Literary explorations of laboratory life
20 Jun 2013 by Evoluted New Media
Talk about art imitating life – see how the rise of ‘Lab Lit’ has got Russ Swan in a literary lather…
Darius stared at the cloudy fluid nestling in the bottom of the flask as he held it up to the light. Perhaps this time, perhaps this one would be the result he'd been longing for, the new strain that would yield the antibody that, in turn, would become the new treatment. With a sigh he replaced the flask in the rack. He knew it would take weeks for this sample to go through the battery of tests and assessments to see whether it met the requirements of the project. The techs would take it apart, stripping and multiplying its DNA to look for any new mutations, while the pilot plant guys would test its tolerance to hot and cold, acid and alkali, light and dark, all the while monitoring its output and longevity. "You poor bastard", he thought. "I know just how you feel."
He winced inwardly as he recalled his most recent meeting with Tom. The new man at the helm of the laboratory had arrived full of swagger as a result of the takeover, with a mission to cut costs, boost results, and make a name for himself. Darius took an instant dislike to him, especially when he saw the way Tom had looked at Sophia.
Sophia. Just about the only thing that made the hours at the lab bench bearable. Surely no eyes were ever as alluring when framed by the polycarbonate lenses of a pair of goggles, no curves as voluptuous as hers when accentuated by the silken polyester folds of a lab coat. Tom's message had been crystal clear: under the new system of performance metrics, Darius's project just wasn't stacking up. The costs were too high, the results too ambiguous, the projected payback too long. Darius was under scrutiny, and the numbers weren't very impressive. Seven years of university and six at the lab bench, and it came down to this. A series of numbers on a spreadsheet and no appreciation of the major advances that had been made. He felt sick. Even the microbes in the bioreactors were treated better than this, he thought. At least they were given nutrients, and encouraged to grow. They were given an environment to meet their every need, unlike the poor salary slaves that thought they were the masters of this microcosm. The holiday would cheer him up. It was long overdue, continually postponed to meet the demands of the corporate bean counters who thought science was measured on a profit and loss account. Just two days now; two days of windowless drudgery, two days of avoiding conflict with the overpromoted undermanager who Darius was convinced was looking for an excuse to fire him. Fire him, and remove a rival for Sophia's affections. It was still half an hour until his shift was over, but Darius left anyway – his emotions as cloudy as the broth in the flask.
The bookshop near the bus stop provided a welcome shelter from the unseasonally cold weather, and Darius resolved to find a novel to read while sipping cocktails by the pool. He found himself drawn to the graphic novels section, grown-up comics with ridiculously schlocky illustrations of vampires and zombies and aliens. No, that wouldn’t do.
The science fiction section was little better, with silly spaceships and impossible planets and, no doubt, plot lines as thin as a microscope slide cover slip. But the next table – what was this? The sign said simply 'Lab Lit'. Nearby was a little card with a brief explanation: 'Lab Lit is literature that includes as a central part of its plots the realistic portrayal of science and scientists'. Now, that sounds cool, thought Darius, as he scanned the volumes in the display. He enjoyed the dafter representations of his profession in sci fi, but had often felt that this just didn’t do justice to a world which – despite the current shenanigans at his workplace – was an exciting and dynamic career for anybody with above average intelligence.
It's about time this happened, he thought. There's enough drama in any real life laboratory to make the crazy imaginings of the science fiction writers look laughable. Why, with a heroine like Sophia and a villain like Tom, and a mission to solve the world's problems one disease at a time, there was everything a novel could need!
Casting himself in the hero role, he chuckled at the absurdities of some popular stories. The Truman Show, where a hapless orphan lives his life as the unwitting star of a TV show, or The Matrix, where the whole human population is conscious only in a computer-simulated fantasy world. How ludicrous. He picked up the nearest volume and casually flicked to the opening page, and as he did so felt his blood run cold. He read the opening lines of the novel: "Darius stared at the cloudy fluid nestling in the bottom of the flask as he held it up to the light. Perhaps this time, perhaps this one…"
