Genevieve Harrington learned about Professor Ortiz's call before Kora learned anything further from it. Harrington's research director had been asked by the university to provide missing Copper Crest reports, and the request reached Genevieve during an executive review of quarterly performance. She listened while the director explained that a private farmer had recovered V-17 and that a public research partner was demanding the underlying viability data. Genevieve put down her pen slowly, as if the request were a minor administrative annoyance.
"We reported the batch as nonviable," she said. "Why would they need the data again?"
"Because there are now live birds," the director answered. "A considerable number."
Genevieve dismissed the room and remained with Victor Sloan, Harrington's chief compliance officer. Victor had been with the company long enough to understand that when Genevieve called something a risk, she usually meant it threatened a decision already made. He showed her the university's request and a copy of the farm's published hatch figures. The number six hundred thirteen sat near the middle of the page.
"That can't be right," Genevieve said.
"Our own preliminary audit suggests the scanner did produce false negatives after the update."
"Then the technicians should have fixed it."
Victor looked at her. "Nolan Pierce requested exactly that. The line was not stopped."
She turned toward the windows overlooking the production buildings. Harrington's operation was enormous, efficient, and deeply dependent on volume; its financial projections assumed growers would keep buying company hatchlings and company-designed feed programs on a predictable schedule. Copper Crest had begun as a respectable public partnership, useful for grants and favorable publicity. But its most promising traits made it possible for smaller farms to sustain breeding stock without returning to a single supplier for every generation.
The program was not yet a commercial threat. It might never have become one, at least not quickly. Genevieve had understood, however, that successful public research could eventually give her customers options, and she had persuaded herself that ending an uncertain project was prudent management. She had taken each small administrative step as justification for the next until destroying an entire viable batch felt like nothing more than closing an unprofitable file.
Now a woman with a failing farm had made that decision visible. The public university was asking questions; competitors were interested; a technician had begun consulting counsel. Genevieve faced a choice she did not like. She could acknowledge that the company had mishandled the batch and work with its research partners, or she could continue insisting the error was really Kora's. She chose the version that required her to admit the least.
"Keep the legal claim active," she told Victor. "And make certain the state takes the health concern seriously."
Victor's expression shifted. "We have no evidence of disease. The reports I've seen say the birds are healthy."
"The origin is undocumented to our satisfaction. That is a concern."
"We documented the origin ourselves. We discarded the eggs."