He was easy enough to track. His background was textbook achiever: son of a biology lecturer and a systems engineer, raised in Charlotteville. He’d been entering regional science fairs since middle school. His mother had passed away from cancer when he was seventeen, and after that, he’d thrown himself into environmental causes with a kind of righteous focus. A colleague had documented that Ted “thought like a protestor and built like a coder.”
He ran a small online tutoring business for students which bought him in a few dollars. He lived by himself in a modest apartment not far from the lab and biked to work every day. From his various posts on social media, he was the kind of idealist who believed science could fix everything. Marise leaned back. He sounded likable. Earnest. Probably incapable of keeping a major breakthrough to himself for long, especially if he thought the person asking was genuinely interested.
Ted had an active online life. His professional posts were predictable: research updates, recycled press from climate innovation forums. But it was his personal profiles that interested her more. He had a mildly chaotic X (formerly Twitter) handle, @Bionerd42, where he alternated betweenscience memes, and Science fiction with references to Star Trek and Doctor Who.
He maintained a medium blog titledBioLogic, which veered between his thesis and mini-essays like why Blade Runner predicted the AI future. He was an Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clark fan and thought The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Dune were classics.
And then there was his Reddit history. Marise found him posting in subs like r/Futurology, and r/ScifiNoir. He had a surprisingly good sense of humour—nerdy, but clever. He'd once written a full post detailing how the root architecture of engineered plants could function in Martian soil, “assuming no one minds a few sparks.”
He was a nerd. A smart, passionate, over-sharing one who had no idea how visible he really was.
She scrolled through one of his threads about an old film screening at a local indie cinema,the Metro. It showed vintage science fiction twice a month: everything from Metropolis to Forbidden Planet. And there, three comments deep, Ted had replied to a post:Can’t wait. The Blob’s on. I’ll be there.
The screening was Thursday night.
Marise smiled. Perfect.
She shut the laptop and walked to the wardrobe. If she wanted to make contact, she had to ditch her Veronica Hale persona. The woman Ted needed to meet was casual, nerdy, a little awkward herself. Someone who loved science fiction. Someone who wore worn denim and vintage jackets and carried a dog-eared copy of Asimov in her bag.
She’d slip down to the second hand store this afternoon and buy a faded tee, a pair of jeans with holes, and a jacket with scuffed elbows. Her flat boots would do.
Ted wouldn’t respond to seduction.
He’d respond to familiarity.
She would go to the screening, grab a seat a row behind him. She already had a photo to recognize him, so all she needed was to find an opening to strike up a light conversation. Like"Didn’t expect to see anyone under fifty who knew this film."
If she played it right, he’d invite her to talk again.
She reached for her notebook and began scribbling lines of dialogue. Responses. Possible cues.
This wasn’t the kind of op she was used to, but thankfully she’d been a Sci-Fi fan in her teens. Ted was the only one with direct access to Kathleen’s research, and if she got him to him trust her, she might finally learn what she was paid to find out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kathleen crossed to the console in the lab and tapped in a list of commands to start the afternoon oxygenation cycle. The soft hum of machinery kicked in, comforting in its regularity. She should have found solace in that, but she was restless. Unfocused. The kind that didn’t come from caffeine or lack of sleep, but from something deeper. After her dates with Veronica, she wasn’t content to be a recluse anymore. The idea of going home alone, pretending she was content by herself, depressed her.
Her life sucked. It was time to start living properly.
She pulled her phone from her coat pocket and turned away from the tanks. After a hesitation, she scrolled through her contacts and pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
“Langford Services,” came the feminine voice on the other end. “This is Elise.”
“It’s Kathleen Knowles,” she said quickly, throwing off her embarrassment for ringing so often, and tried not to sound like a loser. “I’d like to book someone.”
“Of course, Dr. Knowles. Did you have someone in mind?”
She hesitated. The name formed in her mouth and she had to push it out. “Ava.”
“What night would you be wanting?” Elise asked after a tiny pause.
“Thursday night if she’s available.”
“I’ll check her schedule. Have you somewhere in mind?”
“I have tickets for a dinner cruise,” Kathleen said.
A few moments later, Elise came back on, “Ava is available. Would you like her to pick you up.”
