“This is private property.”
The voice is strongly southern. There are variations to these accents and this one is what I would describe as country. It fits. I am standing in a marsh hours from the nearest coffee shop. Definitely country.
I don’t think it’s usually a marsh. Seems like this area was flooded in the recent storm and water has pooled in this flat yard.
“Did you hear me? You can’t be here.”
Leaning over, I push a tiny container into the overgrown grass. The substrate is sponge-like, giving up the goods with the slightest pressure. There’s a telltale snick when the container draws the sample.
Success.
I screw the cap on and tap the bottom of the vial to my work phone. It vibrates, signifying that the location has been recorded so I place it in my pocket and pull out a new one.
“Is that — are you taking samples? You don’t have permission to do that!”
I grab a pamphlet out of my inner jacket pocket and hand it to him. As he squints at the small print, I continue on my way. This property drains (poorly) into a creek that feeds into a river. That’s where the tainted water was collected. My team has sampled 17 streams, 20 ditches and 3 ponds trying to track the source of that pollution and this is the last stop —
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“Department of — What are you? A fed?”
I nod even though that’s a silly term. It makes me sound like a cop. I don’t investigate people.
He keeps up with me as I make my way to the far side of the property. There is a smell — sewage.
When I glance at him he says, “I’m getting the tank serviced today. Is that what you’re out here for? Septic-tank code enforcement? There was a storm, and the stream flooded our yard and —”
“I’m not investigating your septic tank.”
“Oh,” he says, looking confused. “What’re you investigating then?”
“Genetic contaminants.”
His confusion doubles. I watch his brows raise a smidge when he realizes.
“Splices,” he says. “You’re saying there’s a splice around here?”
He looks around dramatically.
“Yeah. Recently.”
“Huh.”
He continues to follow me as I collect more samples. Some obviously contaminated with sewage.
Ugh.
It is what it is. I have to deal with all kinds of biological matter. It’s the job. That’s why I’m wearing disposable gloves, goggles and waders.
“What kind of splice? Maybe I seen it.”
I shake my head. “You would know if you saw it. It’s a large mammal. Carnivorous. They haven’t mapped its genetics yet, but it was alarming enough for us to start looking right away.”
“But how will you find it if you don’t know what to look for?” he asks. This guy’s default setting seems to be perplexity.
“I’m just collecting samples.”
“Oh.”
He’s quiet as he follows me to the ditch at the edge of his property and I finish up, opening my trunk to secure the samples, tapping my phone to the sensor on the case, then peeling off my protective gear and stuffing it into a biohazard container.
“Should I be worried? We have kids —”
“It’s just a precaution,” I assure him as I mist my hair and clothes with decontaminating agent. “Scan the back of that pamphlet to access a chatbot that will answer all of your questions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Have a good day sir.”
I get into the single-occupancy drone. It’s not mine, it’s provided by the department. It even has a government seal on the side.
When I was in school and imagined the research I would be doing in the field I never thought it would be tracking splices. I thought I would be making splices. Maybe if I had been born a decade or two earlier. Now most of the gene-crisping techniques are illegal and those that aren’t are patented. It’s not like back in the day when any layperson could alter the genes of their houseplants, pets, children as easily as they edit a spreadsheet.
When I first joined up, we focused on tracking dogs and cats. We didn’t have to kill these animals, thank goodness. They were sterilized. It was exciting work though. I have held a full-grown German shepherd in the palm of my hand. Size of a hamster. I transported an adult giant panda that was as small as a squirrel. We tracked a squirrel as big as a Rottweiler that had iridescent lime-green fur.
All of the cute cases are gone. Now it’s all plants, fungi and bacteria.
Except this outlier. The DNA had made its way into our monitor. It was set up to catch algae, but it caught — something else. Something mammalian.
As the drone hovers over the property, I can see that they have a serious sewage issue. I’d be surprised if they don’t have problems with their local government about it, with the way it’s getting into the creek.
The drone takes a moment to orient itself, spinning slowly one way, then another.
I see a woman with brightly coloured hair meet the man as he steps onto the porch. Her hair is neon green and yellow. She must colour it herself, to keep it so vibrant and be so far from town. Her skin is very — it’s green. Skin the same bright green as her hair.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up the video feed from under the drone in time to see a little girl come out of the house, exactly the same shade of green as the woman.
Gotcha.
