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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cancellation


Ten days later, I’d just started a new design of a nonflying prototype for urban use when a calendar notification materialized on projection monitor four.

Hatching event.

“What the—” I began. Then I remembered the softball-sized egg for the little smart dragon. Even though my snarkiness had faded a bit since designing that model, I kind of wanted to see it hatch. At the very least, a tiny genius dragon against the stiff hatchery staffers was a matchup I didn’t want to miss.

Sunlight streamed from seven of the hatching pods’ windows; we were running at full capacity. But all the pods held run-of-the-mill Rover models. My pint-sized creation was nowhere to be found. I went back and checked my calendar, which showed that the egg should indeed be hatching today. I couldn’t find it, and the rest of the design team had gone to lunch, so I walked down to Evelyn’s office. “Evelyn?”

She peeked out from behind a virtual wall of projection monitors. Eight, to be precise. Anything more than six meant she was super busy. “Good morning, Noah.”

“It’s one-thirty.”

“Already?” She shook her head. “Where does the time go?”

“I hate to bother you, but I think one of my designs is missing,” I said.

Her brow furrowed. “Which one?”

“Model 86. I designed it ten days ago.”

Her mouth fell open. Then she pursed her lips and looked away from me. “That design was canceled.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

I bit back an unkind word but couldn’t keep all the anger from oozing into my tone. “You want to tell me why?”

She looked at me flat-eyed. “You sank all of the feature points into intelligence.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I assumed it was a joke.”

More like proving a point, I didn’t say. Truth be told, it probably wasn’t the most marketable idea. But I still wanted to see how it would turn out. “So what happened to the egg?”

“Quarantine.”

That meant Build-A-Dragon’s desert facility, which was somewhere outside the city and off limits to regular employees. “That’s too bad. It’s still a viable design.”

She sighed. “Look, Noah. We don’t have the luxury of building any dragons we want. Robert expects us to produce viable prototypes for new product lines.”

“Which would be easier if he lifted the point limits. That’s the point.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t think that is going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I brought it up with Robert today. He’s made up his mind.”

“I don’t see how we’ll do much more than a basic pet, if that doesn’t change.”

She smiled. “We’ll just have to get creative.”

“I guess.” I turned to leave.

“Sorry about your little design.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking, not as much as I am. A smart little dragon would have been a lot of fun. Not that I cared too much. I still didn’t give a crap about dragons.

I tromped back to my desk and collapsed in the chair. I felt no motivation at all to open up DragonDraft3D to start a new prototype. The point limitations were going to be a problem. My master plan hinged on creating a dragon that was strong and smart, with enough endurance to stress-test genetic therapy. If I couldn’t figure out how to print a dragon egg that went beyond the point limitations, I might never be able to do the experiment.

My workstation made a sudden crackling noise, like a glass window about to shatter. I thought it might be a bad cooling fan. I shoved aside a pile of papers that had accumulated on both sides of the tower to get a better look, which is when I saw it. The duplicate egg.

“Oh, shit.”

I picked up the egg to take it down to the biowaste disposal drop-off. I felt bad for wasting the egg, even though Evelyn had canceled the design. Incredibly, the thing still felt warm. Almost hot. It must have rolled to the perfect spot to catch the outflow of heat from the God Machine.

I wondered if it might still be viable. The God Machine was always on, so the egg might not have had a chance to cool.

According to company protocols, I should have called the hatchery staffers to come get the egg. But I was pissed off. Not just about my design getting canceled without a heads-up, but with the leadership’s dogged insistence on keeping the point limits in place. The simmering anger made me want to do something reckless. I dug my insulated lunch box out of my satchel and shoved the egg into it. It made that crackling noise again.

“Uh-oh.”

How long did an egg take to hatch? Maybe half an hour, maybe less. I grabbed my keys and hustled out.

I’ve never felt as open and exposed as I did crossing the design floor. Why the hell did we need this open floor plan, anyway? I avoided eye contact with the other designers, and prayed Evelyn wouldn’t choose that moment to come talk to me. I made it to the hatchery door. So far, so good.

I opened the door to find Jim and Allie bearing down on me, a loaded egg-cart between them. I’d have turned around and gone the other way, but I couldn’t cross that floor again. Instead, I slipped in and pressed myself against the right-hand pod so they’d have room to pass.

“Hey guys!” My voice cracked a little. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

God, it’s hot in here. How they could stand to work all day in those white jumpsuits, I’d never understand. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice how much I was sweating.

Allie ignored me. Jim grunted something that might have been a greeting. They never took their eyes from the egg on the cart between them. Right then, I could have taken my little egg out of the lunchbox and handed it over. That would get their attention. But my eyes fell to the one already on their cart, yet another cookie-cutter Rover design. That’s all we’d ever produce, if the top brass didn’t come around on those point restrictions.

Screw it.

I forced myself to walk to the far door. I pushed it open, bracing for the blinding red lights and the wail of the biological alarm. Nothing happened. Silence never sounded so wonderful. I hit the button for the elevator and didn’t breathe until it came. The doors hissed open. I sagged in relief when I saw it was empty. I scurried on and hit the button for the lobby.

Ding. Seventh floor. The doors hissed open to reveal the towering frame of Ben Fulton, Build-A-Dragon’s security chief.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

“Mr. Parker,” he said, stepping on.

I edged over as close to the wall as I could. “Mr. Fulton.”

“Keeping out of trouble?”

I forced a smile. “As best I can.”

He hit the Close Door button. The elevator shot downward. At around the third floor, the egg decided to crackle again, loud enough that it could be heard through the bag and over the hum of the elevator gears.

Fulton looked over at me, his eyebrow raised.

I’m sure my face was red as a tomato. I fumbled with my bag. “Forgot I had some hard candy in there.”

He grunted and turned to face the front again. I wasn’t sure if he’d bought it. What if he demanded to look in my bag? He wouldn’t without cause, though. He seemed like a standup guy. Still, I’d just as soon not get caught for something this stupid.

The doors opened at ground level. Fulton sauntered off without so much as a backward glance. I took what felt like my first breath in a while.

I prowled across the lobby to the parking garage. I paused just before the door. The moment I crossed that threshold, I’d break the law. The FDA considered dragons and other synthetic creatures to be “genetic engineering products.” Registration was mandatory, and Build-A-Dragon kept a close eye on registrations. I could be fired for this, sending years of hard work and preparation down the drain. Even if that didn’t happen, getting caught with an unregistered dragon would put me under a lot of scrutiny, which I certainly didn’t want. It seemed like a silly gamble for an egg that had no guarantee of hatching.

Then again, there might never be another tiny, smart dragon egg printed again.

Did I really want to see it hatch so badly?

Hell yes.



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