Ancient Island
Page 48
Chapter 47
Frankenfood in 2003
Brian traveled with J. Alfred Weston to the Third National Conference and Global Forum on Science, Policy and the Environment in Washington, D.C. He noticed an attractive young woman during a break and was trying to work up enough nerve to introduce himself. As he approached, he found himself staring at her eyes.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asked.
“Na, nnn, no,” he stuttered. “You have the most unusual eyes. I’ve never seen multi-colored eyes before.”
She appeared to be embarrassed and looked away. “It’s a condition known as central heterochromia. It’s not contagious.” She sounded offended.
“I didn’t mean it that way. Your eyes are beautiful,” Brian explained.
She turned her nose up and said, “I don’t want to discuss it.”
Brian would have walked away under normal circumstances, but he was unusually attracted to the girl. He explained to her his passion was designing genetically altered plants. She said her goal was to save the planet from people like him. Brian’s pulse was racing. He hadn’t met anyone like her before. Maybe he could impress her with his expertise.
“I know it isn’t the whole solution, but genetically modified plants provide the most realistic solution to the world’s impending food shortage. We can develop insect and disease resistant plants, requiring less space, less water and containing significantly more nutrition than anything found in nature.”
Brian sounded like a true nerd, but the young woman seemed interested and asked him, “You know what we call that don’t you?” He looked at her with a puzzled expression and said, “uh, innovation?”
“Frankenfood,” she replied. “Every time some faceless corporation says they have the solution, it ends up with an environmental disaster. That’s what happens when greed controls the process.”
Brian was preparing to reply when Mr. Weston returned from a meeting with several corporate executives. As he approached Brian and the woman, he asked, “What are you young people up to?”
“Oh, hey Mr. Weston. We were debating the benefits and dangers of genetically modified plants,” Brian answered.
“J. Alfred Weston?” the woman asked Brian. “You work for J. Alfred Weston? And I suppose you flew in on his private jet.” The contempt in her voice was palpable.
“Well, yea but,” Brian started to speak as the woman exhaled in disgust, shook her head, and walked away.
“Sorry to crimp your style there buddy. She was cute! Real nice eyes.” Mr. Weston patted Brian on the back. “Until today, you’ve only seen the benefits of working with one of the richest men in the world. Now you know being associated with me doesn’t always open doors. In fact, sometimes they slam in your face.”
J. Alfred Weston wasn’t the kind of person with whom you casually disagree, so Brian inhaled deeply to steady his nerves before asserting himself.
“I don’t understand why it’s necessary to be so secretive about the things we’re doing at the Institute.”
This was a sensitive subject for Mr. Weston. After investing over a billion dollars of his personal fortune, secrecy prevented him from revealing the greatest accomplishments achieved at the Institute. To the general public, it appeared as if he were throwing away his money. Some even speculated that he had become a deranged recluse like Howard Hughes.
In an effort to goad him into releasing more information, a journalist for the Wall Street Journal wrote an article describing J. Alfred as “an eccentric billionaire who squandered his wealth building a third-rate college in a swamp.”
“There is only so much we can tell the public,” Claude responded. We’ve already given away significant technology and have gained important allies.”
Brian whined, “If we could announce just a few details describing the vegetables I’ve developed, I’m sure people would recognize the potential benefits of genetically enhanced plants.”
J. Alfred’s expression softened a little. “I feel the same way Brian, but people are uncomfortable with the idea of tinkering with genetics. It doesn’t matter if it’s plant or animal. Half of them think we’re playing god. The other half think we have no idea what we’re doing and we’ll wind up destroying the planet.”
“Do you think they’re right?” Brian asked.
“They may be, at least in the short term,” J. Alfred replied. “According to Anastasius, the QBIFI predicts premature disclosure of anything relating to genetics could cause a disaster. What we’re doing at the Institute doesn’t appear to be a part of Earth’s natural development. That’s why we must be cautious and maintain secrecy.”
“Are you saying we can change the future based on information from the QBIFI? I thought the investigation after 9/11 determined that wasn’t possible.”
“While it is true there’s no action which will change the natural future as predicted by the QBIFI, we’ve discovered the timing of certain events can have a major impact. In this case, if we publicize our genetics research now, the QBIFI predicts chaos. If we wait until 2026 or later, the information will lead to a positive outcome.”
“Why 2026? That’s so far away.”
“We don’t know the reason, but it has something to do with our ability to understand and use genetic research responsibly. We’re not going to release anything substantial to the general public before that date.”
When they returned from the conference, Brian worked even harder on genetic plant research. He spent long hours in the lab with no social life, obsessed with his experiments. He was frustrated by the inability to publish his research for another twenty-three years. He found a way to discuss his discoveries in a hypothetical setting. It was an online forum called the Green Warriors, a site for dedicated conservationists. Radio talk-show host Rush Limbaugh referred to them as “Environmental Whackos.”
The Green Warriors site was the perfect place to discuss environmental theories and fantasies. Brian met a girl on the site, or at least someone who claimed to be a girl. She was everything he dreamed of, but the only thing he knew for sure was her online name, Ranebowgurl. When asked for an online ID, Brian chose Prityboy. He hated it, but it was the only thing that came to mind.
Brian and Ranebowgurl communicated every day. He grew to trust her advice and relied on her companionship. Even if it was virtual, she was the closest thing he had to a girlfriend. Whenever he had a bad day, Brian would change the details and share his experiences with Ranebowgurl. She would always send a warm reply and end with, “I believe in you.”
Brian’s research led to several productive crops. In field studies at the Institute, they contained less insecticide and herbicide contamination than food grown on farms certified by the Organic Materials Review Institute (OMRI).
“The world would be amazed if they could see the incredible things we’re doing here,” Prityboy bragged hypothetically to Ranebowgurl.
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The general public would remain unaware of the ORION Institute for two more decades. Meanwhile, several large commercial companies were using a primitive form of genetic modification to infuse insecticides and other dubious components into major crops such as corn. The Qabalah used these abuses to fan the flames of public fears, making rational public discussions impossible. The Qabalah had significant influence over half of the world’s news media and used it to promote their interests while destroying their competition.
Genetically modified food provided an easy way to spread misinformation. The Qabalah published fake scientific articles, opened phony internet chat rooms, staged protests and convinced millions that genetically modified organisms (GMOs) were being used to reduce population by causing infertility and cancer.
Brian understood better than anyone the dangers involved with GMOs. They could be a greater benefit to society than antibiotics if produced and managed properly. If they were misused, they could be a greater threat than a hydrogen bomb. A simple genetic protein modificat
ion could change a formerly healthy food into a deadly poison. The Qabalah weren’t lying when they claimed some genetic modifications were causing biological changes in the body leading to cancer.
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By the year 2005, Brian was already working on his doctoral dissertation, “The Code of Internationally Accepted Standards for Environmental Conservation.” He began attending more conferences and conventions, but spent most of his time establishing connections with members of the Global Environment Facility (GEF), and the International Union for Conservation of Nature.
Meanwhile, people living at the Institute served as perfect lab rats for testing his genetically modified foods. Claude set a goal to produce and recycle 90% of everything consumed on site. The Agriculture Division soon grew larger than the Department of Archaeology.
A strange internet romance blossomed between Ranebowgurl and Prityboy. Brian wanted to meet her, but was fearful of what might happen if she discovered the Institute was real. He was confident Ranebowgurl wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, but couldn’t take the chance.
He fantasized they might meet some day at an environmental conference where he would recognize her in a conversation without having to reveal his online identity. In the meantime, his favorite part of each day was contact with the mysterious Ranebowgurl, her closing words, “I believe in you.”