DD’s cultures. It may be a few months until I can figure out how to work around Amrencorp’s accounting systems, and until I do, we won't have any income above my salary— and whatever job you get.”
“I have four interviews scheduled when I get to Houston after visiting my sister.”
“The point is, we are going to be short on cash. So: go easy on that snow!”
“I know.” Sam sighed contritely. Playtime over. “What time do you want to leave tomorrow?” He knelt and reached for his boxers.
“I thought we’d pick up the rental car around two,” Said Tim. “I can spend the morning learning more about the Amrencorp system.”
“That system will be your little bitch!” Sam grinned gleefully, sidling up to Tim.
“We’ll see about that.” Tim waved him off. “Then we can be at your sister’s in Atlanta by dinnertime, and I can catch my flight to Jupiter the next morning to see my mother.”
“Ah, yes, Mommie Dearest.”
“She’s really upset that I’m leaving Florida. You’d think Houston was a million miles away, the way she acts!”
“Well, you are her little Timmy!” taunted Sam, sticking out his tongue, frisking into the apartment’s one bedroom, and as Tim, piqued, started after him, he slammed the door in Tim’s face.
VII.
Not Candid Camera Either
Great. My big presentation is today and I’m short on sleep. She cast a
wistful eye at the bed No point at all in lying back down after that.
She started the coffeepot and bent over the bathroom counter, grimacing at the dark circles under her eyes. She attempted a smile, unimpressively, gave up, and jumped in the shower. There, she had a little time to think about her unwelcome visitor. Recruiters in the sciences weren’t commonly so aggressive. She’d heard friends in the computer sciences, in Silicon Valley, tell stories about forceful headhunters like this, but microbiology? In Louisiana? Not so much. The warm water streamed through her hair and steamed open the inside of her head. She scrubbed her face and rinsed the sleep out of her eyes. Finally, she stepped onto the hotel-towel bathmat, buffed her hair and body dry, and set to applying her makeup. Rituals calmed her, and like most women, she had a routine that defined the start of her day.
My eyes are puffier than I’d expect, even given the sleep debt. She blended concealer with her fingertips, then poured the first cup of coffee and set it to cool. Focus on the talk. I am amazing and enchanting. I am brilliant and confident. Eyeliner. Smudge. Q-tip, corrected. The data are perfect. The technology will be a step beyond anything used before. Just have to convey how excited you are, then let the data speak for itself. Lipstick. Blot. Smile. Not too much. Confident smile! Powder brush. Light mascara. Scientist, not bimbo. But this is the South.
The cup of coffee was now perfect drinking temperature. She gulped it and poured another. The caffeine began to leach into her brain as she dressed in a grey blazer and skirt, white blouse, and flat black pumps. String of
pearls and pearl stud earrings. KelTec clipped inside the waistband, looking like an insulin pump or cell phone clip. She walked up and down the room, swinging her arms, flexing her toes inside her shoes, breathing deeply. Ready!
She looked at the clock. Sighed. It's still only 6:53. I don’t speak until 8:00. I could have used another hour of sleep. There’s free breakfast in the lobby. She took two steps toward the door and hesitated. But that guy Fleck said he’d wait for me.
She logged into her laptop and. She stuck in the thumb drive and flipped through her slides. She sipped a second cup of coffee, more leisurely. There was a rough spot on the thumb drive’s silver casing; it must have been scratched by keys or something in her purse. Everything on the slides looked great. The clock said just 7:06.
Well, what the hell! I might as well get it over with and find out what he wants, in a public place. I need to eat a little protein so I don’t get shaky.
She left the loop lock engaged and cracked the door slightly open, glancing through and listening for Fleck. No sign of him; she shut the door, flipped the metal loop, and opened the door all the way. She leaned out into the empty hall and looked both ways, then stepped out, clicked the door shut behind her, and scuttled to the elevator.
In the deserted lobby restaurant, she’d her choice of tables and first pick at the buffet. A bored-looking clerk tapping at a keyboard at reception was the only person in sight.
A waitress offered more coffee, but DD switched to water. I could stand to be more alert, but any more coffee and my hands might shake. She got some eggs and whole-wheat toast and sat down to eat.
Of course, once her mouth was full, Fleck materialized, right on cue. “Dr. Davis.” Beige trench coat, grey eyes. Sandy blond hair, receding at the hairline. His build was medium. His colorless, nondescript looks fit right in with the featureless accent she’d come to know.
“Mr. Fleck.” DD barely acknowledged him. She scooped eggs into her mouth and chewed steadily. She gazed at a space about a foot above and behind Fleck’s head. After swallowing, she sipped her water.
Fleck broke the silence. “May I?” I win.
“Go ahead.” DD nodded at the empty chair across from her. He sat.
“Dr. Davis, I represent a group which has great interest in the work you are doing.”
“Your firm has unusual recruiting techniques.”
He sat up straight, and his expression and breathing changed. He’s not a recruiter? Don’t tell me he’s selling lab supplies. But he definitely didn’t seem like a salesman either.
“Actually, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
No shit. “Oh, really?”
“My group has a contract with TERI. We are aiding them in the investigation of an oil rig collapse in the Bohai Bay, off the coast of China.”
“The Energy and Resource Institute?” A well-reputed environmental NGO. “And?”
“We would like to access your cultures to see if they match the bacterial species found in that collapse.”
Do I look like I was born yesterday? “I’m sorry, those cultures are proprietary. I held the patents until last week, when I transferred them to my new employer, Amrencorp. All the cultures are now at my lab in Houston,” she lied.
“I couldn’t give you access even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.” Firmly.
Another abrupt energy change, with body language to match. He settled back, and his face went blank. If DD were green and guileless, she’d have instinctively leaned forward to recapture his interest. She didn’t.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Davis,” said Fleck, abruptly standing.
He’d been easier to get rid of than she’d expected, which led her to believe he’d turn up again. Her mouth was dry and she felt a little queasy. Nerves. She breathed deeply as she watched Fleck walk out the front door of the hotel. What does he want? Surely the story about an oil rig collapsing is a ruse? I can look it up online later, I guess. She breathed deeply, calming herself before signing her breakfast chit and heading down the hall to locate her meeting room. Once there, she was glad to have something to do: she fiddled with her projector and microphone until she was sure everything was working right.
VIII.
The Windup. The Pitch!
“Bioremediation.” Her first slide said BACKGROUND.
“Until Viswanathan won his Supreme Court patent case in 1980, the idea of using Obligate Hydrocarbonoclastic Bacteria to clean up oil spills at an industrial scale was just a dream.” Her second slide showed a big, blobby-looking “OHCB,” which then turned animated and began swimming around the screen, gobbling up black dots and splotches Pac-Man style. Forty men and three women in boring dark suits sat at cloth-covered tables, some with pads out to take notes, but most steepling their hands or sipping coffee drawn from the urn in the back of the room.
“These organisms, which destroy oil, are naturally-occurring bacteria. They live in areas of natural oil seepage and they have been subsisting on the hydrocarbons there for millions of years.” Diagram of an underwater oil deposit seeping through the ocean floor.
“These organisms compete with one another for survival and multiply dramatically whenever a big ‘bubble’ of oil reaches the ocean floor.” A slide showing three micrographs which appeared in succession: one with ten bacteria, one with 100, and one in which the bacteria occupied the whole circle of the picture. The slide captured their eyes; DD figured it would; that’s why she’d picked the false-color images with lots of bright yellows and oranges.
It had taken her hours to dumb down this presentation. She’d dragged several non-scientist friends out to lunch and shown it to them. Once their eyes stopped glazing over, she figured she’d gotten it right. Not that these people were stupid, but they were not scientists. They were the executives who would decide the fate of her new technology and the future of her career.
They sat erect, fidgeted, and frowned at the next slide: the iconic satellite photo of the Deepwater Horizon leak, occupying a big fraction of the Gulf of Mexico. That photo had been on the evening news every day for months and the resulting legal fallout cost and was still costing the unlucky oil firm, costs in the billions of dollars. “During the Deepwater Horizon spill, dispersants were sprayed on the oil.”
A simple chart was next: bacterial population versus dispersant concentration. A line sloping down. “The dispersants used were toxic to the naturally-occurring OHCBs living in the Gulf. In other words, the solutions we applied made the oil closest to the surface stick around longer.”
An underwater photo of a plume of oil, spiraling into the darkness of the depths. She paused for a moment to allow the audience to spot the two divers near the laser dot from her pointer: one adjacent to the plume and the other in the foreground but still tiny, and to comprehend from the perspective how massive the plume had to be. “At deeper levels, where the dispersants could not reach, my colleagues and I were able to test and monitor the bacteria levels. We were searching for the bacterial species that is most capable of dissolving the most oil, the most quickly.”
A cartoon of a bacterium holding a trophy. “And the winner was…pseudomonas putida. This bacterium can break down 30% more oil in a 24-hour period than the next-fastest organism.”
A dark blue slide, entitled, Problems. Bullet points appeared one by one as DD listed them: “The problems with this OHCB are that: it has a narrow temperature range at which it can thrive; it is extremely vulnerable to the toxic effects of dispersants like Corexit; and it is vulnerable to ultraviolet light, confining it to deeper plumes and seeps.”
A new slide showed the twined strands, like strings of pearls, of colonies of a different bacterium. “Enter Alkinivorax borkumensis. This is the most common hydrocarbon-degrading bacterium in the world, existing in 80% of the planet’s oceans. Due to its resilience in different temperatures and conditions, it out-competes the other OHCBs in most ecosystems. This bacterium is a survivor.”
Another slide, p putida and a borku
mensis side by side. The images blurred, swirled in a psychedelic mass of color, and resolved into a new image:
“Presenting: Pseudoalkanivorax davisii!”
“This is a new species of oil-destroying microorganism. It could not have been produced using older, plasmid-based genetic engineering, or even the newer CRISPR. The technique was developed in my lab, a highly confidential technique which now, thanks to your persuasive efforts to recruit me,” pause for polite chuckle, “belongs to Amrencorp. It produced a previously-unattainable hybrid of the two organisms, cherry-picking the genes for high oil consumption from one, and for a wide range of survivable conditions from the other.”
The next slide showed three basketball-court-sized tanks of seawater, fifty feet deep, in a gargantuan hangar-like warehouse. One of the tanks was completely wrapped in a mile or so of black plastic, producing blackness within; one had a heating unit mounted on the rim, like a Brobdingnagian hobbyist aquarium; the third had banks of ultraviolet lights suspended over it. DD pointed all these things out. “Each tank was contaminated by 5% crude oil by volume: 1,056 barrels.” Photo of two workers in coveralls, standing at the top of a steel staircase on a steel platform, dumping a barrel of oil into one of the tanks, a row of barrels waiting behind them.
“A standardized culture of pseudoalkanivorax davisii was introduced.” A worker in coveralls holding a metallic hose, sort of like a pressure-washer, spraying something into a tank. The surface of the tank was mottled with black puddles of crude.
“After seventy-two hours, hydrocarbon concentrations in all three tanks had dropped below target levels.” A smiling worker, standing next to a man in a lab coat holding a clear glass beaker of only faintly cloudy water.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this means,” DD paused for effect. She had their complete attention. “Not only can we clean up spills, we can clean them up before anyone even knows they’ve happened.”
Eupocalypse Box Set Page 3