Green Fields: Incubation Page 2

  I never dreamed that I would be in charge of anyone or anything.

  Why, you may ask yourself now, am I still alive?

  I made a lot of stupid decisions in my life, and a single right one. Turns out, it was the only one that counts.

  Welcome to our brave, new world.

  One year ago…

  Chapter 1

  The hum of the laminar flow hood was as familiar as it was soothing. Why I noticed it now, I couldn't say. I'd spent the better part of the day in the cell culture lab, and normally I was good at tuning out the ambient noise. There was always static in the labs—the hum of electricity, the hiss of the tightly regulated air conditioning units, sometimes the clank of glass and plastic on metal as people went about their work.

  Adding the last two milliliters of medium to the sixth well of the cell culture dish, I put the pipette away and closed the dish before I allowed myself to crane my neck and look at the clock behind me. Ugh. Already after four, and I still hadn't managed to grab lunch. Normally, I wasn't that bad about keeping somewhat of a humane rhythm, but this week had been tough, and the weekend was bound to get tougher still.

  Sam wouldn't be happy with me if I worked through another weekend of fifteen-hour shifts, but the paper was due end of the month, and I was so sure that with one more round of verification, I would be able to add the new conditions to the settings, enhancing the established ones. Not the greatest breakthrough in the history of science, but cell viability had been good so far.

  Being careful not to touch anything outside the sterile hood, I got to my feet, then reached inside and grabbed the dishes I'd just finished with. In two hours the cells would be ready for splitting—just enough time for another viability count on the control group, and maybe a leftover salad from the cafeteria.

  Warm air greeted me as I opened the incubator and placed the dishes inside, then reached for the stack right next to them. Just as I took them out, the door to the lab opened, admitting Kat. She wasn’t wearing her usual white lab coat, making me guess that she was likely already leaving for the weekend. Normal people did that, I reminded myself.

  “Hey, about tonight—“ she started, then paused when she caught my blank look. “You remember? We wanted to head out and grab some drinks?”

  Ah, right. Forgetting made me feel even more like a dork than usual. I vaguely remembered telling Sam about this, but couldn’t for the life of me recall her reply. Likely ecstatic; she was the kind of girl who loved to hang out with people—any people, really.

  “Yeah, sure,” I offered, trying to sound like it had been fresh on my mind the entire time. “But I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. Sam hasn’t been feeling well for the last couple of days, and I think I should stay in with her. You know, make some chicken soup, binge watch TV. Girlfriend stuff.”

  Kat didn’t look surprised nor angry, which made me wonder if she’d already checked in with my significant other in question.

  “That sounds like a great idea. Besides, Peter and Al called earlier. They can’t come along, either. Both caught that bug, too.”

  I wanted to bristle at the sheer fact that a fellow scientist would call the latest, yet-to-be-diagnosed strain of influenza “that bug,” but let it slide. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been guilty of the same before. Like yesterday morning when I’d tried to shoo Sam out of her studio and back into bed.

  “It’s probably for the best,” I supplied helpfully. “I’m not sure I want to spend the evening out when everyone around me is coughing up phlegm.”

  “Sounds too much like work?” Kat joked, but it was a lame attempt at humor at best. Normally she could do much better.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, suddenly aware that Kat herself didn’t look too good. Part of me wanted to slowly inch away from her, but it was a stupid reaction, borne from too many epidemiology classes in college. If Sam hadn’t managed to be my Typhoid Mary, just being in the same room with Kat wouldn’t change a thing. Plus, the entire cell culture lab had stellar ventilation, even outside of the workspaces.

  “I’m not feeling too awesome myself,” she admitted, then barked a short laugh. It turned into a coughing fit, and now I did back away, but only so I could grab a few paper towels from the sink and hand them to her. “Thanks. I don’t think it’s really that virus they keep talking about on the news. Likely just a normal head cold.”

  “You should still get that checked out.”

  It was Friday, after all. Spending the weekend sick if it could be avoided by popping some pills would be a shame. I’d bumped into her way too many Sundays to ignore that her schedule was as insane as my own.

  “And running a ninety-nine percent risk of certain exposure at the doctor’s office? No, thank you!” she retorted, then cleared her throat. “How long have you been shut in here? They were running a new bulletin just now in the news. They’re advising people to stay home now, if possible. There’s even some talk about imposing a curfew. This is more serious than the average flu epidemic.”

  And more with the name calling. I shook my head, trying to appear at ease, even if that warning disturbed me more than I wanted to let on.

  “Have they finally found out what it is? The return of the big H1N1 scare? Bird flu out to kill us all? The mega pandemic?”

  “You really shouldn’t joke about this,” Kat reprimanded me, but couldn’t help herself as she cracked a smile. “Just because the media sensationalizes everything doesn’t mean it’s not killing us off.”

  “Have there been any confirmed deaths yet?”

  Not that it would be very telling. Influenza was still a leading cause of death in many demographics. It certainly killed more people each year than boating accidents. Or sharks.

  “I haven’t seen any believable numbers yet,” Kat admitted. “But it’s likely just a head cold.”

  I wondered if she was more self-aware than she let on, but I refused to let that send me into panic mode. I still remembered my third year of college all too well. Every lump I’d found in my body—and there had been a lot of poking and prodding involved—had had me convinced that I was a day away from dying of cancer. And look at me now—I was still around, still kicking.

  “Why don’t you head home and for once do what the doctors prescribe? Just vegging out in front of the TV for a couple of days doesn’t sound like the end of the world to me.”

  “You’re probably right,” she conceded. “Have a nice weekend! And don’t stay too long. If they really do impose that curfew, you don’t want to remain locked in here, right?”

  “Not if I can avoid it,” I muttered, all too aware that this sounded exactly like my weekend plans. “You, too!” I called after her.

  She smiled and left me to get back to doing some actual work.

  Light pain whispered up my spine as I sat down at the microscope and got everything ready for counting the viability of my cells. Two years ago, working ten hours in one go had felt less of a Herculean effort than it did now, but I was determined to wrap this up before I let myself have a treat. Losing five minutes to gossip just now was bad enough. Maybe some coffee later. Coffee sounded good. To my rumbling stomach, anything sounded good right now.

  Ten seconds in, I decided that I should cut myself some slack and get the coffee before I fell right off my stool, not afterward. Either my eyes were too tired to focus properly, or the ocular was seriously screwed up, and considering my pay grade, I hoped it was not the latter. After making sure that exhaustion-caused sloppiness hadn't turned me into a director of cellular genocide, I put the cell culture dish back where it belonged and pulled off my latex gloves. I washed and dried my hands thoroughly, redid my ponytail as several red strands had come loose, and shrugged into my lab coat before I left the lab. Our techs had likely left the building already, and no one would think that I'd accidentally forgotten to shut off the hood. Then again, I couldn't remember a Friday when I had left before everyone else in the entire city went out for drinks, so the chance of that happe
ning was slim in the first place.

  My phone chirped just as I reached for the door handle, making me pause. Fumbling to get it out of my pocket, I checked the screen, making sure I was still alone before I swiped the text message open.

  You still at work? What a silly question, of course you are.

  I bit my lip, trying hard to hide a smile as I typed my response.

  You know me. No rest for the wicked.

  It only took a moment for the reply to appear.

  Are you up for some distraction later?

  I waited for the customary twinge of guilt to appear, but it was more muted than the last time. On some level I still hated myself for this, but it got harder to care every single time. What that said about me I really didn’t want to think about.

  Always.

  But just thinking of how he looked at me—his smile, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes—made me abandon all reservation. And the fact that he fucked like a Trojan didn’t hurt, either.

  Yup, I was going straight to hell, that was for sure. While my girlfriend was home sick, I was ready to drop everything so I could sneak out to hook up with some guy I’d met in a park a couple of weeks ago.

  Bree, thy name is classy.

  Shrugging, I deleted the message thread as I stepped out of the cell culture lab. With my mind sinking into a perpetual haze of horniness, I might as well grab that coffee now. And maybe a donut.

  The corridors were almost deserted, but with my mind hell-bent on getting caffeinated as soon as possible, I doubted that I would have noticed a stampede coming my way, as long as it didn't block my route. Avoiding the main staircase, I walked three doors down and took the smaller one that would lead me to the front right corner of the atrium where the coffee and soda vending machines resided. Sure, the coffee bar in the cafeteria served something that might once have seen an actual coffee bean compared to the brown sludge that these machines spewed out, but I had just enough change in my pocket for that, and it would save me what felt like a mile of walking to the other side of the complex.

  After all, I had to conserve my energy for other activities.

  Convenience dictated that most days I entered and left the complex through one of the side doors, but I loved swinging by the glass cathedral that was the atrium of the Green Fields Biotech complex. Designed to be both awe-inspiring and the representative opposite of the rabbit warrens of the actual labs, it still held that sleek kind of functionality inherent to many buildings designed in the late nineties of the last century. Like a central hub, corridors led everywhere from the atrium, and more often than not it was the shortest connection to swing by the open-sided glass galleries lining the floor on three sides. Opposite the bank of elevators—also made of as many translucent materials as possible—was the grand entrance, right now letting the warm afternoon sunlight in.

  Any other day I might have paused to marvel at the architectural masterpiece, but my mind was on autopilot and led me straight to my fountain of ambrosia—the coffee vending machine. A little fiddling with the controls later, I held the scalding hot plastic cup in my hands, feeling as triumphant as marathon runners had to be after finishing their race. Not that I had the first clue about running. Since high school I hadn’t even owned a pair of shoes suited for it. Clogs were much better suited for lab work.

  Once I'd downed the better half of the cup, I became more open to let the impressions of my environment work on me, so I turned around and looked out over the open floor of the atrium. Although it was late for a Friday and most people had already left, there was a small group by the elevators, probably waiting for the second, larger group momentarily held up at the security checkpoint.

  The tall, thin man in the somewhat unfortunately fitting suit I only knew by reputation, but his nickname preceded him well into the corridors of the labs where he, as part of the administrative staff, seldom ventured. I'd never call Brandon Stone “Scarecrow” to his face, but I couldn't deny that it was a rather fitting moniker.

  The primly dressed woman beside him was notorious, though, both because she was the highest earning female employee—of course also working for the administration, none of the lab rats got paid that much—and for her infamous sexual harassment training courses. As the head of human resources, Elena Glover was a legend, if one most people tried to avoid. Personally, I'd much rather spend another hour with her than the second man currently wearing a smile that was as fake as his suit was perfectly tailored.

  Unlike his father, co-founder of Green Fields Biotech and renowned scientist Walter Greene, Gabriel Greene hadn't accomplished anything in his life, except maybe to impregnate half of the female administrative staff, as rumor had it. He looked as perfectly put together as the atrium around him, only that the building served a purpose, and he did not. Why the board still kept him on I didn't know, besides providing Elena with a never-ending supply of women to subject to her lectures. The last time I'd spent an elevator ride with him I'd felt in dire need of a shower afterward, stronger than any urge even when I'd been working down in the hot labs. Thankfully, his attention was focused on the arriving guests now, and he didn't even glance at where I was trying to enjoy my coffee.

  Done with scrutinizing our team yet loath to quit people watching—my favorite excuse for my lack of social interaction at work—I turned to the visitors next.

  The group was comprised of seven people, including two women who stood out, although both for very different reasons. The first could have been a ten-year-younger version of Elena, if Elena had ever jumped on the fitness crazy train. She was tall, reed thin, and dressed in a light beige power suit, but the way she moved spoke of strength and energy where most women with her stature were willowy husks. Her stiletto heels made the toned muscles of her calves even more noticeable, but it was easy to tear my eyes away from them when she glanced my way and I got a good look at her features. Her face was all hard angles, with piercing blue eyes and a perfectly coiffed, platinum-blonde pixie cut. I couldn't help but instantly dub her the Ice Queen, because if that woman was lacking anything, it was warmth.

  The other female was the polar opposite of her. Short and kind of compact, “cute” was likely the best she could hope for, but her inquisitive eyes and slight smile transformed her face into something worth noticing. Long, dark hair and olive complexion only added to her approachability, even more so when she came to a halt next to the Ice Queen. Like me, she was wearing jeans, a tee peeked out from under her hoodie, and the way she clutched the bulging laptop bag slung across her chest made me think “geek.” Considering that the T-shirt I was wearing fell firmly in the “science nerd humor” category, I guessed that said a lot about who of the two I'd rather talk to, if that was even an option.

  The men of the group were altogether less noticeable. Most of them were of medium height and build, if more on the fit side of the spectrum, but when you hung out all day with scientists, it was easy to forget that there were people out there who actually thought that working out had any priority in life. All of them were dressed in the typical corporate gimp suits, and not a single hair was allowed to grow too long, or, God forbid, have its own way and stand up in the wrong direction. I'd never really been one to judge people by their hairdo, but even I had a limit where blandness turned into boring.

  Finishing my coffee, I turned back to the machine, and without much further hesitation went for a refill.

  Or tried to, as the machine graciously accepted the quarters I fed into it, but refused to gush its pseudo-caffeinated goods into my provided cup. It apparently took more than a multi-million dollar yearly budget to be able to afford regular machine maintenance.

  More to vent my frustration than expect positive results, I smashed the flat of my hand above the control panel, only to be rewarded with dull pain radiating up my arm. Considering how many times I'd been driven to the same maneuver before, it could at least have left a small dent. Either that, or like any sentient animal I could have learned from the experience an
d instead hunted down a different vending machine.

  “I don't think that in the history of vending machines that has ever yielded results,” a deep voice remarked to my right, startling me.

  “But it can be very therapeutic,” I ground out, then paused. Heck, I knew that voice, and it so did not belong here.

  A quick glance to my side revealed that, yes, I wasn’t that overworked that I had already progressed to auditory hallucinations, but Nate was, indeed, standing next to me, his usual, easy smile on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” And dressed like that, I wanted to add, but swallowed the remark as the fact that he clearly belonged to the group of visitors gave me my answer.

  But it did not explain the message he’d sent me all of five minutes ago.

  “Work,” he offered, then his smile dipped into a register that did unholy things to the lower half of my body. “Maybe pleasure, later.”

  Not for the first time, I wondered why someone like him wanted to hang out with someone like me—and by “hang out,” I of course didn’t just mean have coffee.

  That we were different kinds of people was obvious from the way he dressed. And moved, I mentally added, as he stepped around me smoothly, fed coins into the money-hungry machine, and effortlessly made it work its magic. He even got my usual choice of coffee right—black, no sugar, no anything that someone insane thought could be a substitute for cream. To top it all off, he reached for the cup and held it out to me.

  “Ha, ha, very funny,” I replied, but washed my momentary ire away with a gulp of coffee.

  Maybe I was feeling guiltier than I thought, because just standing here with him gave me all kinds of mixed feelings. He just didn’t belong here, and while I doubted that anyone seeing us together would make the connection—me in my lab coat, him with the clearly visible visitor’s pass attached to his suit jacket—it still rubbed me the wrong way.