The Target

“It’s fine. I know it. We know it.” Her voice was firm, almost angry. We both knew she was lying.

I knew I wanted to have children with her on the grey afternoon when we met. I know that sounds insane or sexist or awful in some way or other, but I don’t care. It’s the strange truth. Everything she did, and a surprising number of the things she said, solved a problem I hadn’t seen until she solved it. I don’t know about you, but serious, powerful intelligence really turns me on. She was almost frighteningly attractive in the lab. Wearing so much protective equipment that she could have been almost anyone, or anything, under there, and yet…I mean, it wasn’t like I wanted to have sex with her right away or anything. I’m not even sure I actually want to have children with anyone, if I’m honest. The point is that some people seem to deserve to go on, in one form or another. If I could help her to carry on, forever, I would.

I couldn’t believe my luck when Dr. Elkins assigned us to the same project. It wasn’t a trivial project, either. It was a little scary, but fascinating. This company was funding gain of function research through an elaborate network of shell corporations. Rumor had it that there was State money involved, too. It had to be arms length, invisible.

Revolutionary research is usually dangerous. The mistakes can destroy careers, even governments, before success can be achieved. But the project seemed right, and massively significant. I mean, it is such a good idea to try to create lethal viruses before natural selection does, so we can conquer them the moment they show up. Isn’t seeing the monster coming an advantage?

She was thrilled by the project too, though she dismissed most of my initial concerns about it as nonsense. She did it in a way that made me want to kiss her. I hate it when she does that, but only at first. Then I figure out where she is, and kick myself for not seeing the signs, let alone the road. She reads a lot of Schopenhauer. He once wrote, “Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one else can see.” He wrote it in German, of course. She can read it in the original. I think she pointed that line out, in translation, for me, so I would recognize her.

The first sample we worked on was xenomorphic: the sequencing was crazy. We weren’t even sure it was terrestrial, you know? At least, I wasn’t. She was so bloody quick. I was just holding the scaffold while she painted the ceiling, most of the time. It made me angry when we had to stop. My blood must have been mostly caffeine for the first six weeks or so. Elkins sent us glowing emails. We were probably a year ahead of schedule. She was, anyway. The funding ballooned.

She wasn’t making something new. She was letting what was already there recognize itself or--wake up. Yes, that’s it. Dormant, ancient parts of the sample were aroused, throbbing. I knew the feeling. It could eat worlds, this thing. It’s beautiful.

She started to talk about Elkins a lot. His taste in wine, his fondness for Vivaldi, this joke he liked about a paper one of his graduate students had turned in: “What was good about it was not original and what was original about it was not good.” She giggled every time she repeated it. I had heard it before, of course, but I couldn’t even think that without irritating her. She worships the old bastard. Sure, he’s the mind behind the whole operation, and we’ll never starve. But he annoys me.

About an hour ago, she reamed me out for rushing some calculations. I haven’t had a solid meal in three days, and sound sleep is just a dream. I sort of lost it. I told her that line about the paper is stale, and rubbed her nose in the irony. Her silence made my teeth ache. Then, in a calm, quiet voice, she started listing all of my errors and stupid habits. I shouted at her to stop. She told me she knew.

She knew I was out of my mind in love with her. She stated it like the cost of a sandwich. She stopped what she was doing and just looked at me. Then she started to describe things she and Elkins have done. Naked. I begged her to stop and slammed my hand down in the laminar floor hood.

The petri dishes we use are supposed to be shock resistant and virtually impervious to most, conventional threats. I was angry in a way I have never been, though. If that dish had been any part of Elkins, it would have been a fine mist. Against considerable odds, my glove did breach the surface. A shard breached my glove.

She didn’t panic. She initiated emergency protocol, typed about seven, elegant but alarmed messages to different recipients on the terminal before I could figure out what was happening, and hustled me into decontamination. It takes about sixty seconds for the initial test.

We’re waiting.

I love her.