Cosa, Don de la-Excerpt: Mission First

by Don de la Cosa

One of the most fascinating things about daily news editors is their innate ability to reduce even the most eloquently worded and thematically complex of articles to the value of a day old splattered insect on the windshield of an oversized, load-hauling tractor trailer in a swarm of locusts on the interstellar superhighway of public opinion. Two days after one of the biggest exposés on genetically engineered organ farming, my boss was trying to wind me up for not even having a lead on anything for the rest of the week.

“But J.D., the community is still reacting to my last article! Can’t a girl catch a break?”

“Break?!?! Where the fuck do you think you work–Starbucks? The publisher’s riding my ass because our readership just went up by several hundred thousand in print, and we’re getting millions more hits on the webpage, and they’re all going to your article! Apparently, I’m supposed to keep you as busy as humanly possible, even to the sublimation of my own position. Everyone’s resources are to be available to you ‘just in case’ you stumble over something that’s a new headliner.”

“Well, gee bossman, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll get your pretty little ass out there, and bring me another goddamed story!” He poked himself in the eye trying to put on his glasses too fast as he fumbled through e-mails on his PDA looking for the lead that he wasn’t about to let anyone else besides me have.

“Here, bio-tech research company in the pharmaceutical wasteland ridden backwaters of dirty Jersey. Supposed to be the latest greatest design in nanotechnology drug delivery blabity blabity blaaaahhh, claims they’ve got a system that will eliminate the need for chemotherapy or something like that. I’m forwarding you the directions right now.”

“I’m on it big daddy! See you when I get back!” Sure enough, my own device affixed to my hip started buzzing in an oblique reminder of the toy I was playing with just before getting dressed this morning.

Jersey. Ugh, too many bad memories of that place. Just thinking about it gave me shivers. Luckily there was a train station close to the place, and I could hop a cab between there and the company’s lab. Hmmm, ZerCon’s facility was close to Merck’s own lab, maybe I’ll stop by and see what else I can stick my nose in on the way.

***

The company’s modest facilities were a convoluted maze of checkpoints and decontamination chambers that my host pushes me through while explaining the particulars of her research in gory detail and language that I will have to hear a fifth time before understanding it completely. Thank goodness for digital microrecorders.

Her name is Shyla, and she’s just a little more cute than your average scientist: slightly taller than average in addition to the heels, an angular jaw, and smoldering, upturned, coffee brown eyes framed by thick, wavy, mahogany hair. Her impeccable pant-suit clung to her delicious curves in ways that would make Betty Paige jealous.

“Put these on.” I’m instructed as we step through the sterilizing airlock. I’m being guided through the clinical trials lab of ZerCan, the latest, greatest bio-research facility to focus on combined gene and pharmaceutical delivering nanotechnology. Despite having gone through numerous checks and decontaminations, the environment just beyond the door in front of us had to be kept devoid of any sort of electrical charges of any kind. Any free roaming ions could dangerously disrupt the ebb and flow of drug molecules and RNA strands into and out of the nanocapsules. In preparation for this, all our articles of clothing had been confiscated three levels behind, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, feeling each others’ skin radiating heat in the temperature controlled atmosphere as we received the rubber clothing and head masks that looked like this month’s issue of Skin Two magazine from similarly clad individuals.