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“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a row of twenty tubes already inserted in an incubator.
“Dogs,” Dr. Adams says. “Large ones. We’re aiming for a selection of animals that can be used for labor and, if worse comes to worst, food. ”
I don’t really want to consider eating a dog or a horse, but the little tubes of bean-shaped fetuses don’t l
ook much like either. My eyes slide to the other tube, the one with yellowish goo inside. The one with dozens of tiny clones of Elder.
“Amy?” Mom says, waking me from my reverie. She’s been talking with Dr. Engle. “Can you help us?”
I cross the room to the last row of cylinders. Chris follows me silently. I don’t think he’s ever been in the gen lab before—he’s wide-eyed, taking note of everything.
“Amy, you’re friends with that ship leader. Do you have any idea what this is?” Mom asks. I think for a moment she’s talking about the cylinder with Elder clones, but Dr. Engle points to the Phydus pump instead.
“Yeah,” I say darkly. “I know exactly what that is. ”
“It looks like a water pump,” Dr. Engle says. “But inside are traces of a chemical we can’t identify . . . ”
Phydus.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
But of course, these are scientists. Tell them to leave something alone, and all they want to do is poke it with a stick.
“It was a water pump,” I continue, sighing. “One of the previous leaders used it to distribute drugs to the people on the ship. Elder broke the pump and quit distributing the drugs. It’s pretty toxic stuff; you should just leave it alone. ”
Dr. Engle looks even more curious than before. “What kind of drugs?” she asks. “Did they develop them themselves? What disease were they for—or were they intended for recreational purposes?”
Mom cuts Dr. Engle off. “We don’t have time for that sort of thing, Maddie,” she says firmly. She is, after all, the lead scientist for the group. “We have other work that requires our attention. ”
Dr. Engle nods reluctantly and goes to help Dr. Adams. Mom picks up a large canvas sack with special compartments for specimen jars and hands it to me. We’re almost out of the lab before we notice that Chris isn’t with us. I turn back to get him and see he’s still standing in front of the Phydus pump, frowning, as if it’s a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out.
“Come on!” I call, and he follows me outside. He grins at my excitement, and I can’t help but notice that his nose crinkles when he smiles, illuminating his strangely blue eyes.
“What is it?” Chris asks, and it’s not until then that I notice I’ve been staring at him.
“Nothing,” I say, blushing.
Mom stands on the bridge, shading her eyes from the suns, a small smile playing on her lips as she watches the two of us. “I want to gather as many specimens as possible,” she says. “I find it fascinating that so many plants seem similar to plants on Earth; I’d like to do some genetic sequencing and determine just how close they are. And of course, if there’s any chance of catching any animal life, we must. ” Her eyes are shining; I’ve never seen her so excited. “We’ve set snares in the surrounding area, and, as you know, some of the other scientists are out searching for prints, but it would be great to see something in its natural habitat!”
Chris and I follow Mom down the ramp and into the forest. She goes the opposite direction of the path to the ruins, hoping the less disturbed areas will yield more chance of wildlife. Chris holds a rifle with a high-powered scope in front of him, and I notice that he not only has two handguns (one in his belt, one in a shoulder holster) but also carries grenades, knives, and a machete—that I can see.
“Amy!” Mom calls. I dodge around the trees to reach her. She’s pulling purple string moss from one of the trees, and I hand her one of the smaller specimen jars from the bag I’m carrying. “We’ve got several samples of these already—Dr. Card wants to see if he can replicate the neurotoxin—but I’d like to extract cells for a closer examination. ”
“That,” I deadpan, “is so exciting. ”
Mom hands me the jar. “Who knows what the DNA of this little guy can tell us!”
I squint at the plant. Although I know it unfurls to a flower nearly as big as my palm, right now it’s nothing more than a bit of purple string.
Mom resumes her work, scraping off moss and lichen and bark into jars. “Just one small area, and imagine the diversity of life!” she trills.
I try to see the world through Mom’s eyes, as if every single thing holds a new discovery, but then I stop in my tracks.
A terrible, wet, sucking sound creeps around the edges of the tree.
Immediately, Chris steps in front of me, slinging his rifle around in one fluid motion. Mom freezes, her eyes shooting first to me and then to Chris’s gun.
A cracking sound. Scratching, like something hard across dry leaves.
