By the time I reach my apartment building, the sky in the east is turning a murky grey. Dawn, filtered through pollution, arrives with none of the usual beauty, just a gradual lightening from black to charcoal. I trudge up the stairs to my flat, every joint protesting. My small unit is cluttered with journals, old lab equipment on loan, and half-unpacked moving boxes (I only moved here six months ago to join CovTech’s project, and clearly unpacking hasn’t been a priority). I collapse onto the couch without even removing my shoes. The ceiling fan spins lazily above, pushing around the warm, stale air.
I close my eyes, intending to rest them just for a moment. Instead, visions dance behind my eyelids – I see flashes of green light and the outline of someone standing over me. In my half-dream, the figure leans in and whispers in Camila’s voice, “We’re running out of time.” I jolt awake, heart pounding. The room is empty; it’s just me and the hum of the fan. A glance at my watch tells me I dozed for nearly an hour. Not great, but it will have to do.
As I gather myself for the meeting, I scribble down one last note on a pad: Algae – luminescence pattern (3- pause -2). Reproduce? Hypothesis: communication or feedback loop? I underline “communication” twice, feeling a strange resolve solidifying in my chest. Whatever it was I witnessed tonight, I won’t ignore it. Scientific curiosity won’t let me. The world may be falling apart, and maybe I’m grasping at algae signals like a lifeline, but if there’s even a chance this could be important, I owe it to the truth – and to myself – to find out. Stuffing the note into my pocket, I head back out into the bleak morning.
Sunlight filters through the smog in a hazy, diffused glow as I arrive at CovTech’s main conference hall. The building’s solar glass façade mirrors a distorted version of the city’s skyline – a mix of gleaming high-rises and skeletal construction sites abandoned when things started to go downhill. I catch my reflection in the polished elevator doors on the way up: rumpled shirt, dark circles under my eyes, hair a disheveled mess. Not exactly the image of the brilliant young scientist Camila usually parades in front of the board. I run a hand through my hair and tuck in my shirt, trying to summon some semblance of professionalism along with a couple of memories from last night’s dreamlike events.
When I step into the conference room, I’m greeted by a blast of air conditioning and the low murmur of executives murmuring over slides. Camila is already there, orchestrating the room like a conductor before an orchestra. She stands at the head of the long table, every bit poised and radiant in a tailored suit the color of midnight. Her dark hair is swept into a loose twist, and a vibrant teal scarf (not the one she left on her chair last night – another one) cascades over her shoulders. The scarf reminds me of the algae’s glow, oddly enough, and I shake off the comparison as she spots me.
“Ah, here he is – the genius behind our breakthrough,” Camila announces warmly, waving me over. Immediately, a dozen pairs of eyes turn to me. Some board members smile, others give polite nods. I recognize a few: there’s Mr. Armand, who holds the company purse strings in his gold-ringed fingers, and Dr. Nguyen, an external advisor from the Climate Coalition. But many are new faces, likely potential investors or partners Camila has courted. I swallow the lump of anxiety rising in my throat.
Camila’s hand finds my shoulder as I reach her side. It’s a light touch, but reassuring in its own way. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr. Polo Reyes,” she says, pronouncing my name with a slight Portuguese lilt – Poh-lo Hay-ess – that somehow makes me sound far more distinguished than I feel. “He’s been working tirelessly on our algal bioremediation project. I asked him to give you an update himself. Who better to explain the science than the man in the lab coat?” She winks at me, an inside joke about how I practically live in that coat.
There’s a smattering of chuckles. I force a smile and nod to the room. My heart is hammering. Public speaking isn’t my forte; I’d rather be wrangling data or peering into a microscope. But Camila has a knack for pushing me out of my comfort zone. She believes in personal charm just as much as in data charts when it comes to winning support. And, well, this is important. Our work is important. I clear my throat and start the presentation.
As I speak, I focus on the facts – the improvements we’ve made to the algae’s efficiency at sequestering heavy metals, the integration progress of the nanobots that can guide algae to polluted hotspots like tiny shepherds. Slide by slide, I outline how our latest prototype can degrade a complex pesticide into harmless compounds. The numbers are promising: 20% faster cleanup than last quarter’s model, longer survival rates in open water, lower energy consumption for the nanobot control grid. I even manage to crack a small joke about how our algae prefer expensive French fertilizers, earning a genuine laugh from around the table.
Camila stands beside me the whole time, nodding in encouragement at each success I highlight. Her presence is a buoy, keeping me afloat. When I conclude with a summary of how this approach could be scaled to tackle something as massive as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, I see real intrigue in the board members’ eyes. Hope. It’s fragile, but it’s there. And that stirs something warm in my chest, knowing I helped kindle it.
However, the discussion that follows grows thornier. Mr. Armand leans forward, tapping a pen against his tablet. “This is excellent progress, Dr. Reyes. But what’s the timeline for deployment? Atlas Corp is already releasing their nanotech in the wild, and if it shows results, they’ll capture the market and the public narrative.”
Camila answers smoothly before I can. “We’re aware of Atlas’s activities. In fact, their haste is exactly why we must ensure our solution is safe and robust. We won’t repeat their mistakes. Our timeline prioritizes getting it right over being first.” Her tone is confident, but I detect the subtle strain underneath. The truth is, we’re under immense pressure to act quickly too. Publicly, we tout prudence; privately, Camila has been urging me to accelerate experiments for weeks.
Dr. Nguyen interjects gently, “I agree with the cautious approach. The last thing we need is a second environmental crisis caused by a rushed fix.” He gives a thin smile. “Though, to be frank, the planet might not afford us a perfect solution if a good one can come sooner.”
A debate ignites across the table. Some argue for immediate pilot releases of our algae-nanobot system in select polluted sites, to demonstrate viability and stake our claim. Others caution that an uncontrolled trial could backfire catastrophically, citing historical cases where introduced species or tech went rogue. I listen, palms growing sweaty under the table. The memory of the algae’s mysterious flashing last night comes back in stark relief. We still don’t fully grasp the complexities of these organisms we’re creating. If there is even a hint of unpredictable behavior – like what I saw – then releasing them prematurely could be dangerous.
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I catch myself clenching my jaw. Should I mention it? Now, in front of all these people? My stomach twists at the thought. No, I need more evidence first; bringing it up now would only invite skepticism or derail the meeting. This gathering is about big-picture strategy and funding, not my late-night anomaly. And so I stay quiet, swallowing the urge to blurt out my concerns.
Camila senses the tension and swiftly regains control of the conversation. “I propose a balanced path,” she says. “We continue rigorous lab testing – Polo here is leading some exciting new analyses—” she shoots me a quick secret smile, implying confidence in me I hope I can live up to, “—and at the same time, we prepare a controlled field demo. Something small-scale, fully monitored by our team, perhaps in partnership with the Climate Coalition for transparency.” She nods toward Dr. Nguyen, who appears pleased at the inclusion. “This way, we show progress and responsibility. We won’t give Atlas the narrative, but we won’t fall into their reckless approach either.”
The room buzzes with approval at Camila’s deft compromise. One by one, heads nod. Mr. Armand seems mollified by the prospect of a demo that could appease investors. The tension eases. Camila truly has a gift – turning conflict into consensus with a few well-placed words. I exhale quietly, amazed as always by how she does it. It’s manipulative, yes, but in moments like this it feels like a superpower used for good.
By the time the meeting ends, action items are assigned and optimism cautiously renewed. I field a few individual questions as people pack up – mostly technical clarifications from those who were genuinely interested rather than just money-minded. Camila watches from a polite distance, letting me have the spotlight but ready to swoop in if I falter or if someone corners me on something sensitive. Just as I’m explaining to a curious investor how the algae’s CRISPR modifications prevent it from invading native ecosystems (a half-truth, really – we hope they will), Camila intercedes.
“Don’t monopolize my scientist, now,” she laughs lightly, sliding in between us. “We need to get him back to the lab before he misses his next feeding of our little green friends.” The small crowd chuckles and disperses on that note, and the investor pats my arm congenially before moving on.
Camila turns to me, her expression shifting from public charm to private concern in an instant. She searches my face. “You look exhausted. And you were a million miles away for part of that meeting – I almost thought you’d start talking about something completely off-script.” Her words are gentle but probing.
I manage a tired grin. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep much. Prepping for today, you know.” It’s not a lie, but not the full truth either.
Her eyes narrow a fraction – she can always sniff out when I’m holding back. But instead of pressing further, Camila loops her arm through mine in a familiar, comfortable gesture. “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air before you dive back into work. The lab will still be there in fifteen minutes, I promise.”
I hesitate – my mind is already tugging me toward that incubator, toward verifying what I saw in the dark – but Camila is insistent, already guiding me out of the conference room. “A short walk,” she insists. “Doctor’s orders. And by doctor, I mean me, with my honorary doctorate in keeping Polo sane.”
I chuckle despite myself. “Alright, alright. A short break.”
We exit onto a rooftop garden terrace that CovTech installed a few years back when green roofs were all the rage. Much of it is wilted now – the water shortages and extreme heat have not been kind – but a few hardy planters of succulents and engineered moss persist. The city sprawls out below, a patchwork of hope and ruin. From up here, you can see both the solar fields glinting on one horizon and, on the other, the hollowed factories that once belched smoke into the sky.
Camila releases my arm and leans against the railing, closing her eyes as a rare breeze ruffles her hair. “They bought it,” she says softly. “The board, the investors. I think they really believe we can do this.”
“They believe you,” I reply, standing beside her. “I’m not sure I could’ve handled their questions without you smoothing it over.”
She opens her eyes and fixes me with a look that’s equal parts fond and firm. “You sell yourself short. You were brilliant in there. I barely had to do anything.” Then a small smirk. “Though I do have to say, I’ve never seen you improvise humor like that. French fertilizer? Where did that come from?”
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Honestly? No idea. I was running on adrenaline and caffeine. It just popped out.”
“Well, it worked. You had Armand laughing, and that man has the humor of a stone.” She tilts her head, studying me again. “But something’s on your mind. I can tell. You know you can talk to me, right?”
For a moment, I consider spilling everything – the light signals, my suspicion that our algae might be acting in ways we never expected. I imagine her reaction. Best case, she’s intrigued but cautious, urging more tests. Worst case, she dismisses it or thinks I’m cracking under pressure. There’s also another possibility: she might seize on it as a PR angle or a funding hook, which could spiral out of control before I understand it myself.
The wind picks up slightly, carrying the distant din of honking cars and a siren from below. I look at Camila, at the earnest concern on her face masked beneath her professional composure. This is one of those moments where her dual nature shows – the caring friend and the shrewd executive, intertwined and inseparable.
I decide to parse out a version of the truth. “It’s the project,” I begin slowly. “I’ve been thinking… we’re focusing so much on deploying, on the grand scale. But there are still unknowns in the lab. Things I can’t quite explain yet. I worry what we might be missing in our rush to move forward.”
Camila turns fully toward me, resting her back against the railing. Her expression is unreadable now. “Go on.”
I swallow. “Last night, I was running some late experiments. The algae exhibited a behavior… a reaction outside the expected parameters.” I keep it vague, not ready to describe it in detail. “It might be nothing – possibly a minor error in the protocol or instrumentation. But I want to dig into it. The board’s asking for demos and deployment; I just need to be sure we’re not sitting on a flaw that could surface later.”
Her eyes search mine. “Why didn’t you mention this in the meeting? If it’s important—”
“Because I’m not sure it is important,” I cut in, more sharply than intended. I sigh and continue in a softer tone. “It might be a false alarm. I didn’t want to throw a wrench into our plans or your presentation without evidence. I plan to set up some tests today to replicate it and see if it’s real or just a fluke.”
Camila studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “Alright. That’s fair.” She straightens and brushes an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. “Keep me updated on what you find. And Polo—” she hesitates, voice gentling, “—I trust your instincts, and your integrity. Just… be careful, okay? Sometimes our minds play tricks when we’re overworked.” Her concern is genuine, but there’s an undertone telling me not to chase ghosts. Classic Camila: supporting me, yet subtly steering me back on course.
“I will. I promise,” I reply.