Black Order

by James Rollins

  Lisa nodded. It was one of the main reasons she had concern for the current drive to have pseudoscience presented alongside evolution in high school biology classes. It was a multidisciplinary quagmire that your average Ph.D. would have difficulty sorting through, let alone a high school student.

  Anna, though, was not done with her side of the argument. “That all said, there is one concern proposed by the intelligent design camp that bears consideration.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The randomness of mutations. Pure chance could not produce so many beneficial mutations over time. How many birth defects do you know that have produced beneficial changes?”

  Lisa had heard that argument before. Life evolved too fast to be pure chance. She was not falling for it.

  “Evolution is not pure chance,” Lisa countered. “Natural selection, or environmental pressure, weeds out detrimental changes and only allows better-suited organisms to pass on their genes.”

  “Survival of the fittest?”

  “Or fit enough. Changes don’t have to be perfect. Just good enough to have an advantage. And over the vast scope of hundreds of millions of years, these small advantages or changes accumulate into the variety we see today.”

  “Over hundreds of millions of years? Granted, that is indeed a vast gulf of time, but does it still allow enough room for the full scope of evolutionary change? And what about those occasional spurts of evolution, where vast changes occurred rapidly?”

  “I presume you’re referring to the Cambrian explosion?” Lisa asked. It was one of the mainstays of intelligent design. The Cambrian Period encompassed a relatively short period of time. Fifteen million years. But during that time a vast explosion of new life appeared: sponges, snails, jellyfish, and trilobites. Seemingly out of the blue. Too fast a pace for antievolutionists.

  “Nein. The fossil record has plenty of evidence that this ‘sudden appearance’ of invertebrates was not so sudden. There were abundant Precambrian sponges and wormlike metazoans. Even the diversity of shapes during this time could be justified by the appearance in the genetic code of Hox genes.”

  “Hox genes?”

  “A set of four to six control genes appeared in the genetic code just prior to the Cambrian Period. They proved to be control switches for embryonic development, defining up and down, right and left, top and bottom, basic bodily form. Fruit flies, frogs, humans, all have the exact same Hox genes. You can snip a Hox gene from a fly, replace it into a frog’s DNA, and it functions just fine. And as these genes are the fundamental master switches for embryonic development, it only takes minuscule changes in any of them to create massively new body shapes.”

  Though unsure where this was all leading, the depth of the woman’s knowledge on the subject surprised Lisa. It rivaled her own. If Anna were a colleague at a conference, Lisa thought she might actually enjoy the debate. In fact, she kept having to remind herself to whom she was talking.

  “So the rise of Hox genes just prior to the Cambrian Period might explain that dramatic explosion of forms. But,” Anna countered, “Hox genes do not explain other moments of rapid—almost purposeful—evolution.”

  “Like what?” The discussion was becoming more interesting by the moment.

  “Like the peppered moths. Are you familiar with the story?”

  Lisa nodded. Now Anna was bringing up one of the mainstays on the other side of the camp. Peppered moths lived on birches and were speckled white, to blend in with the bark and avoid being eaten by birds. But when a coal plant opened in the Manchester region and blackened the trees with soot, the white moths found themselves exposed and easy targets for the birds. But in just a few generations, the population changed its predominant color to a solid black, to camouflage against the soot-covered trees.

  “If mutations were random,” Anna argued, “it seems amazingly lucky black showed up when it did. If it was purely a random event, then where were the red moths, the green moths, the purple ones? Or even the two-headed ones?”

  Lisa had to force herself not to roll her eyes. “I could say the other colored moths were eaten, too. And the two-headed ones died off. But you’re misunderstanding the example. The change in color of these moths was not from mutation. The species already had a black gene. A few black moths were born each generation, but they were mostly eaten, maintaining the general population as white. But once the trees blackened, then the few black moths had an advantage and filled the population as the white moths were consumed. That was the point of the example. Environments can influence a population. But it wasn’t a mutational event. The black gene was already present.”

  Anna was smiling at her.

  Lisa realized the woman had been testing her knowledge. She sat straighter, both angry and conversely more intrigued.

  “Very good,” Anna said. “Then let me bring up a more recent event. One that occurred in a controlled laboratory setting. A researcher produced a strain of E. coli bacteria that could not digest lactose. Then he spread a thriving population onto a growth plate where the only food source was lactose. What would science say should happen?”

  Lisa shrugged. “Unable to digest the lactose, the bacteria would starve and die.”

  “And that’s exactly what happened to ninety-eight percent of the bacteria. But two percent continued to thrive just fine. They had spontaneously mutated a gene to digest lactose. In one generation. I find that astonishing, ja? That goes against all probability of randomness. Of all the genes in an E. coli’s DNA and the rarity of mutation, why did two percent of the population all mutate the one gene necessary to survive? It defies randomness.”

  Lisa had to contend that it was strange. “Maybe there was laboratory contamination.”

  “The experiment has been repeated. With similar results.”

  Lisa remained unconvinced.

  “I see the doubt in your eyes. So let’s look elsewhere for another example of the impossibility of randomness in gene mutation.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Back to the beginning of life. Back to the primordial soup. Where the engine of evolution first switched on.”

  Lisa recalled Anna making some mention before about the story of the Bell stretching back to the origin of life. Was this where Anna was leading now? Lisa pricked her ears a bit more, ready to hear where this might lead.

  “Let’s turn the clock back,” Anna said. “Back before the first cell. Remember Darwin’s tenet: what exists had to arise from a simpler, less complex form. So before the single cell, what was there? How far can we reduce life and still call it life? Is DNA alive? Is a chromosome? How about a protein or an enzyme? Where is the line between chemistry and life?”

  “Okay, that is an intriguing question,” Lisa conceded.

  “Then I’ll ask another. How did life make the leap from a chemical primordial soup to the first cell?”

  Lisa knew that answer. “Earth’s early atmosphere was full of hydrogen, methane, and water. Add a few jolts of energy, say from a lightning strike, and these gases can form simple organic compounds. These then cooked up in the proverbial primordial soup and eventually formed a molecule that could replicate.”

  “Which was proven in the lab,” Anna agreed, nodding. “A bottle full of primordial gases produced a slurry of amino acids, the building blocks of proteins.”

  “And life started.”

  “Ah, you are so eager to jump ahead,” Anna teased. “We’ve only formed amino acids. Building blocks. How do we go from a few amino acids to that first fully replicating protein?”

  “Mix enough amino acids together and eventually they’ll chain up into the right combination.”

  “By random chance?”

  A nod.

  “That’s where we come to the root of the problem, Dr. Cummings. I might concede with you that Darwin’s evolution played a significant role after the first self-replicating protein formed. But do you know how many amino acids must link up in order to form this first replicating prote
in?”

  “No.”

  “A minimum of thirty-two amino acids. That’s the smallest protein that holds the capacity to replicate. The odds of this protein forming by random chance are astronomically thin. Ten to the power of forty-one.”

  Lisa shrugged at this number. Despite her feelings for the woman, a grudging respect began to grow.

  “Let’s put these odds in perspective,” Anna said. “If you took all the protein found in all the rain forests of the world and dissolved it all down into an amino acid soup, it would still remain vastly improbable for a thirty-two-amino-acid chain to form. In fact, it would take five thousand times that amount to form one of these chains. Five thousand rain forests. So again, how do we go from a slurry of amino acids to that first replicator, the first bit of life?”

  Lisa shook her head.

  Anna crossed her arms, satisfied. “That’s an evolutionary gap even Darwin has a hard time leaping.”

  “Still,” Lisa countered, refusing to concede, “to fill this gap with the Hand of God is not science. Because we don’t have an answer yet to fill this gap, it doesn’t mean it has a supernatural cause.”

  “I’m not saying it’s supernatural. And who says I don’t have an answer to fill this gap?”

  Lisa gaped at her. “What answer?”

  “Something we discovered decades ago through our study of the Bell. Something that today’s researchers are only beginning to explore in earnest.”

  “What’s that?” Lisa found herself sitting straighter, forgoing any attempt to hide her interest in anything associated with the Bell.

  “We call it quantum evolution.”

  Lisa recalled the history of the Bell and the Nazi research into the strange and fuzzy world of subatomic particles and quantum physics. “What does any of this have to do with evolution?”

  “Not only does this new field of quantum evolution offer the strongest support for intelligent design,” Anna said, “but it also answers the fundamental question of who the designer is.”

  “You’re kidding. Who? God?”

  “Nein.” Anna stared her in the eye. “Us.”

  Before Anna could explain further, an old radio wired to the wall sputtered with static and a familiar voice rasped through. It was Gunther.

  “We have a trace on the saboteur. We’re ready to move.”

  7:37 A.M.

  BÜREN, GERMANY

  Gray steered the BMW around an old farm truck, its bed piled high with hay. He slipped into fifth gear and raced through the last hairpin turn. Cresting the hill, he had a panoramic view of the valley ahead.

  “Alme Valley,” Monk said beside him. He clutched tight to a handhold above the door.

  Gray slowed, downshifting.

  Monk glared at him. “I see Rachel has been giving you Italian driving lessons.”

  “When in Rome…”

  “We’re not in Rome.”

  Plainly they were not. As they crested the ridge, a wide river valley stretched ahead, a green swath of meadows, forests, and tilled fields. Across the valley, a picture-postcard German hamlet huddled in the lowlands, a township of peaked red-tile roofs and stone houses set amid narrow, twisted streets.

  But all eyes fixed upon the massive castle perched on the far ridge, nestled in the forest, overlooking the town. Towers jutted high, topped by fluttering flags. While hulking and massive, like many of the fortified structures along the larger Rhine River, the castle also had a fairy-tale quality to it, a place of enchanted princesses and knights on white stallions.

  “If Dracula had been gay,” Monk said, “that would so be his castle.”

  Gray knew what he meant. There was something vaguely sinister about the place, but it might just be the lowering sky to the north. They’d be lucky to reach the lowland village before the storm struck.

  “Where to now?” Gray asked.

  A crumpling sound rose from the backseat as Fiona checked the map. She had confiscated it from Monk and assumed the role of navigator, since she still withheld their destination.

  She leaned forward and pointed to the river. “You have to cross that bridge.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I know how to read a map.”

  Gray headed down into the valley, avoiding a long line of bicyclists outfitted in a motley display of racing jerseys. He sped the BMW along the winding road to the valley floor and entered the outskirts of the village.

  It appeared to be from another century. A German Brigadoon. Everywhere tulips filled window boxes, and each peaked roof supported high gables. Off to the sides, cobbled streets stretched out from the main thoroughfare. They passed a square lined by outdoor cafés, beer gardens, and a central bandstand, where Gray was sure a polka band played every night.

  Then they were trundling across the bridge and soon found themselves back in the meadows and small farmsteads.

  “Take the next left!” Fiona yelled.

  Gray had to brake sharply and twist the BMW around a sharp turn. “A little warning next time.”

  The road grew narrower, lined by tall hedgerows. Asphalt turned to cobbles. The BMW shuddered over the uneven surface. Soon weeds were sprouting among the cobbles. Iron gates appeared ahead, spanning the narrow road, waiting open.

  Gray slowed. “Where are we?”

  “This is the place,” Fiona said. “Where the Darwin Bible came from. The Hirszfeld estate.”

  Gray edged the BMW through the gates. Rain began pelting down from the darkening skies. At first lightly…then more forcefully.

  “Just in time,” Monk said.

  Beyond the gates, a wide courtyard opened, framed on two sides by the wings of a small country cottage estate. The main house, directly ahead, stood only two stories high, but its slate-tiled roof rose in steep pitches, giving the home a bit of majesty.

  A shatter of lightning crackled overhead, drawing the eye.

  The castle they’d noted earlier rose directly atop the wooded ridge behind the estate. It seemed to loom over the cottage.

  “Oy!” a call snapped out.

  Gray’s attention flicked back.

  A bicyclist who had been trotting his bike out of the rain had almost got himself run over. The youth, dressed in a yellow soccer jersey and biker’s shorts, slapped the BMW’s hood with the palm of his hand.

  “Watch where you’re going, mate!” He flipped Gray off.

  Fiona already had the back window rolled down, head sticking out. “Sod off, you prat! Why don’t you watch where you’re running around in those poncey shorts of yours!”

  Monk shook his head. “Looks like Fiona’s got a date for later.”

  Gray pulled the car into a slot near the main house. There was only one other car, but Gray noted a line of mountain and racing bikes chained up in racks. A cluster of bedraggled young men and women stood under one awning, backpacks resting on the ground. He heard them speaking as he cut the engine. Spanish. The place had to be a youth hostel. Or at least it was now. He could practically smell the patchouli and hemp.

  Was this the right place?

  Even if it was, Gray doubted he’d find anything of value here. But they had come this far. “Wait here,” he said. “Monk, stay with—”

  The back door popped open, and Fiona climbed out.

  “Next time,” Monk said, reaching for his door, “choose the model with child locks for the back.”

  “C’mon.” Gray headed out after her.

  Backpack over her shoulder, Fiona strode toward the front door of the main house.

  He caught up with her at the porch steps and grabbed her elbow. “We stick together. No running off.”

  She faced him, equally angry. “Exactly. We stick together. No running off. That means no leaving me in airplanes or cars.” She twisted out of his grip and pulled open the door.

  A chime announced their arrival.

  A clerk glanced up from a mahogany reception desk just inside the door. An early morning fire glowed in the hearth,
chasing away the chill. The entrance hall was box-beamed and tiled in slate. Muted murals that looked centuries old decorated the walls. But the place showed signs of disrepair: crumbling plaster, dust in the rafters, frayed and faded rugs on the floor. The place had seen better days.

  The clerk nodded to them, a hale young man in a rugby shirt and green slacks. In his late teens or early twenties, he looked like some blond collegiate freshman from an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement.

  “Guten morgen,” the clerk said, greeting Gray as he stepped to the counter.

  Monk scanned the hall as thunder rumbled down the valley. “Nothing guten about this morning,” he mumbled.

  “Ah, Americans,” the clerk said, hearing Monk’s gripe. There was a slight chill to his tone.

  Gray cleared his throat. “We were wondering if this is the old Hirszfeld estate?”

  The clerk’s eyes widened slightly. “Ja, aber…it’s been the Burgschloß Hostel for going on two decades. When my father, Johann Hirszfeld, inherited the place.”

  So they were at the right place. He glanced at Fiona, who lifted her eyebrows at him as if asking What? She was busy searching through her backpack. He prayed Monk was correct: that there were no flash grenades in there.

  Gray turned his attention back to the clerk. “I was wondering if I might speak to your father.”

  “Concerning…?” The chill was back, along with a certain wariness.

  Fiona bumped him aside. “Concerning this.” She slapped a familiar book on the reception counter. It was the Darwin Bible.

  Oh, God…he had left the book under guard on the jet.

  Apparently not well enough.

  “Fiona,” Gray said in a warning tone.

  “It’s mine,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

  The clerk picked up the book and flipped through it. There was no sign of recognition. “A Bible? We don’t allow proselytizing here at the hostel.” He closed the book and slid it back toward Fiona. “Besides, my father is Jewish.”