Warren Fahy - Fragment

“You mean bird pee,” Quentin said.

“Yuck,” Andy said.

“Hey, guys! We got our first RNA results,” one of the technicians called out.

All turned to the technician. He pointed to a series of peaks in what looked like an EKG readout on a monitor over the molecular toasters.

“Oh shit,” Steve muttered as he scanned the graph. “Uh, sorry, folks. Looks like we’ll have to run it again. False alarm.”

“Why?” Otto asked.

“These results don’t make any sense.”

“There must be some sort of contamination in the system,” the lead technician confirmed.

“Why don’t they make sense?” Nell wanted to know.

Steve shrugged apologetically. “Because it’s showing three ri-bosomal RNA peaks.”

“What makes you think it’s contaminated?” Andy asked the technician.

“Nothing on Earth has three ribosomal peaks, my friend.”

“Except for crustaceans,” Andy said.

“Whoa-really?”

Andy rolled his eyes. He looked at Nell. “I guess you gene jocks do need a few folks who still know their animals.”

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t know that.” Steve looked back at the graph. “Guess we’re reading crustaceans, then, guys.”

“Bravo, Andy.” Nell winked at Andy, and he smiled.

“Looks like we’re back to arthropods, Otto,” Quentin said.

Otto shook his head, resigned now. “Unless it is from Mars.”

Quentin shrugged. “Hell, maybe crustaceans are from Mars, with three ribosomal peaks and all.”

Andy said, “Cut the other direction again, Otto.”

“All right. Continuing the incision down the abdomen from the original point of entry now-what seems like more lobes of the hepatopancreas, with multiple blind-ending tubules-”

“Wow, this thing is set up to digest massive amounts of food very rapidly,” Quentin said.

“This sure looks like a crustacean gut.”

“Yes, Andy,” Otto said, “it does. Continuing toward the hind quarters. Uh-OK…”

There was a spasm in the animal’s lower belly as Otto drew the scalpel near the rear pelvic ring.

“Back out, Otto,” Nell whispered.

Small legs tore at the edges of Otto’s incision.

“Something it ate didn’t agree with it,” Quentin said.

“No,” Nell breathed. “It’s a mommy!”

“Yeah, and she’s live-bearing,” Andy warned.

“Back out now,” Nell said again, her voice suddenly urgent.

Otto pulled his hands back as a mouse-sized miniature crawled out and snipped a chunk of its mother’s flesh with its foreclaws. It fed the bite into its serrated grin. Then it shook its head and shivered off blue blood.

“Don’t reach for it, Otto,” Nell warned in a whisper. “Just pull out of the gloves.”

Another baby thrashed its way out of the womb, crawling out of Otto’s incision.

“Those things are fully active,” Quentin said.

“Yeah, and we just gave them a cesarean birth!”

“They’re protecting the corpse, Otto,” Nell said.

“Don’t stick your hand too close,” Quentin said.

“Pull out, Otto!” Nell said again.

“I’m just trying to scare them so we can see how they move-”

“Back off, man,” Andy said.

Otto laughed in excitement. “They’re using their back four legs to locomote and raising their arms like a praying mantis! See?”

“They’re fast,” Quentin said.

Otto grinned at Quentin. “Ever hear of a live-bearing arthropod, Quentin?”

“Actually, some do have marsupial pouches in which they brood their young,” Andy said.

“They won’t scare off-they’re just getting more aggressive,” Nell said. “Pull out!”

“There.” Otto pointed as one of the juveniles reared back on its under-curled tail.

A gunshot sound made them all jump back as the juvenile struck Otto’s hand in a blur.

“Jesus God damn it!” Otto screamed.

He yanked his hands out of the gloves.

“My God-damned-motherfucking thumb!”

“Close the glove hatches, Quentin.” Nell moved fast as the others froze.

“That little shit split my fucking thumb! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck !”

“OK, narration ended,” Andy said.

Quentin gaped at Otto’s hand in shock, so Nell reached forward and sealed the glove hatches, banging the button with the side of her fist.

“They’re eating their mom,” Andy muttered, leaning forward over the trough.

“Quentin!” Nell snapped, giving him a hard shake of the shoulder. “Radio Section Three! Call the Enterprise. Tell them we have a medical emergency and need a transport immediately! We won’t be able to tell from the blood agar cultures if these things carry hemolytic bacteria for another six hours, at least. So ask them if they have gentamicin, vancomycin, and ceftriaxone. I think we need to treat this as if it were MRSA, until we know for sure what bacteria are in these creatures. GO! ”

“Oh my God!” Andy shouted at the sight of Otto’s thumb-it looked like it had been clipped down the middle by a pair of bolt cutters.

“Andy, give me your tie,” Nell said.

“What?”

Nell flipped up Andy’s collar, removed his leather tie with her left hand, and looped it over Otto’s hand. She slid it up his arm and cinched it tight above his elbow. “Quentin, what did they say?”

“They’re sending some guys down here and calling Enterprise for a transport!”

“Good work. OK, Otto, let’s sit down, honey.”

Otto’s eyes glazed over. He slumped on a bench, muttering a string of obscenities. Bright red blood pooled on the white floor between his splattered sneakers.

“Andy, get some towels,” Nell said. “And the first aid kit. Quentin, sterilize the trough.”

Quentin balked. “Why should we sterilize the trough?”

Nell swung around and yelled at him, “DO IT!”

“All right, all right.” He pushed a button.

The chamber flooded with a yellow-green cloud of gas.

As the Trident bobbed at anchor in the cove, surrounded by the echoing sounds of waves from the sheer rock walls, Cynthea paced the aft deck like a caged animal.

She could not take being this close to the story of the century without being able to document it. If she didn’t do something about it soon, she would go mad.

The others weren’t exactly overjoyed about being quarantined, or imprisoned, on the Trident , either.

The Navy was kind enough to bring them supplies, including current magazines and DVDs, but they were strictly prohibited from going ashore.

Approximately two hours after the last episode of SeaLife had aired, the U.S. government had officially ordered them not to move from, land on, or transmit any communication from Henders Island.

Her show was officially and irrevocably canceled. Cynthea seethed at their assumption of authority, which out here had no basis other than the big guns they used to back it up. She had to hand it to the Navy, though. They had certainly outdone any network executive in the power-play department.

Zero stretched out on a deck lounge, soaking up some rays on his long, lean runner’s body, his eyelids closed.

Cynthea stalked around him as she spoke, wondering occasionally if he was even listening to her.

“You have GOT to get on that island, Zero! An hour of footage is worth more than enough to retire on for both of us. Are you listening to me, asshole?”

Zero popped an eye open at her. “Yup.”

“Well?”

“No way am I going back there,” Zero said. He closed his eye.

“I can get on that island.” Dante, the ship’s assistant cook, had been loitering on the outskirts of their conversation.