waiting. I can’t believe how cheap their stage is. Five dollars a day for unlimited use. Why don’t you get one while you’re here? I’ll bill L&B for it.”
“I’m covered. I have roaming.”
“Isn’t that expensive? By the day, it must be—”
“Twenty dollars if I max out. Remember, I’ll be stuck in Yagodo’s office almost the whole the time.”
“Yes, I forgot.”
Before I hit the sack the night before, Kurokawa had confirmed that Mother Mekong was already collecting the second round of samples from the intruder and SR06 at multiple locations across the site. He was expecting the new data today.
Yagodo wouldn’t be on the case until tomorrow at the earliest, but once he started salvaging I’d have my hands full looking for matches. Since Yagodo was an excellent salvager, I might have to comb through dozens of genomes a day. It didn’t look like I’d have much time to get out.
But I wasn’t in Vietnam just to sift through suspect genomes. We still had no idea why the mutation—or intrusion—happened and only a month to figure out how to stop it from happening again. If Yagodo’s advice didn’t turn out to be helpful, I’d have to head back to Tokyo as soon as the salvaging was done.
“I guess all we have today is our meet and greet with Yagodo?”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to it. I watched that video closely. Yagodo is a real find. Even L&B doesn’t have many people with that much talent.”
“Yeah. That dog avatar took me by surprise though. Hey, it’s about time.”
My suitcase was finally coming along the carousel.
* * *
“This person who’s meeting us. How do you pronounce that?”
Yagodo had texted that a “Miss Nguyen” would be waiting at the airport. The gender was clear, but the name was a mystery. How did you say it?
“It must be something like ‘Gwen,’ ” said Kurokawa over his shoulder. I was pushing a cart loaded with our luggage while Kurokawa walked ahead. We emerged from the baggage claim area into the lobby and a sea of faces, all yelling at once.
“Hey mister! Over here!” “Taxi, very cheap!”
A waist-high fence ran the length of the lobby, separating us from the taxi and hotel touts, people holding boards with passenger names, and throngs of waiting people. The touts shouted in Japanese, probably because of Kurokawa’s suit.
I stopped in my tracks, stunned by the noise. In a few seconds the T-shirt under my shoulder strap was damp. The low-ceilinged lobby must have had air conditioning, but it felt five degrees hotter than back by the carousel. The aroma of chicken broth and cilantro filled my nostrils, reminding me that I’d missed lunch on the plane.
The crowd behind the railings seemed incredibly diverse. I kept noticing a man in a short-sleeved Mao jacket and black slacks with a bored smirk on his face. He was holding a sign at chest level that said “Gorph Robertson” in fancy calligraphy. I walked the length of the railing slowly, but no one was holding a board with our names on it.
I reached the far end of the lobby and headed back. The skinhead who had called Kurokawa “kid” was walking toward the central exit, followed by a straw-haired guy pushing her luggage cart. The cart was now piled even higher with luggage that she must have checked. The mound looked like it was about to topple. The pair passed through the exit and out of sight.
“They must be journalists. That’s quite a load.”
I heard Kurokawa, but my attention was nailed to the exit. A young woman with long black hair was standing just inside, next to the automatic door.
The lobby was crowded with people reuniting with loved ones, hugging and chatting happily. Others crisscrossed the lobby, turning their heads constantly, searching for someone. In the middle of all this the woman stood motionless, holding a board with something on it, staring intently at the baggage claim exit.
She was wearing a close-fitting white silk tunic with trailing
“I’m covered. I have roaming.”
“Isn’t that expensive? By the day, it must be—”
“Twenty dollars if I max out. Remember, I’ll be stuck in Yagodo’s office almost the whole the time.”
“Yes, I forgot.”
Before I hit the sack the night before, Kurokawa had confirmed that Mother Mekong was already collecting the second round of samples from the intruder and SR06 at multiple locations across the site. He was expecting the new data today.
Yagodo wouldn’t be on the case until tomorrow at the earliest, but once he started salvaging I’d have my hands full looking for matches. Since Yagodo was an excellent salvager, I might have to comb through dozens of genomes a day. It didn’t look like I’d have much time to get out.
But I wasn’t in Vietnam just to sift through suspect genomes. We still had no idea why the mutation—or intrusion—happened and only a month to figure out how to stop it from happening again. If Yagodo’s advice didn’t turn out to be helpful, I’d have to head back to Tokyo as soon as the salvaging was done.
“I guess all we have today is our meet and greet with Yagodo?”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to it. I watched that video closely. Yagodo is a real find. Even L&B doesn’t have many people with that much talent.”
“Yeah. That dog avatar took me by surprise though. Hey, it’s about time.”
My suitcase was finally coming along the carousel.
* * *
“This person who’s meeting us. How do you pronounce that?”
Yagodo had texted that a “Miss Nguyen” would be waiting at the airport. The gender was clear, but the name was a mystery. How did you say it?
“It must be something like ‘Gwen,’ ” said Kurokawa over his shoulder. I was pushing a cart loaded with our luggage while Kurokawa walked ahead. We emerged from the baggage claim area into the lobby and a sea of faces, all yelling at once.
“Hey mister! Over here!” “Taxi, very cheap!”
A waist-high fence ran the length of the lobby, separating us from the taxi and hotel touts, people holding boards with passenger names, and throngs of waiting people. The touts shouted in Japanese, probably because of Kurokawa’s suit.
I stopped in my tracks, stunned by the noise. In a few seconds the T-shirt under my shoulder strap was damp. The low-ceilinged lobby must have had air conditioning, but it felt five degrees hotter than back by the carousel. The aroma of chicken broth and cilantro filled my nostrils, reminding me that I’d missed lunch on the plane.
The crowd behind the railings seemed incredibly diverse. I kept noticing a man in a short-sleeved Mao jacket and black slacks with a bored smirk on his face. He was holding a sign at chest level that said “Gorph Robertson” in fancy calligraphy. I walked the length of the railing slowly, but no one was holding a board with our names on it.
I reached the far end of the lobby and headed back. The skinhead who had called Kurokawa “kid” was walking toward the central exit, followed by a straw-haired guy pushing her luggage cart. The cart was now piled even higher with luggage that she must have checked. The mound looked like it was about to topple. The pair passed through the exit and out of sight.
“They must be journalists. That’s quite a load.”
I heard Kurokawa, but my attention was nailed to the exit. A young woman with long black hair was standing just inside, next to the automatic door.
The lobby was crowded with people reuniting with loved ones, hugging and chatting happily. Others crisscrossed the lobby, turning their heads constantly, searching for someone. In the middle of all this the woman stood motionless, holding a board with something on it, staring intently at the baggage claim exit.
She was wearing a close-fitting white silk tunic with trailing
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