Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Because let’s face it—moving to a private island and working on secret projects for invisible benefactors called the Institute is Hollywood shit. It’s a fun, exciting scenario to watch others stumble through on screen, but it’s not the kind of thing one does in real life.
So if I made a friend on the mainland and had to explain my work, they’d start with questions and conclude that I’m in some sort of cult.
Science is already sectarian enough—it’s a religion to some, and that’s got nothing to do with secret projects. There are very clear lines in science and you do not cross them. So cult is actually the right word. Scientists don’t relate well to the outside world. And I’m not being critical or anything. I’m in that group too and I like it this way, that’s why I’m here.
But if you’re not in science, it definitely takes a special person to be friends with someone who is. The lab and office are where we want to be. Work is our life. Our projects are sacred and deserve all our attention.
We don’t have time for the frivolous things that other people our age are into. That’s why scientists end up marrying other scientists. Often people they are working with, or, at the very least, someone in a lab close by. Upstairs, or downstairs, or down the hall.
And the Institute has thought of this. They have taken care of our socialization.
It’s… comforting, yet creepy.
Because the longer people stay here, the harder it probably gets to return to that other world that lives alongside this one.
That real world.
Relax, the inner monologue says. Enjoy this, Nova. This is your time and this is your place. Don’t waste it.
No, I’m not going to. I’m going to enjoy it. So I listen, and sometimes join in when I can, and generally let all my fears go.
About an hour later, Olsen leans in to me. “OK. Mandatory meet-and-greet is over. Want me to set you loose? Or keep you company?”
“Set me loose? To do what?”
“You know, meet more people. This is just my crowd. But there are a couple hundred more people, at least, that you need to bump into today.”
I can’t imagine having to do this with a couple hundred more people. It makes my heart jump. Even if the other scientists on this island are my peer group, and I will come to fully appreciate that soon, today they are strangers. I wilt just a tiny bit. “So he was serious?”
“Who?”
“Mercer. He said my job today is to meet everyone.”
“Yep. It’s for your own good, though. And there’s a dinner later, so that counts. Anyone you missed will be in the dining hall.”
I look up at Olsen. “So how do I meet them? Just… randomly offer my hand and my name?”
“That’s one way to do it.”
“You have another suggestion?”
He shrugs. Smiles. Lies. “Nah. Just… yeah. Do it your way. Dinner’s at six. Dining hall’s on grid E8.” He must notice my confusion because he adds, “You don’t have a map, do you?”
“Oh, I do.” I pull it out of my messenger bag, hold it up.
“No, that’s the outsider map. You need the insider map. Come with me. We’ll get you one.”
He puts his large hand on the small of my back and a shivery chill runs up my spine.
But just as quickly as his hand was there, it’s gone. And we’re just walking. He points out buildings as we go. “This is chemistry. This is zoology. This is art.”
“Art?” That one throws me.
“Everyone needs marketing, Ryan. And marketing requires graphic design. You’ll probably never go in there.”
“So artists are recruited too?”
“Huh?” He’s distracted. And when I look in the direction his gaze is pointed, I see ‘the guy.’ “What was the question?”
I look up at Olsen. “Artists are recruited too?” And when I look back at ‘the guy,’ he’s gone again.
“Oh, no. The graphic design and marketing departments are all permanent employees. Like I said, you won’t need to go in there. The only perms you’ll need to interact with are in the admin building near the docks.”
“Aren’t you a permanent employee?”
“Perm,” he corrects me. Apparently, the lingo makes a difference. “And no. I’m deep in a multi-year project. And don’t ask me about it, because I can’t tell you anything.”
“Oooo-kay.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Got it. Don’t ask me about mine, either. I signed an NDA as well.”
We chuckle. And I decide that I like Olsen. He’s not overly serious and stern, like Mercer. He’s probably a lot of fun. And I bet his shadowed jaw and bloodshot eyes are proof of that. Living across the sidewalk from him might turn into some kind of good luck.
All the buildings are similar to the one called Trapp. Oldish. Not exactly Gothic, but not Classical, either. They are… well, I’m not any kind of architectural expert, so I don’t have a word for them. “What is this architecture?” I ask.