The Hatching (The Hatching #1)(6)

Dr. Basu sighed. She wasn’t used to such behavior from Faiz. He was funny and charming, but also sloppy and inappropriate and in many ways a horrible man—he had showed her some of the photos the Italian woman had sent him, photos that Dr. Basu was sure were not meant for sharing—but he was also good at his job. “Faiz,” she said again. “Something’s going on.”

He banged his keyboard with a flourish and then pushed his heels against the ground, sending his chair wheeling across the concrete floor. “Yes, boss.” He knew she hated when he called her that. He looked at her screen and then ran his fingers across the monitor, even though he knew she hated that too. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks weird. Too steady. Try rebooting.”

“I did. Twice.”

“Call New Delhi and get somebody to check the sensors. Maybe reboot those too.”

“I already did,” Dr. Basu said. “The data is accurate, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

Faiz took a toffee from the bowl of candy she kept next to her computer. He started unwrapping the cellophane. “Ines said she might be able to come visit the last week in May. I’m going to need that week off, boss, okay?”

“Faiz,” she said. “Concentrate.”

“It’s hard to concentrate knowing that Ines could be here next month. We aren’t going to leave my apartment. She’s Italian, which means she’s extra sensual, you know?”

“Yes, Faiz, I know. And why do I know? Because you keep telling me exactly how ‘sensual’ she is. Has it ever occurred to you that I might want to spend my time focusing on data rather than on the way your new girlfriend likes to—”

“She’s never been to India before,” Faiz interrupted. “We aren’t going to do anything touristy, though. A week in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s impossible not to know what you mean, Faiz. You are a man who has never encountered subtlety, and if I were not such a wonderful and understanding person, I would have you fired and possibly imprisoned. Now, please concentrate,” she said.

He looked at the numbers again. “It’s low and strong, but whatever it is, it isn’t an earthquake. Too steady.”

“I know it’s not an earthquake,” Dr. Basu said. She was trying not to lose her temper. She knew there was something she wasn’t seeing, and while Faiz might be acting like a lovesick fool, he really was a remarkable scientist. “But let’s concentrate on what it is, not what it isn’t.”

“Whatever it is, it’s building,” Faiz said.

“What?” Dr. Basu looked at the monitor, but she didn’t see anything that stood out. The rumbles were all low. Nothing that really would have worried her if it had been something singular. It was the regularity, the pattern, that left her feeling as if something was wrong.

“Here,” Faiz said, touching the screen and leaving a smear. “And here, and here. See how there’s a rhythm to it, but every tenth one’s a little bigger.”

Dr. Basu scrolled to the beginning of the pattern and then counted. She frowned, jotted down some numbers, and then chewed on the end of the pen. It was a habit she’d developed in graduate school and one that, despite having more than a few pens break in her mouth, she’d yet to kick. “They stay bigger.”

“No, it’s only on the tenth rumble that they get big.”

“No, Faiz, look.” Dr. Basu handed him the pad of paper and then pointed at the computer screen. “See?”

Faiz shook his head. “Nope.”

“This is why I’m in charge and you have to get the coffee,” she said, taking some comfort in Faiz’s slow chuckle. She clicked the mouse and isolated the points, then drew a line to plot the changes. “Here. Every tenth event it amplifies, and though it doesn’t keep the entirety of the amplification, each set of nine that follows is slightly stronger than the previous set, until, again, the tenth.”

Faiz leaned back in his chair. “You’re right. I missed that. If it keeps up, though, keeps growing like that, we’re going to start getting complaints from New Delhi. They won’t be able to feel it yet, but sooner or later somebody is going to call us and ask what’s going on.” Faiz lifted his glasses and perched them on top of his head. He thought it made him look smart. Ditto stroking his beard, which he did as he mused, “Hmmm, every tenth one.”

Dr. Basu took the pen from her mouth. “But what’s it mean?” She tapped the end of the pen on the desk and then spun the pen away from her. “Drilling?”

“No. Wrong pattern.”

“I know, but sometimes it’s just good to get confirmation that I’m as smart as I think I am.”

Faiz snatched her pen from the desk and started flipping it. One rotation. Two rotations. Three rotations. On the fourth he fumbled it and had to reach under his chair to pick it up. His voice came out a little muffled. “Maybe the military?”

“Maybe,” Dr. Basu said, but it was clear to both of them she didn’t really believe that either. “Any other ideas?” she asked Faiz, because she had none of her own.





American University,

Washington, DC


“Spiders,” Professor Melanie Guyer said. She clapped her hands, hoping the sound would carry to the top of the auditorium where at least one student appeared to be sleeping. “Come on, guys. The answer in this class is always going to be spiders. And yes, they do molt,” she said, pointing to the young woman who had asked the original question. “But no, they aren’t really that similar to cicadas. For one thing, spiders don’t hibernate. Well, not that cicadas exactly hibernate.”