She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Good. Now, as much as I’d love to let you tinker in peace, I have to steal you for one more thing. There’s a press brief this afternoon. A small one, updating on our research grant success. I need you there to answer any technical questions. It’ll be quick.”

I can’t help a small groan. The last thing I want right now is to field press questions with a forced smile. Camila laughs, already moving toward the door. “I know, I know. But think of it as practice for when we launch this thing. The ‘face of the science’ has to get used to the spotlight.” She winks.

Defeated by her logic, I follow her back inside. “One more thing,” I say, as we walk down the corridor toward the labs. “The board’s plan for a field demo – that’s a big step. We’ll need to pick a site, get government approvals, safety measures…”

Camila nods, business-like again. “I’m on it. There’s a coastal wetland not far from here that’s been ravaged by industrial runoff. It’s small, contained, and dead – the perfect place to show revival. I’ve already initiated talks with the local environmental agency. Keep your focus on the science; I’ll handle the red tape.”

Of course she has a site in mind. She’s always two steps ahead. I feel both relief that she’s thought it through and a flicker of trepidation. A demo means a deadline. Pressure ticks up another notch.

We part ways as she heads to her office and I descend to the lower lab. The moment the secured doors hiss open and the familiar scent of algae culture broth hits me, I feel a strange mix of comfort and anxiety. This lab is my sanctuary, but today it might also be the bearer of very weird news, depending on what I find.

My first stop is the incubator. I retrieve the petri dish from last night, handling it almost reverently. In the daylight, with colleagues bustling in the adjacent lab space and machines whirring, it’s hard to recapture the uncanny feeling from the middle of the night. The algae look like… algae. Harmless swirls of green in a clear gel. Part of me wonders if I saw those flashes or if it was an overtired brain misinterpreting data.

“Polo, you okay?” a voice calls from across the lab, making me jump. It’s Jill, one of our research techs, peering at me over a tray of pipettes she’s sterilizing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a smile. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep great, that’s all.”

She nods sympathetically. “Tell me about it. I had nightmares of giant mutant algae strangling me – too many late nights here, I guess!” She chuckles and goes back to her work.

I give a weak laugh in return, heart still settling. Jill’s joke hit a little close to home. Shaking off the nerves, I retreat to my personal workbench at the far end, away from prying eyes. If I’m going to test this algae’s “communication,” I’d rather not have the whole lab thinking I’ve lost it.

I set up a fresh growth medium, identical to last night’s, in three separate petri dishes. Carefully, I take a small scrape of the algae from the original sample and introduce it to each dish. If the signal was triggered by some environmental factor, I want to isolate variables. One dish I’ll keep under normal conditions as a control. The second I’ll expose to the exact same stimulus sequence I did last night – a specific nutrient injection and a tap on the dish. The third, I’ll try a different stimulus, a mild electrical field, to see if it responds to that.

As I work, a focused calm comes over me. This is what I know – making hypotheses, running experiments. It grounds me far better than rooftop pep talks. I monitor the first control dish for a while: nothing unusual, algae happily doing photosynthesis. Good.

Then I move to the second dish. I replicate last night’s steps: adding the nutrient drop, tapping gently. My heart rate climbs as I watch for the telltale glow. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute. Nothing. The algae remain disappointingly ordinary. I feel a twinge of both relief and disappointment. Maybe it really was my imagination.

Still, I’m not done. I set up a low-voltage electrode by the third dish, delivering a very gentle current into the medium – an old trick to stimulate bioluminescent microbes. At first, all looks normal here too, but then I notice a faint flicker. A pulse, then another. My breath catches. There it is. Three quick pulses, a pause, two pulses. The same pattern, unmistakable.

“No way,” I whisper.

I double-check the electrode settings; the current is steady, nothing that would naturally oscillate in that pattern. The algae themselves are doing this. I swap in a fresh electrode, repeat the gentle zap. Again, the algae answer with the same glowing cadence.

For a moment, I’m elated – this is a discovery, possibly a new form of bioelectrical communication or signaling mechanism. Scientific realism leaps to offer explanations: maybe the algae have a previously unknown feedback loop triggered by electric fields, causing a calcium oscillation that results in light emissions. That’s exciting in itself. Yet another part of me, the part that felt a tremor of something almost supernatural last night, wonders: Why this pattern? Why something that looks so intentional?

I find myself murmuring under my breath, as if the algae can hear me, “What do you mean by ‘SI’? Is that even what you’re saying?” It occurs to me that if this is a code, it might not be Morse. It could be coincidental, or a fragment of a larger message I haven’t seen fully. Perhaps I interrupted it last night by turning off the lights or leaving.

I glance around to ensure no one’s watching, then turn back to the dish. “Do it again,” I say softly, and give another tiny stimulus jolt. The algae glow – three, pause, two. Steady, almost impatient.

My mind races. If I’m going to prove this to myself (and eventually to others), I need a way to communicate back, not just prod them. What if I vary the stimulus? If this pattern is them ‘talking’, maybe I can ‘talk’ back by changing what I do. On a whim, I tap the dish twice in quick succession without any electrical pulse. It’s a long shot, utterly anthropomorphizing these cells, but I’m operating half on logic, half on gut feeling now.

For a few long seconds nothing happens. Then a single bright flash. Just one. Then it goes dark.

Was that a response to my two taps? If these were Morse code analogs: my two taps could be interpreted as the letter “I” (two dots). A single flash from them could be “E” (one dot). That’s… nonsense. IE? SI, IE... It doesn’t line up to any word I know, in English at least. Could be coincidence layered on coincidence.

Or maybe I’m starting in the middle. What if this is part of a longer sequence? If only I had recorded the entire event last night from start to finish! I kick myself mentally for not leaving a camera or sensor on. All I have is memory of a pattern and now these tests.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I decide on a new approach: let the algae “talk” freely, and capture everything. I set up a high-sensitivity camera pointing at the dish and dim the overhead lights to minimize interference. Then I simply wait, watching the feed on my tablet that records any luminescent changes. I don’t stimulate them further; I want to see if they initiate activity on their own.

Minutes crawl by. My colleagues come and go in the lab, but I’m in my own little bubble at this station. Jill asks if I want lunch from the cafeteria; I absently shake my head, barely registering her shrug and departure. My stomach is in knots anyway.

Just when my eyelids are getting heavy staring at the green mass, the algae in the dish begin to glow again. I sit bolt upright. The pattern starts: three pulses, pause, two pulses, pause… then it continues: another two pulses, a pause, and three pulses. I scribble this down: 3-2-2-3, with short pauses between each group. The sequence repeats, exactly the same, then stops.

3-2-2-3. If I group them as letters via Morse (with 3 short = “S” and 2 short = “I” as earlier guess), that would be S, I, I, S. That’s gibberish. But maybe I’m forcing it into Morse unnecessarily. It could be binary or just a numeric code. Or maybe an acronym.

I run possibilities in my head, but nothing obvious comes. It could also be a chemical signal that just happens to manifest visually – like the algae might be cycling through some metabolic state.

Yet, as I watch the pattern replay for the third time on the recording, I can’t shake the feeling of intention. It’s like listening to a voice speak a language you don’t understand, but the cadence tells you it’s language, not random noise.

My scientific training urges caution: verify the phenomenon, repeat under different conditions, rule out all mundane explanations before jumping to wild conclusions. So, I swap out the algae strain. I take a sample from a control group of the same species that hasn’t been exposed to our nanobots or special modifications – a truly wild-type algae. If this new sample also shows the pattern, maybe it’s a species-wide trait we never noticed. If it doesn’t, perhaps it’s something unique to our engineered line (which also interacted with nanobots and pollutants – a more complex history).

I set up the wild-type algae under the same camera and conditions. An hour passes. Nothing. Not a single flash beyond the normal faint glimmer of random bioluminescence background.

It’s our algae, then. Our creation. Did the nanobots imbue them with some emergent property? The nanobots themselves aren’t in the petri dish now (I didn’t add any), but could remnants of their programming persist in the algae cells? We did program the bots with a rudimentary swarm intelligence to navigate; maybe when integrated with biological systems, odd things emerge. My mind leaps to precedent: there have been experiments where bacteria and circuitry created unforeseen feedback loops, forming bio-electronic “patterns” that mystified researchers.

However, usually those patterns can be explained with enough analysis. And they don’t typically spell out something that feels like a message.

I’m so absorbed that I barely notice when Camila enters the lab until she’s right behind me. “Polo,” she says, her voice jolting me. I practically jump out of my seat and slam the laptop shut in reflex, heart in my throat.

She raises an eyebrow at my reaction. “Easy. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Her eyes flick to the setup – the multiple dishes, the camera, my scribbled notes scattered about. “Busy testing, I see?”

I nod, trying to act casual. “Yeah, I… I wanted to double-check some of the algae’s responses. Making sure we’re ready for anything in the field demo.”

Camila steps closer, peering at one of the dishes. “This about that anomaly you mentioned?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “How’s it going? Found your explanation yet?”

I hesitate. “It’s… inconclusive so far. I did replicate something, but I’m still working on understanding it.”

Her face is frustratingly calm, giving away nothing. “Inconclusive” is a word she can’t object to; it’s the truth without the messy details. Yet I feel a pang of guilt, like I’m actively hiding something from her. Because I am.

She smiles faintly and taps the face of her smart watch. “Hate to interrupt the mad science, but it’s time for that press brief. They’re setting up in the atrium. You ready to go wow some reporters for fifteen minutes?”

I glance at my notes longingly. The last thing I want is to abandon this discovery right now. But I also know how important maintaining public relations is – not just for Camila, but for our cause. Winning hearts and minds could mean more funding, more time, maybe even policy changes. It’s all connected.

“Sure,” I say, voice resigned. “Let’s get it over with.”

Camila notices my reluctance. As we walk out, she murmurs, “After this, you can have the whole evening in the lab undisturbed, if you want. I’ll even hold your calls.” Her tone is light, but it’s an olive branch. She senses I’m onto something that matters to me. In her own way, she’s giving me permission to chase it – as long as I fulfill my other duties.

“Thanks,” I reply, meaning it.

The press briefing is as dreary as expected. A handful of journalists and science correspondents gather in the bright atrium, where a green wall of living plants (mostly ivy and ferns) makes for a photogenic backdrop. Camila delivers a polished statement about our project’s potential: her words are measured, optimistic but cautious, emphasizing both innovation and safety. I stand by her side with another colleague, smiling politely, hands clasped in front of me. Cameras flash. It’s surreal, considering just a floor below I was coaxing secret pulses from algae, and now I’m here posing like some kind of eco-hero.

When the Q&A starts, a reporter from a scientific magazine directs a question at me about how our approach differs from Atlas Corp’s nanobots. I stick to the script: highlighting our bio-organic integration, the failsafes to prevent over-proliferation, how algae provide a natural feedback that pure machines lack. Even as I say it, I realize an irony – that very “feedback” might be manifesting in those signals I observed. Are the algae providing a warning? An alert?

I must zone out slightly, because the reporter has to follow up with, “So, in simple terms, your algae won’t become a problem themselves?”

Camila’s hand subtly touches my back – a signal that I need to focus. I clear my throat. “In simple terms, yes. We’ve engineered our solution to be self-limiting. The algae cannot survive outside certain environmental conditions we control, and the nanobots deactivate after completing their tasks. We’re also conducting extensive tests to monitor any unexpected behavior.” That last sentence gives me a pang – if only they knew.

After a few more questions and reassuring answers, the briefing wraps up. Camila navigates the mingling with ease, shaking hands, promising a reporter an exclusive “first look” when we do the demo. I envy how effortlessly she wears her many faces – the visionary leader, the supportive colleague, the charming negotiator. Watching her glide through the crowd, I’m reminded that although we share a mission, our roles are so different. She shoulders the external pressures, the politics, the media. I handle the science and my internal demons. Both of us, in our own ways, are performing.

That evening, true to her word, Camila ensures I’m left undisturbed. I dive back into the lab with relief. Most others have gone home by now; Jill waved goodbye earlier with a cheerful “Don’t let the algae get ya!” which I found more funny than she realized.

Alone again, I compile the data from my recordings. The pattern 3-2-2-3 continues to niggle at me. If it’s not letters, what could it be? It could be numbers: 3-2-2-3 as digits. Maybe coordinates or a code? Unlikely to be a coordinate without more digits… unless those were just part of a larger set.

I search my memory. Could it be spelling something in another language? Camila’s Brazilian Portuguese influence on my mind makes me think of “S.O.S.”, though 3-2-2-3 doesn’t fit that either (SOS in Morse is 3-3-3). What about binary? Three flashes might be representing binary 111 and two as 11? That would give 111, 11, 11, 111 which in binary blocks is 7, 3, 3, 7 in decimal. Not much clearer.

Frustrated, I step away from the bench to pace. I find myself standing in front of the big world status display again, which I hadn’t realized was dimly cycling through an update. A map of the world glows, with red blotches where climate and pollution crises are most intense. The west coast shows a large red bloom – likely representing the deteriorating Pacific situation. Text scrolls: “Unconfirmed reports of marine life die-off near Atlas Corp nanobot deployment zone… Government requests investigation…” .

My eyes drift to where “3-2-2-3” might mean something outside my head. March 2233? A year far in the future, no. Maybe 3/22 at 3 (March 22 at 3 o’clock)? That would be a date and time; today is March 4, 2025. If it’s a date, 3/22 is a couple of weeks from now. 3 o’clock, maybe a deadline or event time?