That “later” is code fornever.
I close my compad and smile wide, like a good student. You know, the kind that gets vaults filled with grant money and pats on the back.
But I don’t feel good.
I feel trapped.
I step out of Ciampa’s lab and collide with Darwin in the hallway—like bumping into a wall that’s always been there, only somehow more irritating than the last time.
“Oh, Jillian,” he says, voice too smooth, like he’s practicing polite human sounds. “You look…enthusiastic.”
“Defined by acute irritation at being dismissed,” I reply.
He doesn’t blink. That’s the weird thing. Humansalwaysblink when they’re lying or nervous or both. He doesn’t. That alone makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Science is about focus,” he says. “You’ll get your turn once the initial surveys are complete.”
“Sure,” I say, teeth gritted. “Once the surveys are complete and everyone’s six feet under.”
He doesn’t react, just turns on his heel and walks away like nothing happened.
I watch his back recede.
Something about that just… doesn’t sit right.
I end up back in the lab module, surrounded by half-finished datapads and the low hum of failing generators. It’s warmer here than it should be, and I can feel sweat beading under my collar even with the ventilation cranked up.
I set my satchel down and unzip it with a sort of reverence—like I’m undoing a secret I shouldn’t have.
The compad Carson gave me burns where it sits against my thigh. It’s heavy and secret and sharp with possibility.
Not now, not yet.
First I needdata.Hard, measurable, undeniable.
I pull up my geoscan logs and cross-reference them with the fungus samples I snagged yesterday near the ash fields—where the pulsing light was so bright I could swear it wasbreathing.
I set up a private experiment station in the oldest wing of the lab module—where the lights flicker, half the outlets barely work, and the smell is a cocktail of overheated circuitry and antiseptic spray that’s way past expiration.
Just another day in a dying planet’s science facility.
I plug my equipment into the one power port that still hums with juice and begin reconstructing the waveform models.
Every time I play back the audio files I recorded—tiny blips of marine chatter, boots on gravel, my own voice—something in the fungus spikes like it’s alive. Crystals shift. Light changes. It’s not random.
It’sresponsive.
I lean forward, eyes squinting at the waveform spikes on my small screen.
“Okay… come on,” I mutter to the fungi like they’re colleagues who just won’t talk.
A tone pulses at 12.7 kilohertz—high, piercing, something only a few species can detect. The samples begin to vibrate visibly.
Not fluoresce.
Not quiver.
Vibrate.
