Authors: Clara Ward
In time, he found every telepath sample he knew was homozygous for neurochem prime on chromosome thirteen. A websearch showed prime was the dominant allele for the sequence, with thirty-five percent of people homozygous. That wasn’t unusual enough for him to notice when he was analyzing his tightly related sample. But now he took a closer look. The public DNA index showed two functionally different variants had been identified at the site. There were scans showing slightly different neuroconnectivity related to each variant. Those homozygous for the prime variant were statistically more sensitive to light touch, but apparently not enough to affect daily life. There was no evidence of genetic selection for or against prime in the last three thousand years.
James searched for more recent articles on the subject and found only a few. Clearly it wasn’t a hot topic. But one of the articles caught his eye. The author was Leonard Knockham. James had seen the man at genetics conferences, but he was a parasitologist, so they’d never had reason to speak. Knockham did have a closed mind, but that was common enough at conferences.
James pulled up the article. It was a study of subjects with colitis or Crohn’s disease. This was outside James’s usual specialties, but the lure of the puzzle kept him reading. He managed to deduce that both conditions involved an overactive immune system, which only became problematic when previously endemic intestinal parasites were removed from a community through sanitation. This appeared to be old news in the field. What Knockham had discovered was that all known cases of colitis and Crohns disease were in subjects homozygous for neurochem prime. The discussion in the paper pointed out that this vulnerability hadn’t mattered until the parasites were controlled; so there hadn’t been time for natural selection against the prime allele on this front.
James hadn’t heard of anyone in their teep community having colitis or Crohn’s disease. Given the rarity of such conditions and his limited sample size, that wasn’t unreasonable. Even if one or two teeps had either problem, Dr. Yu would know, not him. But if he called with this question, politeness would require an explanation. It wasn’t worth the bother, and suddenly James had a better idea.
The letters on the keyboard rattled as he thumped through them, following a hunch. He searched for biographical information on Leonard Knockham. There it was. He’d been at Oxford in 2013 and 2014, while James was still there. Why hadn’t James remembered him, recognized him in all those years of conferences? Then he saw a reference to “Loopy Lenny,” and suddenly it all made sense.
Loopy Lenny had been an undergraduate known for his shaggy hair, bottle green overcoat, and eccentric ways. He left diagrams on classroom whiteboards without any explanation. Usually silent, he’d occasionally flash into the spotlight with moments of brilliance. James had noticed back at Oxford that Lenny’s mind was closed to him. He’d wondered if Lenny’s insights came from probing the minds of his professors or admirers. But James was just breaking away from his father and the American telepathy program at that point. So he never tried to identify himself as a telepath to Lenny, and Lenny had never broadcast anything to him.
Then James remembered the day terrorists destroyed Heathrow. Thousands had died. All of Britain was filled with hurt and angry thoughts, and most of them were broadcast.
Universities and other possible targets were officially evacuated, but the country lacked the people or organization to forcibly empty the schools. So James snuck back to his office in the Oxford biology building. He worked quietly all day outside the telepathic range of seething public thoughts.
Then, while he foraged in the lounge, putting together crackers and cheese to eat as dinner, Loopy Lenny came in. If Lenny was usually a clown, today he was a sad mime. He bought a candy bar from the machine and drooped into an armchair.
“Luncheon on the Isle of Lost Souls,” Lenny sighed.
“I’ve never gotten so much work done, no interruptions.”
“You ever heard of mock apple pie? I think it’s an American snack, made with crackers?”
“Don’t know it.”
“Ah well, we probably don’t have the spices.”
James remembered being glad then that Lenny’s mind was closed. Maybe he’d even wondered if Lenny was escaping other people’s thoughts the same as him. He hadn’t tried to ask, and Lenny hadn’t either.
As James left the snack area that day, Lenny said, “Sometimes it’s best to be alone with your thoughts.”
Once safely back in his office, James tapped his hands and feet with uncertainty, but when the feeling passed, he put his suspicions away.
Perhaps because Lenny had been so obvious with his crazy mane and green coat, James had dismissed him. When he later saw Leonard Knockham at professional conferences - short hair, dull suit, closed mind – he hadn’t connected him to loopy Lenny. James sighed at his oversight and brought up every article he could find by his former colleague. If Knockham was a teep, he almost certainly worked for some government, and even if he didn’t, anything overtly related to telepathy would be censored by the powers that be. But James knew how often his own published work touched on areas he’d researched for classified projects, and the paper on the prime allele suggested Lenny might be playing similar games.
Soon James found a paper by Knockham on skin parasites related to arthritis. Two different strains of the parasites were discussed, but there was no mention of human genetics in the article. James was not equipped to isolate and study such specimens. But Sarah had managed to deactivate Tom’s telepathy for weeks by applying telepathic pressure to his skin, and she seemed to have triggered latent telepathy in someone else through similar means. James’ fingers, on both hands, began to tap rapidly up and down, so lightly they didn’t press letters on the keyboard.
Now he knew why none of the cells he’d tested reacted with the protein produced by the telepathy sequence. He’d tested against a standard panel of all human cell types grown laboratory-clean from stem cells. What if his protein triggered activity in a parasite? What if the parasite produced a protein critical to human telepathy?
Knowing he was on the right track, James tugged at his ear, then his other ear, in frustration. How long would it take to develop the skills needed to prove this? Would Sarah resurface, and if so, would she provide skin samples from herself and the newly created teep? Did he need to figure this out by July 28th?
James dredged up records from the four conferences where he’d received notes. Sure enough, Leonard Knockham had attended every one. James brought up his calendar and gave himself a dot for deciphering who sent the note. Funny how he’d solved that puzzle only after he thought he’d given up. He wouldn’t take credit for the new genetic links or the connection to skin parasites until he had more proof.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Hi, James!” It was Lisa, all bright and cheerful in a spaghetti-string dress, traipsing in with Robert in tow. “I brought lunch for Robert; so of course I brought some for you. Should we eat outside or in here?”
James decided there was no option but to thank Lisa and give up on working for at least half an hour. He cleared off most of his desk, and Lisa unwrapped sandwiches poorly protected by parchment paper. James refolded his paper in half with the edges aligned and only the clean side facing out. Then he lifted one triangular half of the sandwich and bit off a side point.
“So what have you been working on?” Lisa asked before James took a second bite of his sandwich.
“Nothing. Just failing to answer questions.”
“Such as?”
James sighed. He hadn’t told anyone about the notes, and he wasn’t ready to tell Alak about his scientific suspicions. But there was little reason not to tell Lisa and Robert. He was supposed to be working with Robert, and Lisa kept making an effort to be friends. He switched to tight telepathy.
“There’s a scientist in Britain. I’m convinced he’s studying telepathy, knows things I don’t, and wants to share the information. He left me a note that said, ‘Be ready on July 28th,’ and I have no way of communicating with him before then.”
“What’s on July 28th?”
Lisa asked.
“I don’t know. Someone leaves me these notes, and I think that it’s him. I don’t know if he wants to defect or just share scientific information. But I have no way to even try to speak with him until the next Swiss conference, and that’s in October.”
Robert, usually laconic when Lisa was around, was sitting up straight as if invigorated by the rush of information.
“What is it you need to communicate?”
“Well, I want to ask him if neurochem prime is necessary for telepathy and if he knows the role of two other sequences that might relate to telekinesis. I want to confirm that he’s the one sending me these notes and find out why.”
“Has the Thai government tried to recruit him?”
Robert asked.
“I don’t want to scare him if that’s not his goal, and anyway, they’d be too slow.”
“I could send a friend of mine to find him, maybe on his way home from work, and ask him nicely if he would answer some questions from you,”
Lisa said. She smiled as if it were the simplest little favor.
James shook his head.
“No really, let me try,”
Lisa looked into his eyes. Her look said she cared because it mattered to him, and that was strangely flattering. He thought she was going to touch him, which she didn’t, but just looking at her arms he could feel them. There was something in the way her thin peach blouse rippled around the shoulders that made it seem like she was reaching out.
When all the sandwich papers were finally thrown away, she left carrying his list of questions.
July 25-26, 2025 – County Kerry, Ireland
Sarah sat alone in the cluttered and dimming room she shared with Aliana and two others. She’d slipped away after dinner, borrowing a large bowl filled with water. Now she’d set it on the floor, centered in the square of
diffuse evening light from their solitary, east-facing window. The end of Sarah’s bed, where she sat, was in shadow, but she didn’t cross the room to turn on more light.
The bowl on the floor was metal, and Sarah found she could make music by spilling the water onto various parts. Okay, it probably only counted as music to those who enjoyed the sound of overflowing gutters, but it was hers. She ended her aquatic composition and resumed trying to sculpt. She found herself shaping a phone out of water, a PAD. She held the shape while she dug her own PAD from a bag under the bed then adjusted her image to match reality. Pushing the on key, she checked for messages. There weren’t any. Still. She stared at the phone then put it away and let the water phone seep back into a puddle.
Next she shaped a watery version of her own hand reaching up out of the bowl, and as it rose she formed her arm. Perhaps she didn’t have an artistic eye, but she might have a future in 3D rendering.
The door opened and Sarah held the form because it was easier than controlling the splash down.
“Amazing,” said Aliana, closing the door behind her.
Sarah let the arm melt back to a flat surface. “It’s nothing much. Oliver can sculpt most anything.”
“You’ve been seeing a lot of him since you sat up with the abstainers that night.”
“The what? They were just telling stories and stuff.”
“Don’t play naïve. So are you being faithful to Reggie or have you fallen for a sixteen-year-old?”
“Oliver is sweet, an awesome teek, and much too young. Reggie, I dunno. I miss him, but I’m just getting over calling myself a monster, and no matter how he denies it, I think he’ll still see me that way sometimes. Maybe I’m not giving this place a chance, but I can’t seem to settle—”
“Do you regret what you did with me?”
“No. Never.” Sarah reached out to touch Aliana’s cheek. It was warm and slightly chapped by the mouth. She could feel Aliana ease into the touch.
“You want to do it again?” Aliana asked.
Sarah almost pulled forward in physical response, wanting to be back in that moment. But stones in her center weighed her down, and she heard herself say, “Sometime, but right now I couldn’t clear my mind.”
“From thoughts of Reggie?” Aliana had her eyebrows raised and wore just a trace of a smile, like a big sister who mostly had Sarah’s best interests at heart.
“Yeah, but the point is, to be that close to someone, I need to-- I need to be settled with myself, and right now I’m not.” In fact, Sarah felt like a kite being flown by something she vaguely recognized as her self, a kite anchored to that heaviness she couldn’t lose.
“Because you won’t call him?”
“How’d you know that?”
Aliana smiled, then she sat down and squished beside Sarah on the bed. Her arm looped behind Sarah’s back, holding her close so their thighs and torsos touched along one side.
Sarah relaxed and lay her head against Aliana’s shoulder even as her mind wondered what Aliana expected and where they were heading.
“Your mind is full of words now, isn’t it? You let me touch you, but I can feel tension all through your body, and it’s almost like hearing your worried thoughts again. Lie down; let me give you a back rub.”
Sarah moved across the bed on limbs like shattered glass. Aliana was right, her mind was a swirl in words she wouldn’t want heard, especially not by Aliana right now. But her body struggled to pull back to the mindless openness they’d shared when Aliana’s sense of touch was at its peak. Sarah wasn’t sure she could survive the combination. When Aliana had pulled her close, the skin she touched had felt like boiling water. It flowed as if to merge with Aliana, but each molecule at the surface hissed like steam as her mind spoke uncertainty.