Chapter 11 #2
I drop the sample on the bench and reach for the tools. There’s nothing state-of-the-art, but the hands remember what the brain can’t. I strip the gloves from the peg, pull them on, and in a single motion pop the vial, upend it, and set to work.
First, the basics: separation, filtration, check for solubility.
The silt falls apart under even minor agitation, the micro-roots clumping in what used to be called a “floc,” but here it’s just another flavor of threat.
I test for pH, then run a thumb down the margin of the old logbook.
The paper’s so worn that the pages stick together, but I find the baseline in half a second.
I’m halfway through a titration when Maven slips inside, silent as ever. They lean against the rack, arms crossed, but the usual smirk is gone. Just watching, the way an animal watches the weather.
“You always work this fast?” they ask.
I shrug. “Only when the clock’s running.”
The logbook says the east basin spike was first noticed ten days ago. I check the day’s readings, cross-reference, and see the problem instantly: the sludge is doubling the load on the pre-filters. Left alone, it’ll overwhelm the biochar in less than a week.
I don’t have the right solvents, but I improvise—take two scoops of potassium iodide from the shelf, mix it into a beaker of filtered water, and add a drop of acid to make the whole thing angry.
The reaction is immediate: the solution clouds, then clarifies, the root matrix shriveling to a dense, black coil at the base.
Maven whistles. “That’s not standard.”
“It works,” I say. “The next generation might even be drinkable.”
They move closer, the lamp behind their head casting the face in shadow. “You remember how to do all this?”
I nod, but I don’t say that it’s muscle memory, not real memory. The hands know. The head just follows.
I prep a second beaker, this time mixing a smaller dose. I swirl it, watching the reaction chase itself around the glass, and then something sharp and electric slams into my left temple. For an instant, the world turns to white noise.
Then:
A different room. Not the filter house—a lab, so clean it buzzes.
Walls of glass, metal benches, racks of gene sequencers blinking in time with an emergency beacon.
I’m at the center of it, hands moving in a blur, gloves splattered with something that’s redder than blood but not blood.
The smell is ozone, antiseptic, and a deeper, animal panic.
In the far corner, a man in a suit shouts numbers at me, his voice distorted by the pulse in my ears.
The view swings. My hands are patching a seal on a containment chamber. I see the code: 79-A. I feel the urgency, the understanding that if I don’t finish this, something irreversible will happen—not to me, but to everything.
The memory flickers. Now I’m running. A corridor, alarms, glass shattering in sequence as doors lock behind me.
I shout for someone—Jackson?—but the name is lost in the static.
The only thing that matters is the small, blue-glowing pendant around my neck, and the certainty that it’s all I have left.
And then: black.
I come back to the filter house gasping, lungs locked in the panic of the remembered moment. The beaker in my hand is shattered, glass biting into my palm. There’s a chemical burn on my wrist, and the air is thick with iodine vapor.
Maven is beside me, hands on my shoulders. “Hey. Hey! Breathe.”
I do. The world narrows, sharpens. The pain is real, here-and-now, but it’s nothing compared to the terror of the flashback.
“Sorry,” I say, and wipe my hand on the front of my shirt. The blood smears purple, then brown.
Maven doesn’t let go. “What the fuck just happened?”
I don’t want to talk, but the words come anyway.
“Memory. It’s… not like remembering. More like being thrown back into it.
I was in a lab. Big one. Higher tech than this by a factor of ten.
” I squeeze my eyes shut, chase the details.
“There was a containment breach. I was patching the seal, but I knew—” I hesitate, taste the fear again.
“I knew it wouldn’t be enough. That something was going to spread. ”
Maven looks at the mess on the table, then at me. “That’s how you knew what to do here.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I just learned the hard way.”
They let go of my shoulders, but not before giving me a little shake. “You’re not the first person in this place to see ghosts, but you’re the first to pull something back with you.”
I snort. “Lucky me.”
They turn, grab a rag, and help me mop up the iodine. The act is almost gentle, but Maven can’t keep curiosity out of their voice. “What do you think it was? The thing you were sealing in?”
I shake my head. “Don’t know. But it felt important.” I want to say ‘critical,’ but the word scares me.
Maven tosses the rag in the bin. “You get flashbacks a lot?”
“Only when I’m around stuff like this,” I say. “Chemistry. Engineering. Anything with risk.”
Maven looks at the shattered glass, then back at me. “Then you’re going to have a tough time out here.”
“I already do,” I say.
For a minute, we just stand in the chemical fog, both of us soaking in the new reality.
Maven breaks the silence. “You’re not safe here, you know. Kang’s got his own agenda, and the Authority loves to disappear people with skills.”
“I guessed.” I scoffed.
They drum their fingers on the table, thinking. “There’s someone you should talk to. An old researcher, lives on the fringe of the Zone. Still remembers the world before the Protocols.” Maven’s eyes glint with a mix of respect and dread. “Name’s Elara. She’ll know what to do with someone like you.”
I let it hang. The name means nothing, but the idea does. “What’s her angle?”
“She hates the Military even more than you do,” Maven says, and grins. “Which makes her practically a saint.”
I nod, and start cleaning the bench with Maven. The iodine stains won’t come off my skin, not for days. But the flashbacks—the ghosts—are already fading, washed away by the familiar logic of the task.
I finish the new filter mix, pour it into the sample tray, and label it for Kang. “This will get them three more weeks,” I say. “After that, they’re on their own.”
Maven takes the tray, studies my face. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t want to do anything,” I say, and mean it. “But I have to.”
They gesture at the door. “Come by the hut after dark. I’ll take you to her.”
We exit the filter house together. The sky is shading toward late afternoon, a blood-and-copper kind of light. I watch the dust settle behind Maven’s boots, and know I’ll follow, no matter how many ghosts come with me.