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“Clarence,” Tim said as he poured a gla.s.s, “it’s not my fault other people didn’t get a doctorate.”

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Clarence said. “Just like it’s not your fault that you get to live in freedom.”

This guy had to have an American flag tattooed somewhere on his body.

Margaret waved a hand. “Boys, don’t rain on my parade with your political differences, okay? If Tim’s yeast culture takes off, we may very well have this thing beat. I’m in the mood to enjoy my break, because soon we have to get back to work.”

Tim nodded. “I agree. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

Margaret shook her head. “I’m talking about tonight, Doctor Feely. As soon as we watch the diver enter the Los Angeles, we’ll get back at it.”

Tim had a moment to hope she was joking. The look in her eyes said she wasn’t.

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

Good thing he had enough stimulants to go around. Better living through chemistry.

He sat in the chair next to Margaret, feeling Clarence’s stare on the back of his neck as he did. Tim sipped his Oban.

The image on the big screen showed a cone of dimly lit water, featureless save for an occasional bit of flotsam that glowed like a tiny star in the diver’s light, then gone as the camera pa.s.sed it by. Numbers played out at the bottom of the screen, showing the descending depth: eight hundred feet and counting. Another hundred feet or so, and that light would play off the wreck of the Los Angeles.

Up until the s.h.i.+t hit the fan, Tim had spent most of his time in this very room, watching downloaded movies and TV shows, playing video games, just generally d.i.c.king around and wasting taxpayer money. What else had there been to do? Sure, he’d worked on his yeast, trying to engineer a genome that would successfully produce a little-understood cellulase. Trying, and failing; he’d had no crawlers, no samples, nothing to go on but a ma.s.s spec a.n.a.lysis that clearly wasn’t 100 percent accurate. He’d collected a six-figure paycheck, come up with bulls.h.i.+t to put on his weekly reports and generally kicked back and lived the good life of a government employee flying under the radar.

Now, however, he had something he could use: an actual cellulase, and plenty of it. On the one hand, it made him furious to see how close he’d been to getting it right. On the other, if the new line of Saccharomyces feely succeeded, his work could make the human race immune to a disease that made the black plague look like postnasal drip.

Tim raised his gla.s.s toward Margaret. She frowned, but begrudgingly reached out her winegla.s.s and clinked in a quiet toast.

Like him, she had showered. Her black hair hung heavy and damp, but she looked fantastic. When she’d arrived, she’d been drowning in a bizarre notion of self-pity. Well, no more — her eyes blazed with intelligence, with life, and a persistent smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. She looked good even inside a BSL-4 suit; outside of one, she looked fantastic.

Tim could see more than a few lost weekends with that one. As long as Captain Yasaka didn’t find out, of course. It was always a good rule of thumb not to incur the jealousy of a woman with keys to the weapons locker.

“I should make popcorn,” Tim said. “You guys want popcorn?”

Neither Margaret nor Clarence responded. Their attention stayed fixed on the screen.

The number at the bottom of the screen ticked up to 850.