Tract

By Edita A. Petrick

 

He's not sure what the truth is…he just knows that whatever is driven by it, has the power to kill…everyone

 

Today, John Kimberley is a corporate man. He looks after corporate interests and ignores everything else.

But once, a long time ago, he was a scientist who cared about the environment. Once he shared the dream of saving the world heading into a vicious climate change, with someone who walked the same road beside him. Today, he just wants to convince her that the island where her team is doing research, is not safe…for any living creature. And for the sake of the two kids who ended up with their mother in Alaska, he has to do it in the most engaging and least alarming way…whether he believes it or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: Sep 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393685029

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

Prologue

University of Pennsylvania,

Philadelphia,

November 2005

One wall of the small office was taken up by a panoramic window. It wasn’t enough to impart even a speck of whimsy to its dingy surroundings and gloomy atmosphere.

John Kimberley motioned at the expanse of glass and said, What a waste, Sharri. The view’s certainly not worth losing a solid wall where you could put up book shelves. I couldn’t put them up fast enough for you when we lived in that shoebox in Norristown. You’ve already sacrificed a lot. Why do you want to keep doing it? I mean this office can’t be more than—what, a hundred square feet—if that.

It fits a desk, a chair and two bookshelves, John. It’s more than adequate for my purposes. I don’t spend that much time here anyway. My work is out there, in the field, where I can experience climate changes, not just read about them on my laptop, Sharri said, turning profile to him.

I’m staring at a set of traffic lights and a wholly unimaginative boxy structure of the art institute, Sharri. UPenn may be an ivy league university, but there isn’t much out there to experience, he said, shrugging as if to exercise fatigue out of his wide shoulders.

What are you still doing here, John? When I last saw you, two days ago, you said you had a plane to catch. What happened? Did Syndrex change their mind and your name is now on a ‘no-fly’ list?

If you must know, I changed my flight. I wanted to give you one more chance to leave this cramped, dusty paradise and come do real research with me—visit the actual site of the latest sinkhole that opened up in Guatemala, rather than just settle for fuzzy photographs and satellite imagery.

That would be very tempting, John, if I would actually be allowed to write my research paper based on the facts that I’d gather in the course of my investigation. But, as we both know only too well, the corporate interests that are behind such research aren’t interested in letting the world know the truth behind such dismal phenomenon as a sinkhole in the middle of the manufacturing district in Guatemala City.

You can blame any number of sinkholes in Guatemala on climate change, he said, turning around with a smile.

"And I will, John, when I determine that they are the result of accelerating climate change, but we both know that in Guatemala City, the sinkholes can’t be blamed on environmental changes. It’s the foreign corporations like Syndrex that are to blame for…"

Yes, yes, they’re the quintessential devil, Shar. The foreign investments that come to Third-World countries, offering to develop their resources and build their cities….

She interrupted him. And they erect heavy, hi-rise buildings on soft soil because it’s the cheapest way to put up structures to house their wares, and then blame the local labor force for failure when a sinkhole opens up in the middle of the warehouse district.

We’ve had too many of these unproductive arguments. Come with me, Shar, he said, his voice softening to where it sounded like a whispered plea. You’re smart enough to sneak the truth in between the lines that Syndrex wants to see. You can reach your audience any way you like. Your research can move in any direction you want to take. You owe it to yourself to….

She cut him off. I thought about it, John. I really did and it wasn’t because of the money or prestige that sponsors like the Syndrex Corporation could buy for my work—I thought about it because of you. I was happy in Norristown. I thought you were too. She raised her head slowly and looked at him for the first time since he walked into her ‘closet.’ It was the only fitting description for the office space that the University allotted her. Calling it an office was a travesty. They both agreed on that.

She could count the days, that the two of them were apart these past five years, on the fingers of one hand. He was one of the youngest PhD candidates that the Pennsylvania University had in the last two decades. She was still a few years behind him, but there was no doubt in her mind she’d get there too. Just that she always thought that once she got there, she’d be standing beside him. Now, that possibility had all but evaporated.

But I’m not enough for you to change your mind, is that it? he asked.

He was…and he wasn’t. She loved him but she wanted him, not his shadow which is what Syndrex was going to do to him.

I love you, Shar, he said quietly. But I don’t want to go back to live in places like we had in Norristown. I don’t want to spend the next twenty years paying off my student loans. We both carry a heavy load; you perhaps even more than I. You know as well as I do that grants for our research are few and far between. So far, we both have been lucky to get what we did. But I think we’ve reached the ‘no-trespassing’ fence when it comes to environmental anything. The world’s not ready to sit up and listen.

He was right. No one empowered to approve government funding for climate research was in their corner. Not yet. She didn’t know the people who had the clout to open the right doors for someone like her—a crusader for a dubious and unpopular cause. Climate change. There was no evidence of it. The country’s psyche was still raw from the effects of 9/11 attacks. When it came to Hurricane Katrina, the scientists did not have clear, definitive answers that climate change was to blame. August was a hurricane season. What happened in New Orleans two months ago was a tragedy that cost twelve-hundred lives, but what happened four years ago was man-made, and eclipsed anything that Mother Nature could unleash.

The last three grants she applied for had that quintessential question: What world disaster could be attributed to climate change? There were dozens. She could have even have said the Hurricane Katrina. However, she didn’t have sufficient data to support such a claim. Pointing out that the temperatures around the world had risen, wasn’t a sufficient proof. She needed time and money to reach the ears of those who had the power to make the world listen. The Syndrex Corporation offered her both—at a price she wasn’t willing to pay. John was. It’s what drove the wedge between them.

The kind of people you’re going to be working for, John, aren’t interested in truth unless it benefits them where it matters the most—their shares and their shareholders, she said.

The corporate Think-Tank is somewhat removed from those financial cesspools, Shar, he said.

Perhaps. But the corporate Think-Tank’s purpose is to come up with solutions that will benefit the corporate shareholders and no one else, she said. I can’t spin the truth in a direction that the corporation wants to see, John.

You don’t have to spin it. You can slant it. You’re much better at exploring angles of any environmental problem than I am, he said.

She let him drag her along to the campus job-fair. She stood beside him, listening to the pitch of a dozen corporate recruiters. The Syndrex Corporation had the best booth, best set-up and the best pitch. They hooked him. She knew it from the way his hand holding hers tightened during the recruiter’s presentation. She wasn’t wholly immune to their sale-pitch either but she saw through their layers of corporate interest.

And suddenly, it all made sense. His presence in her cramped office two days after he was supposed to leave for Guatemala City. He appealed to everything that kept the two of them together these past five years. The lack of grants for their research. The mountains of student loans they’d have to start paying off—soon. Their shared emotional bond that had never before allowed him to say those heavy words, I love you. He was a good lover, solidly built to carry the world on his shoulders. She teased him that his eyes twinkled when he laughed. He would try to hold back a grin and never could stay serious long enough when she was looking at him. He hugged her after a long night spent editing a thesis. She’d hug him back and knew that both of them derived as much pleasure from it as from their lovemaking.

Did you find out that your job contract with Syndrex had a one more page, John? she asked, stifling a sigh. She loved him and his departure would leave her world in ruin for some time. But she just couldn’t surrender to the corporate missions and values that might allow her to put down the truth on paper—but not distribute it out there where it mattered, to the global academic community.

It’s nothing like that, Shar, he said.

Sure it is, John. I was there beside you at that job fair, every step of the way.

I’m an engineer and you’re a scientist, Sharri. They want us as a team—a powerhouse, he said. She hadn’t expected him to confess so quickly.

Will your job contract become null and void if only half of the team shows up?

He shook his head, looking grim. They’ll just get someone else, Shar. Why won’t you reconsider? You’re struggling to finish your thesis because your last grant fell through. The Teaching Assistant job went to Marvin who’s not suited to teach his plants, never mind undergraduates. And you’re gasping for air in this closet that they gave you for an office. You’re going to end up assisting Marvin or one of the foresters in his program, just to be able to finish your PhD.

I don’t want to teach biology and I’m not a botanist—Marvin has a degree in both disciplines. He got the job because he’s qualified for it, she said, swallowing bitter saliva that always seem to coat her mouth when Marvin’s name was mentioned.

Marvin talks to plants and blows up corn in the hot-house, Shar, he said harshly.

He’s eccentric, that’s all. It’s why his research is…. She trailed off. Marvin was trying to produce a hybrid strain of corn that could thrive even in the Arctic. It’s why his research was swollen with grants that should have gone to climate and environmental science. These were her and John’s specialty; their intersecting fields of study that corporate Think-Tanks believed were complementary or at least tandem when it came to global issues.

He’s an idiot, John said. Stay away from the hothouse. He’s not through blowing up things. His corn’s not going to have anywhere to thrive if we don’t have a place to walk on because two-thirds of the world’s landmass is under water. Here, he put down a blue portfolio on her desk. That’s your job contract, and a plane ticket—first class, Shar—in case you change your mind. I’ll be waiting at the airport…from the looks of it, you don’t have that much to pack. Three hours ought to do it. He turned, heading for the door. He stopped and waited; head bowed. After a few seconds, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to speak, he said, Are you really going to let me go like this, Shar? No argument, no tears, not even a sigh of regret? I can’t remember being away from you these last five years longer than a few hours. And waking up to feel your hand stroking my forehead has almost turned into a sacred ritual. I love you more than any string of words can express. Why can’t you come with me, Shar? He waited; head tilted to a side.

Why can’t you stay, John? She asked in a dry, lifeless voice, as if she already knew what the answer would be—and dreaded it.

I’ve told you why, he said and with those words, the man she loved with all her heart, walked out.

Chapter One

Brinnell’s Island

Southeast Alaska

July, Present Day

The boy poked the wooden stick into the anthill then proceeded to stir it as if mixing a drink. His sister tried to get him to stop and was pushed away.

Henry, how many times do I have to tell you not to bother the ants—or your sister, Sharri said, trying to contain her irritation with her son’s destructive activity.

You only said it once today, the boy said and stirred the small anthill more vigorously.

And I shouldn’t have to say it at all, Sharri snapped, no longer able to contain her irritation. I need you to be on your best behavior, and that includes looking after your sister. I thought you understood last night when we talked about it, that this isn’t a vacation for me.

It’s not a vacation for me either, Henry said, scowling.

I know, I know, Sharri said softly. And I’m sorry. There just wasn’t anything else…just give it a chance. It won’t be so bad once we settle down…. Her voice trailed off. It was difficult to lie to Henry under the best of circumstances. But when you’re standing knee-deep in moss, and can barely see your eight-year-old daughter for the waist-high ferns, forcing cheer to float your lies, was impossible. The sunlight tried valiantly to penetrate the thick canopy of old-growth trees. At this time of the year in Alaska, it had nearly twenty hours to accomplish the task, since the sunset came at midnight. Sharri knew it would fail—again and again. They’ve only spent four mornings in the company of towering spruce, hemlock and red and yellow cedars and it was already too much ‘outdoor’ education for the kids. Nineteen hours of daylight didn’t help either. Fifteen members of the expedition sighed from extasy when they hopped out of the dinghies that brought them to Brinnell’s. The seventy-foot trawler remained anchored a hundred feet off shore, in deeper water.

When pulled out of the water, the dinghies scraped the sand-and-gravel strip of beach that separated the island shore from the island interior. The quarter-mile trek through the bluegrass and sedge-covered forest floor for their campsite was their dream-come-true. They were foresters, botanists, biologists—conservationists of the environment that for once met their expectations—unspoiled.

They loved to climb over moss-covered huge trunks, pausing only long enough to dictate notes to their portable recorders. There were no logging operations on Brinnell’s…yet. Everything was as Mother Nature intended it to be. Trees sheared in half fell victim to mighty lighting storms, not a logger’s chain-saw. Uprooted trees, likewise. Whatever mayhem and destruction the old forest suffered, was due to natural causes, not man-made destruction. The academics spent five hours feverishly recording, cataloguing and pointing their cell phone cameras at everything they encountered on their way to their campsite. A quarter-mile trek that should have taken no more than an hour, turned into an exhausting marathon for the kids. Their communications specialist, Tavo, ended up carrying Mia on his shoulders the last few hundred feet. She could not climb over another log without falling down. Henry was older, stronger but even he just sank to the floor of their hastily erected shelter-hut when Sharri said they, Well, we’re home…for now.

And four days later, things were just as raw between them as they were upon their arrival.

Henry, Sharri said to get her son’s attention.

He tossed the stick away and raised his foot, aiming to kick what was left of the anthill.

Don’t you dare to do that, mister, or you’ll be….

Henry interrupted. What? You’ll ground me for a week or make me miss my ball game or my hockey practice.

Henry!

The boy turned to face her and shrugged. Go ahead, ground me. There’s nowhere for me to go around here. It’s just stupid trees. Marvin doesn’t want me in his trailer, and Cramer won’t let me scrape his samples; he says I’m too young to handle a scraping knife. Tia-Lina’s always busy with her stupid models and Tavo won’t let me use my laptop so I can’t even play a game, the boy said and turned. He kicked the anthill apart with vicious defiance.

You can play a game after dinner, Sharri said, turning a blind eye to the boy’s destructive activity.

It’s morning, Mom. And the day never ends here. What am I supposed to do until it’s time to go to bed?

Go read a book on your iPad, Sharri snapped.

That’s boring, Henry objected, but at least he wasn’t looking for something else to destroy. I want to play a game. Why can’t I….

Henry, there is fifteen of us here, working. I am one of those fifteen. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, you don’t get to play your baseball or hockey. Are we clear on that?

It’s just one laptop, Henry said, voice quivering. Sharri knew that tears were not far behind. She thought that at ten, Henry was past the stage of trying to get his way by crying. And maybe he was—until five days ago when she made what felt like the worst decision of the decade.

Henry, our mobile internet here can handle only twenty Wi-Fi enabled devices at any given time. We need those twenty laptops and computers to do our work. Tavo has gone out of his way to shut off all non-essential systems so you can have a Wi-Fi connection in the evening. You haven’t even thanked him for it. If you’re going to continue being a spoiled brat, then I’ll ask Tavo to give Mia all your evening lap-top time.

Henry shrugged. I don’t care. There is no evening here. Everyone works on their stupid laptops all the time. I want to go home. I’m going to use my time to SKYPE Dad to come and get me. I don’t want to stay here with you and your stupid tree people. She can stay, he motioned at his sister who up to now stood a silent witness to the mother-son confrontation.

The little girl didn’t know what to do when she was suddenly thrust into the spotlight. When her brother stalked away, she looked at her mother then back to see her brother’s retreating back and decided to run after him.

Parenting 101 in five easy steps, Sharri heard and turned to see who had come to witness another one of her failures to communicate with her son.

If you’re ever wondering whether you want to be a parent, Emma, let this ugly scene re-play for you and after that, your decision should be easy, Sharri said.

Most of the fifteen members of the team were seasoned academics, but Emma Shaw was one of the two graduate students they’d brought along. She already had a degree in Forest Engineering and was enrolled in the Doctoral Program at Concordia University in Portland. She specialized in tree biology and Brinnell’s study would provide her with the much-needed field experience and the corresponding mountains of data that she needed to make her thesis shine.

Emma was easy to talk to. It was one of the reasons why Sharri pulled strings to make a space for her on the team. Emma was barely thirty but her pragmatic outlook on life was difficult to find in her generation. Then again, when was common sense easy to find, Sharri thought.

They’re bored, Shar. There isn’t much for a ten-year-old to do here; especially in nineteen hours of daylight. Hell, we’re surrounded by trees, shrubs, and more trees. It’s not like we had a big clearing where he could go and play catch with one of the guys, Emma said.

I literally had no choice, Emma, Sharri said.

Are your dad and Stepmom still in Belize?

Sharri laughed, bitterness creeping into her voice. Believe me, Emma, I’d have made both of them get on the first plane there was if they were still in Belize. They’re in New Zealand and I couldn’t even get hold of them. Daphna’s relative said they were traveling.

What about Michael?

Sharri shook her head. Her brother was perhaps even more unlucky than she was. He’s still in China and under quarantine. It’s not plague or anything like that but the way the Chinese are paranoid these days, he’ll be lucky if they let him out in a month, she said.

And Mom’s still dead, right? Emma deadpanned

Sharri laughed. She appreciated how Emma always found a way to lighten the dark mood. Yep. Has been these past ten years and she’s not coming back.

Emma swept their surroundings with her hand. That leaves last but not least, your friends and from the looks of it, all of them are here with you, on Brinnell’s.

Pretty much, Sharri confirmed.

You’ve got to make some new friends, Shar. If this project takes off, you might be looking at quite a few of these out-of-the-way charming vacation spots where to guide your team and shape them into productive geniuses, Emma said, chuckling.

I’ve seriously considered a boarding school for Henry, Sharri said.

That’s not a bad idea, Emma said, nodding.

Phillip wouldn’t even consider it.

How does he get to have any say in this?

He’s their father, Emma. And we have shared-custody, Sharri said.

He’s their absent father. Emma made a stronger point.

I’m sure it was something that he just couldn’t…. Her voice trailed off.

Would you have done what he did, Shar?

I’m their mother….:

And motherhood is weighted differently—you’re not that naïve.

He’s the one who suggested to take the kids for the summer. He wanted them…or so he said. If not for that, I’d have made arrangements for them long time ago, well before we had to leave for Brinnell’s.

Well, he changed his mind at the last moment, Emma said.

Tell me about it, Sharri said, sighing.

Does he resent your job, Shar? Emma took the conversation in a new direction.

Sharri shook her head. No, I don’t think so. He never did when we were still together. I mean it’s not like it was a competition. He’s a lawyer.

Environmental law?

No, corporate law, investments, real estate, Sharri said.

What broke the marriage?

Sharri moved her head uncertainly from side to side. That’s an interesting way of putting it, Emma. I’m not really sure. I thought we were doing all right. Then one day he comes home and says we should move to the East Coast. I didn’t want to go back East. There’s nothing there for me.

Shar, climate’s everywhere, Emma said softly.

But Biomass is in Seattle.

There are plenty of research institutes like Biomass back East, Shar.

Sharri sighed. Sure, but most are supported by their corporate sponsors.

If a corporation is willing to match the money that the government makes available for climate research, you should have no problem with that, Shar, Emma observed.

I do…or maybe not as much as I used to. Government funding can disappear from one minute to the next, but you don’t have to worry about corporate censorship.

Government can censor your research just as well as corporate sponsors, Shar, Emma pointed out.

If your research happens to appeal to the Defense Department—sure; they can muzzle you, but climate control is not something our military is interested in.

We’re on Brinnell’s to run field trials with the next generation miracle fertilizer, Shar. How long do you think Marvin will last before he starts calling the senator’s office? Come to think of it, he should have been at it before we left for Brinnell’s.

They both laughed. Marvin’s greatest ambition was to have the Defense Department show interest in one of his ‘miracles,’ as he referred to whatever project he was working on.

I know it’s only been four days, Shar, but we’ve got to hit the ground running on this one. Emma switched to business. Peter’s pretty much finished setting up the lab. He’s going to sleep in that trailer too. We’re not at the stage yet when we actually have data but Tavo made sure we’re set up if we want to crunch…anything. Adrian’s still sorting the seedlings but until the patch is cleared, we can’t start setting up plots. I found a spot just ahead, Emma nodded ahead.

Spot is all we can hope for here, Emma, Sharri said, looking around. They were lucky to find the natural clearing in relatively dense and pristine woods. It had looked promising in aerial photographs and it didn’t disappoint when the exhausted team made the half-a-mile trip, inland from the coast. It was flat terrain, with couple of meadows and water ponds. The cost of the cargo helicopter was subsidized by the government, but even then, their budget had only enough money for one trip. When they emerged from the forest, and saw the bundles of pre-fab material they would use to assembled their trailers, Sharri almost cried from relief. Two days later, when they finished taking inventory, her spirits perked up. Nothing was broken. Nothing had been left on the dock. Everything they needed to start their field trials came down and sat ready to be unpacked.

Shar…!

Sharri unfocused. Yeah, Emma, what is it?

I was just saying, I’m going to take the kids and have them help me clear off a patch, just up there, before the brush gets too thick. Then we’ll do some…recreational planting, Emma finished.

Recreational?

Emma laughed. Flowers, herbs, something that grows fast. Maybe some tomatoes they can check on every morning—growing vegetables is a good way to engage a kid’s interest. It’ll give them some responsibility….

Yeah, sure, thanks, Emma, Sharri said and for the first time in four days, smiled.

Chapter Two

Brinnell’s Island

Southeast Alaska

July, Present Day

It’s why I never married. A voice came from behind her. Sharri spun around.

Really, Marvin? I would have never guessed. Sarcasm was lost on Marvin but she just wasn’t in a mood to be ‘sensitive’ today.

Family is trouble, he continued. This morning, he found his ‘troop’ gear and came out of his trailer dressed in cargo-shorts, green knee socks and a scout-leader’s hat. He even pinned several merit badges on his shirt pocket. It was possible that Marvin was a boy-scout when he still wore a brush cut, but that proud event was decades in the past. Today, Marvin’s pony-tail and a messy beard were not something that the boy-scout troops would tolerate. Still, she knew that the eccentric bio-chemist was sentimental and could even have been a closet-romantic.

It’s just past eight o’clock, Marvin. Did you already have a breakthrough? The last thing she wanted this morning was to debate the merits and demerits of a family with Marvin. Lunch would have rolled by and she’d still be arguing with him.

I’ve made a couple of changes to the planting grid, he said, hands behind his back as if he was a schoolmaster, preparing for an inspection.

We’ve finalized the grid in Seattle. Why did you think it needed changing?

I’ve made the changes already.

As you said, but I want to know why, Sharri maintained.

Mei-Lin uploaded her pictures this morning. We took a look and she was right. There is muskeg along the route we took from shore. There is a low depression, just over there. He waved his hand. Sharri didn’t bother to look. Marvin’s hand-waves were never specific enough to actually indicated a direction.

There’s bound to be quite a few such low depressions on this island, Marvin. Why the sudden fascination with muskeg?

Muskegs are very acidic and have low fertility, Marvin said.

And you want to test the TDX on clubmosses, sedges, rushes, forbs and shrubs—is that it?

Marvin shook his head.

Marvin, I’m not in a guessing mood. What is it you want?

I’ve included the muskeg as grid thirty-seven, he said.

Thirty-six planting grids just wasn’t enough for you? Sharri tried to steady her breath. If she didn’t, the next word would come out louder than a gunshot.

The muskeg is just the right size. An area of about ten-by-ten feet.

Right size for…what, Marvin?

He smiled.

"Seriously?

It’s a perfect opportunity, Shar. Think about it—muskeg is a perfect testing environment. If the TDX succeeds in promoting growth of any species of tree that grows on this island, then it is indeed a miracle substance that I said it was…well, months ago.

Let me get this straight. You’re going to plant a hemlock seedling in muskeg—an area that is entirely devoid of ordinary mineral soil—and feed it your TDX fertilizer to see if the seedling grows roots…Marvin, some peat bogs get to be fifty, even hundred feet deep. They’re dangerous—deadly. Up here, I’d say they might reach to twenty, thirty feet. Even that’s deadly. We don’t have a lifetime to spend on Brinnell’s to see if your hemlock seedling manages to sink roots at least that deep if not deeper. Marvin’s ‘revolutionary’ ideas were normally eccentric and bizarre, but this one was way up there, on top of the hill of strange and idiotic ideas.

TDX will speed things up, Marvin said, daring to challenge her with a grin.

Oh, you’re going to open up a temporal rift over your muskeg, is that it? She was through being civil.

I’m going to run the test with two of each—spruce, hemlock, red cedar and yellow cedar. I’ll keep the standard six-foot separation. But I might throw in a pine, just to have enough for comparison of growth rate, Marvin said, oblivious to her sarcasm.

Marvin, you’re a botanist, you’re a biologist—hell, you’re a bio-chemist and a forester. Have you ever seen a hemlock or a cedar tree—in any stage of maturity—grow out of a peat bog and muskeg? She challenged him. Acidic environment like muskeg might produce stunted shore pine, short cottonwood and maybe some species of willow. But that muskeg was not to be found in Alaska. Distributing the TDX fertilizer around the muskeg here might yield thicker shrubbery; but that’s all Marvin could hope for with his…visionary approach.

No, Shar, he said. But I am confident that we will now. He rocked back and forth as much as the moss-covered ground allowed such movement.

She was the project leader. She was the leader of the expedition. She wanted to overrule him and stem the tide of his irrational and impractical visions. But that would take a considerable amount of energy—that she didn’t have.

You want to plant a dozen seedlings in muskeg, Marvin—go ahead. Who am I to stand in the way of scientific progress? You want to be the visionary who sticks a hemlock seedling into peat moss and expects it to sink roots all the way to the bottom of this island—go ahead. Try not to sink in and drown, while planting your ambitions. Make sure you document your procedures according to the project specifications, she finished with a reminder that only Marvin needed, and walked off to where she saw Doyle Cramer playfighting with Mei-Lin with a couple of bulrushes in hand. She was the other graduate student, doing her masters in environmetrics. She was also a statistician. Whatever data she’d bring back from Brinnell’s project, she would analyze it for the use by the environmental community. Cramer was a forester and Mei-Lin’s thesis advisor. They were both from the Seattle University.

I wanted you to hear for yourself the result of Marvin’s latest brainstorm, Mei-Lin said when Sharri approached. She stuck the bulrush in the ground that offered little resistance.

Yeah, he told me. Is this area part of the muskeg? she asked, motioning at the upright standing bulrush.

Cramer planted his bulrush ‘sword’ beside his colleague’s and said, No, just still wet from the last week’s rain out here, in the clearing. But you take a few steps inside the forest, and you’re crunching—the soil’s pretty dry further inside.

Marvin just added to our workload, Sharri said, nodding at Cramer. Would you mind helping out Tavo and Peter clearing that extra grid for Marvin’s hair-brained experiment? She turned to look at the clearing that had certainly grown since they first arrived, but most of it was taken up with trailers and sheds for storing equipment. Now they would have to extend their control grid further into the old forest.

Cramer must have followed her look and her thoughts. He said, Don’t worry, Shar. We won’t be expanding our footprint here by that much.

We’ve spent nearly a year setting up this study, Doyle. We had everything down to the tiniest detail—footprint, boundaries and all. Then we come here and only four days later…. Her voice trailed off.

When Marvin’s part of the study, nothing is fixed, everything is always in a state of flux, he said, sounding apologetic.

Yeah, tell me about it.

It’s not your fault, Dr. Flynn, Mei-Lin tried to make her feel better.

It probably is, Sharri murmured. The work-morning had hardly clocked in and it was a difficult day already—and would go on for sixteen more equally difficult hours. That was almost a sure thing. She nodded at them and walked back to see what Peter was doing in the lab-trailer.

Chapter Three

The Ruddington Terrace Country Club

Seattle, Washington State

July, Present Day

Reid Hatton stared at the polished brass footrest, engraved with its designer’s crest, wondering if he should put a foot on it. The club’s name alone reeked of money and pedigree but he didn’t expect it to be carried to such limits. Engraved brass footrests, laminated mahogany counter and crystal stemware. A bar was a place that ought to serve a decent drink, not intimidate its customers with pretentious designs.

Your drink, sir. The bartender put a crystal tumbler in front of him. It landed noiselessly on the polished surface.

I didn’t order anything…yet, Hatton grumbled.

The bartender served him a facetious smile and an irritating bow, then said, No sir, but your employer did. Gin and tonic, on the rocks.

Yeah, sure, thanks, Hatton said sourly. He shifted his weight on the well-padded bar stool. He was uncomfortable for many reasons.

He endured weekly meetings in the small boardroom because they were part of his job as the head of the Security Division at the Mannatar Holdings and Investments, in charge of Industrial and Scientific Investigations. He didn’t mind meeting in a regular restaurant like Altura or Six Seven. He liked pasta and seafood. Seattle had many decent eateries where to get such good food when his employer wanted him to ‘feel out’ the competition. But to be summoned to the Ruddington Terrace, a private club with closed membership was worrisome to say the least. The atmosphere sat heavy on his shoulders. It only reminded him that those who’d boast a membership in this institution came with steel-clad shoulders and steel-clawed boots. He wasn’t one of them. He had to be careful not to be kicked out of the way.

The security was something else too. He wasn’t strip-searched but he was marched through two stations and a metal scanner before allowed entry.

I bet you don’t do that to your members, he mumbled when he cleared the metal detector.

No, sir, the security guard said in soft tones, but you are not a member. You are a guest and as such….

He rushed away so he’d not have to listen to the rest of the crap.

They have a table for us—finally, he heard and turned so forcefully he almost fell off the bar stool.

His employer, or more precisely the third son of the second wife of his employer, waved him on.

Symbram Ahmet Ab'El Mayesh was the only one of the twenty-five children of Abdul Ahmet Ab’El Mayesh that was born in the US. He was left there too since he’d spent the first three months of his life in an incubator and could not be moved. By the time it was safe to take him out, his father, Prince Abdul, had bought a house in Malibu and staffed it with everything a royal infant needed to grow up into a royal prince. Forty years ago, attitudes on the West Coast were tolerant of people like Mayesh with off-shore roots and more money than they could spend in ten lifetimes. But nothing lasts forever. Times changed. And 9/11 saw to it that the changes turned permanent. It’s probably why Mayesh-the-lesser-prince moved his business and residence to Montlake neighborhood of Seattle. The Seattle coast wasn’t as nice as down in California but it was…safer for prince’s yachts.

Hatton wondered under what name did Mayesh register at the country club. He’d have bet the gin-and-tonic that the waiter carried ahead of him, that it wasn’t Symbram Ahmet Ab'El Mayesh.

Thank you for coming, Mayesh said without looking at Hatton and dismissed the bartender with an impatient hand wave.

Sit down, he urged when Hatton remained standing, unsure which of the three remaining chairs he should take.

Finally, he chose to sit across from his employer. He was surprised to see the waiter bring an iPad and put it beside Mayesh who picked it up and started flipping through the screens.

As of now, sir, they’ve been on the Island ten days, Hatton said. He felt he should break the oppressive silence. He never liked upholstered or quilted things and everything in Ruddington Terrace felt…overstuffed; even the silence.

I can read, Mr. Hatton, Mayesh said without lifting his head.

Hatton realized the man was just reading the report that was submitted a week ago. Suddenly, the silence squeezing him from all sides felt like a python. It took all of his composure not to bolt.

There’s fifteen of them, including two kids, Hatton spoke again.

I can read. The reply came as dry and dispassionate as before.

They weren’t supposed to be there, he said, resigned to his employer’s wrath.

Really? That’s hard to believe. Don’t all scientists bring their kids along when they’re going to do months of fieldwork? Mayesh’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

I understand it was an emergency. The kids were supposed to stay with their father for the summer, but her ex didn’t show up to pick them up and the boat was leaving. She had no choice if she was to make contact with the chopper before it left to deliver the cargo to Brinnell’s, he explained.

What, no other relatives? Mayesh obviously didn’t believe him.

None that could make it that far up north in six hours.

Brinnell’s Island is off the coast of Alaska. It’s not at the North Pole.

She decided to bring the kids with her. The school’s out for the summer. I guess it won’t matter all that much…I’m sure she’ll make the arrangements to send them back to the mainland on the next supply run, when the chopper comes, he said.

They’ve been there ten days already. How many runs did the cargo helicopter make in that time? Mayesh queried with a sour grimace.

None. They only budgeted for three supply runs over the next six months.

I gather then that they brought along a good supply of hunting weapons, Mayesh snickered. Hatton stayed silent.

Mayesh continued musing. I can just see the headlines: The Biomass Institute’s Scientific expedition to Brinnell’s Island has the scientists foraging for food—hunting and fishing just to catch their next meal. Give them two more weeks and they’ll be hunting each other before breakfast. What kind of idiocy is it to budget for three supply runs? With a crowd like that, you need to have a supply run every week.