Unsaid was “You’re the two that blew themselves up.” Really, do it once and people don’t let you live it down.
“Yup!” Jillian juggled the big box she was carrying, nearly spilling it, to point in the direction of their father’s office. “Our dad is this way—right? I got something to show him.” She started to march down the hall, all but commanding that she be followed.
“Wait. I don’t know if he’s back there!” The receptionist glanced at Louise, who seemed nose deep in a book. Swallowing the bait, she headed after Jillian. “Which one were you again?”
Louise counted to five, and the shrieks started. According to Laura’s social network page, she was terrified of snakes. While Louise loved the ball python they’d found at a small, and possibly illegal pet store, Jillian could better act out “accidently” dropping the box and setting the snake free.
“Follow,” Louise told Tesla and hurried down the hallway toward the cyro-room. They had practiced the extraction at home, using all stand-in material. It should take her only three minutes, but that was assuming that nothing went wrong. Louise swiped the copy of their father’s keycard through the lock. Jillian could keep the office distracted for several minutes but probably not more than five.
There were skin-tight gloves, big blue protective gloves, a heavy lined apron and a full-face plastic facemask. She pulled them on quickly as she scanned the blue-capped cryogenic tanks. An odd design flaw of the security system, there was no camera in the room. They hadn’t been able to determine how the tanks were labeled. There were two tall square units and two tall cylinder tanks and then a host of short tanks tucked under a work counter. The taller units were simply labeled “1” or “2” while the short ones counted up to “6.” She knew that the babies were stored as H-2-3-2-753694. The initial seemed to indicate a size, but which of the three units labeled “2” was “H”?
“Hello?” Joy suddenly appeared on one of the small tanks under the counter. “Who’s there?” She patted the side of the tank, claws clicking. “Hello?”
“Shhhh!” Louise cried. The baby dragon had slept all day; why did she have to wake up now? Louise picked up Joy and put her on her shoulder. It was a “2” tank. Was it the right one?
The small tank was on wheels. She rolled it out from under the counter. Louise swiped her father’s keycard through the reader on the cap and typed in 753694. If the vial was inside, the lock would acknowledge the code, and unfortunately make a record that it had been accessed.
The reader blinked from red to green. It was the right tank. Louise flipped up the lid and took out the polyurethane cap under the lid. Instantly the air hitting the opened pit turned to misty clouds. There were six wire handles of the racks suspended within the liquid nitrogen. Each was etched with a number. She wanted the second box off the third rack. She unhooked the handle labeled “3” and carefully raised up the rack, wisps of freezing air flowing off it. On the rack were five little boxes inside wire frames, pegged into place by a restraining bar. She removed the bar and wriggled free the second box. She slid off the lid to the box, revealing four frozen vials standing inside slots. She took the first one out and peered closely at the label.
“Hello?” Joy pointed at the one of the far end. “Who’s there?”
Louise put the first vial back into the stand and checked the end vial. 753694. “Score!”
She opened up Tesla’s storage compartment and used the key word to open the nactka. Once the vial was safely inside, she activated it. The babies safe, she replaced the lid on the vial box, put it back into the rack, put the retaining bar back on, and carefully lowered the rack back into the liquid nitrogen. She was pushing the tank back under the counter when she realized she’d forgotten to put the polyurethane cap back into place.
Swearing, she pulled the tank back, flipped up the lid and put the cap in place.
She started to shake once she and Tesla were back in the hallway, Joy tucked into the wide front pocket of Louise’s backpack, a bag of Cheerios to keep her quiet. The shrieks were still at full volume and dozens of loud adult voices were coming from the direction of their father’s office.
Jillian was still in full distraction mode. Time for damage control.
Laura Runkle was the one shrieking. She was standing on a desk, prancing, as if she were trying to run up invisible stairs to get even higher. Several other people were sitting on their desks, trying to look nonchalant but asking loudly, “But is it poisonous?” as if such a thing were in the range of possibilities.