13. Vaughn
THIRTEEN
VAUGHN
The lab is at its best in the morning.
There’s this energy from my team as they check their work each morning. The excitement when they find the tiniest change that happened overnight.
In combination with the light coming through the roof windows, which I asked for when the building was designed, it’s one of my favorite places to be.
I’m at my desk, trying not to think of Silas and Rowan getting up to goodness knows what—knowing Rowan, it’ll be some high-adrenaline type of activity.
I especially try not to think of what I did just before my son showed up, which is pointless because I can still feel Silas’s lips, the way his tongue sought mine, his warm breath. The worst is that I don’t regret it, but I know it can’t happen again.
Now I know my willpower isn’t as strong as I thought it was. Years without a relationship? Months without sex with another person? Sure, I can do that. Days in Silas’s constant presence is what’s breaking me.
It’s probably a good thing Rowan showed up and took him away, even if just for the night.
I pull up my data reports and start working through them as the lab fills up around me. Dom arrives first, then Priya, then the two graduate students who come in three days a week.
By ten I’ve finished the moisture data and moved on to the preliminary results from the latest seedling batch, which are, as Dom noted yesterday, running twelve percent ahead of projection. I look at the numbers for a long time, then I ask Dom to check them, and he tells me they’re right.
“Guys, this is it,” I say. “The methodology is working better than the model predicted, which means the publication timeline I’ve been working toward is not only achievable but potentially ahead of schedule.”
“I knew it.” Dom punches the air. “Someone owes me cookies.”
“I brought you cookies last week,” Priya says.
“Well, you should try being right more often, and I’d be the one getting them.”
I don’t need to look at Priya to know she’s rolling her eyes.
I go back to my desk and pull up my email to send a message to Professor Amara Osei at Makerere University in Kampala, asking if she’s available for a call. It’s just after seven in the evening there, but it’s not the first time we’ve spoken at this time.
Her reply comes back in four minutes.
Available now if you are.
Professor Osei’s face fills my screen, slightly pixelated at first before the connection gets better. The bookshelves of her office at Makerere are behind her, which means I’m not interrupting her evening.
“Vaughn,” she says, her voice filled with warmth. “You look tired.”
“I’ve been told I look tired for approximately thirty years, Amara,” I say. “It’s called being a parent.”
She laughs. “The conference went well?”
“Very well. The European response was stronger than I expected. There’s real interest in the methodology from the Nordic agricultural research community … which is part of why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I can’t say I haven’t been hoping for your call,” she says.
“Amara, the results I’m seeing here in Colorado are ahead of projection. Significantly ahead. I’m ready to take this into the next experimental phase.”
“And you’re thinking Uganda,” she says.
“The red laterite soils in the central region are exactly the kind of degraded agricultural land the methodology is designed for. If it works there—”
“It works everywhere,” Amara finishes for me.
I nod. “Or at least, if this works, then we have a much stronger case that it can.”
She leans back in her chair and studies me with barely contained enthusiasm. “I’ve been talking to the faculty here. The agricultural science department has been searching for exactly this kind of collaboration, and I have a team of talented students that are ready to work on a project like this.”
“I really hope this works.” I run a hand through my hair. “Can you imagine, Amara? The smallholder farmers who are working degraded land and losing yields every season could have reliable crops.”
“You really are something special, Vaughn. I’ve never met an American who isn’t interested in money, fame, or glory.”
I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’ll have the full methodology, results, and proposed trial parameters by Friday.”
“Good.”
“And Amara? This can’t go beyond the university.” I’m as direct as I can because the stakes are so high. “We can’t risk someone getting their hands on this research.”
We talk for a few more minutes about the timeline, the resource requirements, the question of whether I’ll travel to Uganda for the initial trial setup, and then we say goodbye.
I close the laptop and sit for a moment in the quiet of my office, thinking about how close I am to fulfilling my goal. World hunger could be a thing of the past in just a few years.
This is why my work matters.
Not the academic recognition or the acquisition offers from companies that want to own it.
I pick up my phone to check the time and find a message from Rowan.
Rowan:
Dad. Me and Silas are on the Arkansas today. White water rafting with Hux. Camping overnight at the overlook. Don’t wait up.
I try not to think too hard about the dangers of white water rafting.
Vaughn:
Be careful. Both of you. Come back in one piece. And tell Hux I said hi.
Rowan:
You’re such a dad. Love you.
I pick up my pen and go back to the seedling data.
I’m in the middle of annotating the root length measurements of tomato seedlings when Priya knocks.
“Come in,” I call.
“There’s a package for you,” she says. She’s standing in the doorway holding a small cardboard box.
“We didn’t order anything.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“What courier was it?”
“Don’t know. Just dropped it at the front entrance,” she says. “The security camera shows a van. No markings. The driver didn’t come to the desk.”
I take the package and grab the knife to open it. It’s probably one of those joke gifts Rowan sometimes sends us. We’ve so far received T-shirts, paperweights, sticky notepads and coffee mugs. All with some kind of plant-related pun. He probably forgot he ordered it.
The box is heavier than usual. When I open it, the first thing I see is a note.
In case you ignored the email.
I go still.
I set down the knife, then go to the window that faces the access road. All I see is Clayton’s truck in the distance.
Nothing else. No van. No unmarked vehicle.
I go back to the desk, but instead of the book, I check my emails. With the excitement of work, I haven’t looked at my mailbox all morning.
The email is at the top of the unread list. The subject line says A friendly warning before this becomes unfriendly.
It’s from a law firm called Hargrove & Associates.
I recognize the pattern immediately. Not this specific email, but the shape and language of it.
It’s a combination of legal formality and implicit threat that I’ve been receiving in various forms for the better part of two years.
Someone has decided they want to own my research by implying I stole someone else’s intellectual property.
Well, I’d like to see them prove that, but they’re not interested in taking this further. They want me to be scared enough to sell my work.
The problem for them is I can’t be bought. This is why my research, while in collaboration with the University of Denver, is not tied to the school. None of its grants fund my work.
I read the email again carefully. At the bottom of the email is a single line.
We trust you’ll make the right decision for yourself and your family.
I close the email and go back to the box. Under the note is a folder. Inside that is an acquisition contract. I ignore it because I know what it’s going to say. There’s also an envelope containing two photographs.
The first is from Warsaw. Me at the lectern during the presentation, the large screen of the conference hall visible behind me. The photo looks like it was taken from the audience.
The second shows me and Seth in my hotel restaurant. Seth leaning forward and me laughing at something he’s said. The angle is from outside, probably taken from a distance, if the quality is anything to go by.
I was being watched in Warsaw, and whoever was watching me is deliberately informing me they’re here and waiting for me.
I close the folder and focus on the wall of my office for a moment, trying to process this information and the level of danger I could be in.
“Vaughn.”
Priya’s back in the doorway. Her expression is filled with worry.
I hold out the folder. “This stays between you and me.”
She takes it and reads in silence, going through the legal document and the envelope. Her expression changes when she reaches the photographs, and she closes the folder.
“This is scary, Vaughn. Who’s doing this?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “But I’m going to find out. I’m going to speak to the sheriff. See what he thinks we should do about security.”
She nods.
“Don’t mention this to Dom yet,” I say. “Or the students. I don’t want to alarm anyone until I know what we’re dealing with.”
She nods again, sets the folder on my desk, and goes back to her bench.
This isn’t the first correspondence of this kind I’ve received. Every time my research gets any attention, they come out to try to show me who the big kids in the playground are.
One of the reasons I love living in Pine Ridge so much is that everyone knows everyone, and new people stand out.
What really worries me is that whoever is making this threat knows where my research lab is. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep that a secret. Even the people in Pine Ridge don’t know who I am or what I do. Another reason I kept them mostly at bay until HelixGen came knocking.
HelixGen. Could they be behind this? It would make sense.
I pick up my phone and unlock it.
Rowan’s last message is still on the screen.
Love you.
Involving Rowan in this is an option, but I wouldn’t put his career at risk by asking him to investigate this off the record. I pull up Atlas’s phone number instead.
He picks up after two rings.
“Hey, Vaughn! Thank you for saving me from the most boring meeting I’ve ever had to endure.”
I laugh. “Thanks?”
“No, honestly, thank you. What can I do for you?”
“Could I have the contact number for your friend Jordan?”
There’s a pause on the other side of the line.
“What’s going on, Vaughn?”
I don’t know how much I should tell him, but if I want the help of his hacker friend, I’ll need to give him something.
“Would you and Kai like to come over to my place for dinner tonight? I can tell you more then.”
“We’ll see you then.”