Oh my God. Why didn’t I just call Trevor on day one? “I know—it’s stupid, a waste of time, and unprofessional. I’m not sure who can help us fix this situation, but—”
“Then you better figure it the hell out. What have you been doing there for a week, visiting the space museum?
Bee, you’re not on vacation.”
“I—”
“It’s your responsibility to get BLINK going. What do you think you were hired for?”
Right. This is why I didn’t call Trevor. “I have no power or connections here. My liaison is Levi, and whatever I do is—”
“Clearly, whatever you do is not enough.” He takes a deep breath. “Listen carefully, Bee. George Kramer called me last night.” Kramer is the head of our NIH institute—so far removed from my lowly postdoc position that it takes me a moment to place the name. “On Friday, he talked with the director of NIH and with two members of Congress. The general consensus is that BLINK is the kind of project that taxpayers eat up. It mixes astronauts and brains, which market-test well among average Americans. They’re sexy topics.” I recoil. I can never hear Trevor and his smelly breath use the word
“sexy” again. “Plus, it’s the joint collaboration of two already beloved government agencies. It’ll make the current administration look good, and they need to look good.”
I frown. He has been talking for over a minute and hasn’t mentioned science once. “I don’t see what this means?”
“It means that as of right now there’s a lot of scrutiny over BLINK. Over your performance. Kramer wants weekly updates, starting today.”
“He wants an update today?”
“And every week from today.”
Well, this is going to be a problem. What the hell am I supposed to tell him? That I have no progress to report— but will he accept an R-rated list of elaborately intricate murder fantasies I have spun regarding Dr. Levi Ward?
I am toying with the idea of turning them into a graphic novel.
“And, Bee,” Trevor is saying, “Kramer doesn’t care about attempts. He wants results.”
“Wait a minute. I can give Kramer however many updates he wants. But this is science, not PR. I want results as much as he does, but we’re talking about building a piece of equipment that will alter astronauts’ brain activity.
I’m not going to rush through experiments and make a possibly fatal mistake—”
“Then you’re off this project.”
My jaw drops. I stop in the middle of the crosswalk— until a Nissan honks and startles me into running to the sidewalk. “What—what did you just say?”
“If you don’t get your act together, I’m going to pull you and send someone else.”
“Why? Who?”
“Hank. Or Jan. Or someone else—you know how long the list is? How many people applied for this position?”
“But that’s the point! I got BLINK because I’m the most qualified, you can’t just send someone else!”
“I can if you’ve been there for an entire week and got nothing done. Bee, I don’t care if you’re the best I have at neurostimulation—if you don’t get it together soon, you’re out.”
By the time I get to the office, my heart is pounding and my head’s in chaos. Can Trevor take me off of BLINK? No. He can’t. Or maybe he can. I have no clue.
Shit, of course he can. He can do whatever he wants, especially if he can prove that I’m not doing enough. Which he will be able to do, thanks to Levi Wardass. God, I hate him. My murder fantasies reach their final form: longitudinal impalement. Vlad-style. I’ll plant the stake right outside my bedroom window. His suffering can be the last thing I see before I sleep and the first when I wake up. I’ll sprinkle nectar all over him, so the hummingbirds can feast on his blood. Solid plan.
Rocío asked for the morning off. I’m alone in the office and free to do what my heart desires: head-desk. What are my options here? I need to get a straight answer on when the equipment will be delivered, but I don’t know who to ask. Guy will direct me to Levi, Levi won’t talk to me, and .
. .
I sit up as an idea starts forming in my head. Two minutes later I’m on the phone with StimCase, the company that produces the system I use. “This is Dr. Bee
Königswasser, calling from the Sullivan Discovery Institute, NASA. I wanted to check on the status of our order—it’s a TMS system.”
“Of course.” The customer service lady’s voice is low and soothing. “Do you have an order number?”
“Um, not at hand. My, um, assistant is out. But the listed principal investigator should be either me or Dr. Levi Ward.”
“Just a moment, then. Oh, yes. Under Dr. Ward’s name. But it looks like the order was canceled.”
My stomach twists in knots. I tighten my fingers around the phone to avoid dropping it. “Could you . . .” I clear my throat. “Could you check again?”
“It was supposed to be shipped last Monday, but Dr. Ward canceled it the previous Friday.” The day Levi first saw me in Houston. The day he saved my life. The day he decided that he had no intention of working with me, ever.
“I . . . Okay.” I nod, even though she can’t possibly see me. “Thank you.”
The hang-up noise is deafeningly loud, echoing through my head for long moments.
I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Shit. Shit. You know who would know what to do? Dr. Curie, of course. But also: Annie. When she was a third year, some guy stole her optic fibers, so she installed a subroutine on his computer that made lobster porn pop-up every time he typed the letter x.
He almost dropped out of grad school. That night we celebrated by making
watermelon sangria and reinventing the Macarena on the roof of her apartment building.
