On attempts one and two, minor defects in the individual particles had accumulated as more and more of their number were bound together in a protein crystal, and the result was a catastrophic divergence from the Stovolsk samples.
Setting the case down on the countertop and opening it up, Mistelann bit his lip as he placed both sets of samples in the spectrograph. The machine whirred as it got to work, conducting its multiphase diffraction-scattering analysis.
Now came the waiting. The agonizing waiting. They were filled with tension, made all the more unbearable by the incessant muzak.
Please work, he thought.
Without doubt, this was the finest moment of Mistelann’s career, which was saying something, considering his career had begun with turnips.
Odesnk was cold and miserable. This was something Dr. Skorbinka would never forget. If you went far enough north and west on the Daxonian continent, the weather would try to kill you, and your plants, too. The Odenskaya winter somehow managed to be both freezing and muddy at the same time.
It was Hell on earth.
To survive, all the most important crops grew at least partially underground. Potatoes gave vodka and bread. Turnips gave coffee, vegetables, and sadness. Together, the two tubers powered survival. Mistelann’s father had been a coffee farmer, as had his father, and his father before him. The western reaches of his lonely motherland was a morass of peninsulas and winding fjords. The coffee lands were in the southwest, near Bospupo—his mother’s hometown. As Odenskaya coffee was made from a turnip, rather than a bean, it was not true coffee. But it did not need to be true coffee to be amazing, and amazing it was: it was a truly spectacular example of convergent evolution. The coffee turnip concentrated caffeine and other bitter, pungent volatiles in its tuber-root to ensure that no animal would ever dare dig it up.
He remembered his father’s words: “Only bite into a coffee turnip if you want to know what it is like for an onion to shit in your mouth.”
Mistelann’s wandering thoughts were brought back into order as the spectrograph chimed, signaling the completion of its analysis. A moment later, the spectrographic data popped onto the screen of the console mounted on the workstation.
Mistelann skimmed down to the all important number at the bottom of the readout:
Divergence Coefficient: 0.75.
“Fuck!” Mistelann snapped.
It was worse than before!
He kicked the cabined beneath his workstation, rattling the machinery.
“Back to drawing board,” he muttered.
“Alright, ALICE,” he said, “show current mycophage macromolecular model on Printer 2. Again.”
The image on the console screen changed back to the molecular model of the viral particle Mistelann had inputted into the Mark 3.
“Zoom out,” he said.
The image re-scaled itself, revealing a magnificent icosahedral shape. The twisted, rambling molecules that made up the viral capsid gave the mycophage’s exterior the texture of nanoscale mountains.
“Time to try a different approach,” he muttered.
What would it be this time? Building the nucleic acids in conjunction with the capsid glycoproteins?
There were so many possible combinations!
Mistelann groaned. His head throbbed.
And then, things got worse: a soft tone sounded through the room as the doors opened.
He had company.
The combined effects of nicotine withdrawal, exhaustion, sheer frustration, and an NPF-20 infection meant that Mistelann simply didn’t have the willpower to contain his rage, which spilled out of him like the boyars of old.
Because the intruder was wearing a hazmat suit, Mistelann couldn’t tell who had dared to enter the lab—but, at the moment, he didn’t care. Turning to face the intruder, Mistelann roared in his native tongue: “Get the fuck out of here! I’m trying to save the fucking world!”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“I know, Dr. Skorbinka, I know,” Ani said, in Trenton. “Well, actually, I don’t—I don’t speak Odenskaya—but I knew that you’d be pissed off at me for coming down here even after you told us you wanted to be left alone but—”
Mistelann groaned. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair, but he couldn’t because he was in PPE, and the gloves he was wearing were so thick, he was pretty sure he could garrote somebody just by wrapping his hands around their neck and squeezing tight.
“—Please, Dr. Lokanok,” he said, in Trenton, “apologies can come after we are dead. What is it? What do you want?” Mistelann spoke in a low, almost monotone voice. He had a feeling that yelling again would make the inside of his throat bleed, or whatever.
Dr. Lokanok looked down at the ground. “Can I be honest with you?”
Mistelann narrowed his eyes. “If you are not, I will strangle you with glove.” He pointed at his hand.
She looked him in the eyes.
Mistelann could see crying behind her big, circular spectacles.
“So…” she said, her voice breaking, “my parents have the Green Death, and they’re dying. Itay…” She sniffled, her lips quivering. “My dad has lost his memories. At first, he didn’t recognize me, but then he did, only he thinks I’m still a kid.”
Whatever was left of Mistelann’s rage, Ani’s words had extinguished it, leaving him feverish and dry and filled with dread.
“Fuck…” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Ani said, nodding in agreement. “So, uh… I… I know you wanted to work alone, Mistelann, but… I’m going to. And there’s… uh… there’s nothing you can say to change my mind. Nope.” Ani crossed her arms and shook her head. “Not a thing.” She bit her lip. “I might just be turning into Genneth—maybe that’s what happens when you’re infected with a Type Three NFP-20 infection,” she mumbled, “but… I need to do something.”
Mistelann sighed. “I am nervous to like Howle Genneth,” he said, shaking his head. “He is too likable. Too… earnest. Day before yesterday, I tried killing myself, but…” he shuddered. “…Dr. Howle stopped me. Worse, I told him my big ugly secret, and he was understanding.”
“He can have that effect on people,” Ani said.
Mistelann turned away, to face his work-station. “I am infected, Dr. Lokanok. Type One. I do not want others here. Not only will they be distraction, they will maybe get infected, too, and I do not want to be remembered for spreading infection.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I just want to do one good thing, Ani. Something worth being remembered for.”
“Mistelann, I… I didn’t…” Ani shook her head and made the Bond-sign. “By the Angel.”
“Angel has nothing to do with it,” Mistelann replied. “Angel is dangerous idea that cause too much trouble.”
“You’re an atheist, I take it?” Ani asked.
“No, I am realist,” Mistelann replied. He teetered in place, feeling like he was about to pass out and puke at the same time. “God is dead, and we have killed Him. But, we also made Him in first place because we have many insecurities, so… it is wash, as they say.“
Ani’s footsteps echoed softly on the vinyl floor. “So…” she said, letting the word drag out.
Dr. Skorbinka turned around. Not only was Dr. Lokanok still there, she was standing even closer to him than before. Close enough to see the molecular models on the console screen.
“You have death wish, Dr. Lokanok?” he asked her.
“Yep.” Biting her lip, she nodded. “That’s why I’m in here with you. I mean… it’s better to do something than nothing, right?”
Mistelann sighed. His throat was like fire, and the feeling of his breath passing through his throat was like fire on top of fire.
“Do you have any experience with matter printer configuration, molecular spectrography, or tertiary or quaternary stages of protein synthesis?” he asked.
Ani nodded. “Surprisingly enough, yes, I do.”
Mistelann stared at her blankly. He moaned. “Remember what I said about gloves, strangulation and lying?”
Ani shook her head. “I’m serious. Before I got hired at WeElMed, I was doing work with pharmacokinetics research at the Cartin Center. We did spectral analysis to determine inhibition factors and distinguish prodrugs from their metabolically active forms. And,” she added, “though I haven’t done anything in molecular biology since medical school, I still remember the basics. Exons go in, introns go out, and all that.” Dr. Lokanok smiled. “Jonan makes very high-brow small talk.”
Mistelann stared warily at her. “Dr. Lokanok,” he said, “you and Derric Jonan are match made in Paradise. Both of you are very scary.”
Ani’s smile strengthened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She walked up to Mistelann’s work-station and stood beside him. “So,” she said, “how’s it going with the mycophage?”
He told her as much as he could as briefly as he could. When he finished, her expression dropped—but only a little.
“Sounds very frustrating.”
Mistelann let out an agonized cough. “You have no idea.” He glanced up at the security camera jutting down from the corner of the ceiling. “Ask ALICE to play security footage. You will hear and see all of my drama.”
Then Ani saw the data read-out on the work-station’s console, and her expression dropped even more.
“Your current divergence coefficient was 0.75. What was it before that?” she asked.
“Last time was 0.41,” Mistelann said.
“What were you doing differently?”
“Order of compound synthesis was reverse of what it was in third trial,” he said.
They talked over the problem for a bit, and then, out of nowhere, Dr. Lokanok proved herself a genius.
Or, rather, Mistelann thought, she proves me fool.
“Why not construct the nucleic acids and the amino acids in separate printers?” she suggested. “Then you can send the products to Printer 2 to be assembled as the full viral particle? Use the matter printers as substitutes for the chaperone proteins.”
Mistelann put his hands on Ani’s shoulders in a display of spontaneous affection. “Dr. Lokanok, if I was not infected and you were not with boyfriend, I would kiss you!” He turned away and let out another cough.
“Why did I not think of this?” he said.
It felt like flaming brambles were growing in his chest.
“ALICE,” he said, “do what smart lady said, and then send test samples to vapor distillation module for crystallization.”
“Yes, Dr. Skorbinka.”
The machinery on the printing room floor hummed as it came to life.
Mistelann staggered over to the nearest chair and collapsed in it. Darkness closed in on the edges of his vision.
“Now, we—”
—But then Mistelann lost consciousness, and he could do no more.