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She brought up the scan of its sclerite. It showed the specimen from multiple angles. The micro team had done a wonderful job.
She brought her nose closer to the screen, shifting her glasses higher. “What are you?” she whispered to the mystery before her.
Specimen A17 continued to confound, baffle, and intrigue her. It had all the characteristics of a black coral, but its polyps had eight arms instead of the expected six. Plus, its sweeper tentacle had been monstrously long, tipped by a stinging nematocyst that was four times the size of any others. Even this scan of its sclerite showed a density of polyp cupping that she had never witnessed before in another coral.
No wonder you little green guys evolved an escape method. You’re all too crowded in there.
She pictured the little polyps jettisoning in alarm when Phoebe had collected a sample, even attacking the extraction claw.
Still, the most frustrating part of the day had been her attempt at analyzing this specimen’s DNA. She kept getting an error code on the sequencer. Knowing she had the other specimens to record, she had finally given up. She had planned on waiting until Phoebe returned to try again.
She checked the time.
Maybe I should give it another go myself.
Jazz hated to fail her friend. She had wanted to complete her study today and send her results to Phoebe on theTitan X, to have them waiting for her when she finished her dive.
Decided on the matter, Jazz rolled her chair away from her station. At this late hour, others were still working across the biology lab, all bent in various postures of concentration. She stood up with a jaw-cracking yawn and headed out of the lab. She crossed the central hub and descended to the next tier. The department’s wet lab and high-pressure benthic chambers were on this lower level. It was also where the curve of ROV stations were located.
Even at this hour, every ROV cubicle was occupied.
She turned her back and pushed into the high-pressure room. It was like walking into an aquarium. The tanks were stacked four high and ten across, all fronted by the same glass that ringed each tier. Under each chamber, a set of caliper controls stuck out, not unlike those that operated a claw machine at an amusement park. It allowed a researcher to manipulate a set of drills, corers, and suction tubes inside the pressurized tank.
Before rerunning the DNA sequencing on Specimen A17, Jazz wanted a fresh sample. Two other biologists were already at work in here. Luckily, no one blocked her tank, which would have required her to wait her turn.
She stepped to the benthic chamber. Their names—Reed/Patel—had been scrawled in an upper corner of the tank’s glass, written inerasable black marker. It was how each researcher staked a claim to a tank. It was crude but effective.
Only now a new name had been written under theirs: ???. Though she was not that familiar with the various Asian alphabets, she was fairly certain it was Koreanhangul. The researcher had to be Dr. Kim Jong Suk, who studied crustaceans, specifically shrimp species. The man was equally known for his foul temper and rude manner, especially toward the female researchers.
Inside the tank, Jazz had meticulously sectioned off each of her coral samples into separate plastic trays and positioned across the tank’s bottom. Dr. Kim had simply dumped in two dozen large shrimp with translucent pink shells. Jazz recognized them as a species ofLucensosergia lucensi, or Sakura shrimp, named after the Japanese cherry blossom. They swam, kicked, and crawled throughout the tank. Their excrement dotted the bottom as if an overzealous waiter with a pepper grinder had seasoned the chamber.
She huffed out her exasperation. The scientists had been warned that these high-pressure chambers would have to be shared among them, but currently there were four others that remained empty. It required hours to prep one, and clearly Kim hadn’t wanted to bother with those extra steps and simply threw his samples into their tank.
“What a jackass,” she whispered as she grabbed the manipulator controls.
Phoebe would be equally pissed.
Jazz stared across the trays, which had been shifted into disarray by the antics of the busy shrimp. One of her specimens—G5—had been tossed out of its place. She used a claw to return the chunk to its proper tray. She then shifted over to A17, ready to get to work, bringing up a pincer and drill.
At least A17 remained unmolested. Only a few pepper grains marred its plastic tray. She shook her head at the sight of three pink shrimp lying on their sides nearby. Their legs were not moving, nor their antennas.
Dead.
Clearly Kim treated his specimens no better than he treated his fellow colleagues. His rough handling must have killed these specimens.He hadn’t even bothered to separate the living from the dead. The other shrimp avoided that corner of the tank, as if fearful of their dead brethren.
Jazz nudged one of the bodies with her pincers. A flurry of small green blebs blasted off the pink shrimp.Polyps. They pulsed and spun back to their home, the black branch of spiky coral.
She grimaced.Had they been feeding on it?She rolled the shrimp over. Its normally translucent legs were all black. One limb broke and drifted away. The shrimp must have been dead for days, further proving Kim’s lack of attention to his work.
She sighed and focused on her own task. She grasped the thick branch of A17 and drilled out a core sample, making sure to capture several of the polyps, which required chasing a few with the suction tool. She then collected everything into an extraction receptacle. Once the tiny chute was sealed, she pressed a button to slowly release the pressure inside it. The decompression took four long minutes.
As she waited, she leaned her forehead against the tank. She watched the antics of the pink shrimp. It was hard to be angry at these visitors. Like a passel of rowdy brothers, they cavorted and rolled around the tank. One got too near to A17. A dozen polyps burst off the black stalk and unleashed furls of sweeper tentacles. They battered at the trespasser, whipping it savagely.
The shrimp writhed in place, legs kicking, carapace flinching. It slowly sank to the bottom, joining the others below. A few polyps followed it down; the rest returned to their roosts inside the coral. As the assaulted shrimp landed on its back, she spotted a fiery glow through its translucent carapace, as if it were burning from within. She shifted for a better view, but the belly went dark.
She scowled.Must’ve been a trick of the room’s light off the glass.Still, she repeated the question that had been plaguing her all day, staring at the obstinate piece of black coral.
“What are you?”
