It had been years since he’d been so intimately involved in benchtop research. The process of getting accustomed to lab work again took a while. And though he admired Chris’s ingenuity, he thought the bioengineer was too exhausted and bleary eyed to be of much use to himself or any of those patients suffering in the hospital.
Perched on a stool near the sequencer, Jordan folded his hands in his lap. Hugh worked behind him as he assembled the reagents necessary for fabricating the canine delivery vectors they had lost.
Jordan recalled when Chris had first proposed genetic therapeutics for dogs. Chris had worn a serious expression even as Jordan laughed at his friend’s idea. But when the intrepid entrepreneur showed him the astonishingly high amount of money the average dog owner spent on interventional veterinary care each year, the laughter quickly subsided.
He had quickly contributed his financial assets to help Chris with the endeavor. The science they based their products on was sound, and the field was wide open, the perfect opportunity.
And now, right before they would see it to fruition, Chris’s life might be cut short. Jordan vowed to immortalize Chris in one of the novels he worked on every day, but he knew it wouldn’t be an adequate tribute to his close friend. It was just a foolish way for him to deal with the grief he feared was imminent.
The temperature monitor of the sequencer turned red. Numbers escalated as Jordan’s eyes widened.
During their previous attempt at sequencing the mysterious vectors, the DNA had been torn apart by abnormally high heat. And now it was recurring.
He fumbled with the holodisplay to adjust the automatic temperature ramping. Every time he gestured, the text prompts returned him to the main screen displaying the increasing heat. He watched helplessly as the samples, yet another chance at saving Chris and the other patients, faced imminent destruction.
Hugh seemed not to notice. The lab tech, too engrossed in his work, hummed a cheery tune.
“Hugh!” Jordan said.
The tech jumped. “What’s up?”
“The temperature over here is going wild. Do you think you might be able to fix it?”
“Certainly. I’ll take a look.” Hugh laid down the pipette and plastic tube in his hand. He bounded over to Jordan’s side.
His hands motioning deftly over the display, Hugh squinted at the numbers and text commands. With a final poke at the holodisplay, the temperature readings steadied and then dropped.
“There. No problem.” Creases formed across Hugh’s brow. “Strange enough, it looked like someone messed up the automatic run controls for thermocycling and placed a lock on manual alterations during analysis.”
“Come again?” Jordan arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t understand why anyone other than he or Chris would’ve altered the protocols the device used for experiments.
“Basically, the machine was set so it would heat the DNA past the point of destruction through denaturation.” He pointed at Jordan. “You couldn’t get it to work because the program required you to go through a whole bunch of convoluted menu options just to change what the sequencer did. Nasty problem to have, especially when all the automatic runs we usually use for sequencing DNA have been tampered with.”
Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Tampered with?”
“I mean, someone messed with the sequencer. Or someone uploaded a bug to it, I guess.”
Jordan rubbed his chin. “Interesting.”
Maybe someone had tampered with the device. Maybe the individuals who broke in had sabotaged their lab equipment to stall research. Either way, at least for the time being, it seemed as though Hugh had fixed the sequencer. In a matter of minutes, the machine would spit out the data that might better explain the cause for Chris’s death sentence.
***
Jordan waited for the results from the sequencer by scanning the news streams on his comm card. Glaring headlines proclaimed that the cancer epidemic sweeping Baltimore’s streets had claimed at least three more lives in the past hour. Two of the deceased were found in McElderry Park, around which an undeveloped neighborhood suffered from poverty and the public housing crumbled in neglect. Crime there was rampant. Drugs of all kinds, synthetic and organic, were traded on street corners, and violent attacks were a nightly occurrence.
Many of the gangs in the area required their new initiates to undergo enhancements. Generally, these enhancements consisted of strength alterations. Most favored muscle-mass gainers for the obvious physical benefits and the intimidation factor the altered genes bestowed on their users. While Jordan wouldn’t venture into the neighborhood, his distributors earned a mint peddling Jordan and Chris’s wares to inhabitants around McElderry.
And so the deaths of two more members of gangs known to dabble in genies did not surprise Jordan. The third death, though, was a former Baltimore Ravens linebacker, Bobby Thornton. The football star was ejected from the team when random sequencing tests revealed the presence of a synthetic gene in the man’s cells associated with illegal strength and muscle augmentation. Thornton claimed it was natural. But Jordan knew the man told a patent lie. One of his distributors had personally sold the genie to Thornton.
The news streams projecting across Jordan’s comm card estimated fourteen deaths in the past few days were related to the strange cancer. CDC officials had issued definitive reports claiming the disease was not airborne and would never be—they asserted the chance of transmission between hosts would remain virtually nil. No evidence in the CDC’s epidemiological analyses indicated the disease was transmitted between human subjects. They claimed the individuals with the aggressive cancer were suffering from malfunctioning or poorly designed illegal genetic enhancements. The law-abiding public had nothing to fear.
Jordan wondered how they might react if he let them know Chris might’ve been infected from exposure to an afflicted enhancer’s blood. He wasn’t the only one unconvinced by the reports.
Despite their attempts to placate nonenhancing citizens, the CDC’s announcements instead invited a barrage of vitriol. Jordan found a bevy of blogs and news streams blasting the government for ignoring this plague, and several offered conspiracy theories. These outlandish writers explained the federal government wanted to rid itself of Baltimore’s criminal underbelly and had given up traditional law enforcement methods in favor of employing biotechnological weapons to cull the criminals from the city.
Jordan dismissed those outrageous claims. As much as he thought it would be a tremendous burden on his own business, he could better understand the articles in support of Senator Sharp’s new regulations on genetic engineering companies. Many said a new senator must step forward to champion Sharp’s bill. The Net churned with people making livid assertions that all genetic manipulation and enhancement technologies should be made illegal, despite the fact many legitimate companies provided treatments for conditions ranging from breast cancer to cystic fibrosis.
Jordan and Chris’s fears that Sharp’s bill might interfere with their new company’s livelihood were warranted. Worse yet, it seemed they had underestimated just how dangerous public opinion could be. If the bill didn’t decimate their finances, a widespread boycott of genetic therapeutics might. He and Chris needed to assuage the burgeoning panic by delving right into the heart of what was going on.
“It’s done,” Hugh said, interrupting Jordan’s thoughts.
The tech walked over to the sequencer and scrolled through the results. His jaw dropped when he saw the data.
“What is it?” Jordan asked.
“Obviously, we haven’t run the sequences through our software analysis yet,” he said, scratching his nose. “But the initial reports show several genes from the hospital biopsies aren’t normally present in humans.”
“What do you mean?”
Hugh tapped his fingers across the holodisplay. “It looks like these aren’t any known healthy genetic sequences that would appear in a human being.”
“So this is a totally unknown, new sequ
ence no one has ever seen before?”
Hugh nodded emphatically. “Yeah, that’s about it.”
“What about the DNA vectors we found in Chris’s blood?”
Hugh scrolled through the data. “This is strange.”
The lab tech pointed to the results, and Jordan squinted. “That can’t be right. It doesn’t look anything like these other sequences.”
Shaking his head, Hugh ran to the incubator. He retrieved the cell culture that Chris had transfected with the unknown vectors and slid it under a microscope. “But those results match what I see here.”
Hugh looked up from the eyepiece and stared at Jordan. “Do you think—”
“I’ve got to tell Chris,” Jordan said. “He’s going to want to know immediately. I can’t believe it.”
Naturally, in healthy cells, DNA strands grew shorter as cells replicated. This led to problems, since DNA crucial for normal cell functioning might get cut out by this shortening. Telomerase, a protein, added extra sequences to the end of DNA strands. Thus, by preserving the length of the strand, telomerase prevented the deletion of important genetic sequences over time. This ensured the integrity of DNA within cells and tissues, and telomerase effectively slowed the aging process. Controlling this enzyme’s activity could increase a person’s lifespan.
And if the sequencing results rang true, Chris had received an enhancement coded for improved telomerase function.
The enhancement circulating Chris’s bloodstream wasn’t going to kill him. It might let him live longer. If Jordan was right, it was actually going to extend Chris’s life.
Chapter 19
Chris turned the painting over in his hands as the Audi hummed to life. He directed the car back to the office and checked the time. If he recalled correctly, the sequencer would be finishing up in a few minutes. He had talked with Veronica longer than he originally intended, but he figured Jordan wouldn’t mind. Chris could trust his friend to grasp what Veronica meant to him and what they’d put her through.
When Veronica had given him a final hug, she reminded him the painting represented their relationship now. She emphasized the word now. He found it strange she saw the tenuous strings holding them together as a relationship. All they truly had now was a joint history and a few shared nightmares of what had transpired in Veronica’s apartment months ago.
He wasn’t sure what to call it anymore. They certainly weren’t paired off in the nebulous world of dating. And he wasn’t certain he could legitimately say she was a friend. He figured they only continued to speak because, as she claimed, he was the only person with any idea of what had happened to her.
Hell, he’d found her, almost dead in her apartment. He witnessed the pooling blood and gashes in her skin. He tried to breathe life back into her by performing CPR but left her place certain he’d failed and knowing it was all his fault.
But here she was, months later, healthy. A few scars still cut across her face to evidence her suffering, but even they were lessened. The artificial organ, the Sustain, which had helped save her life and stem the bleeding that day, had also helped slowly erase the white scar tissue.
Yet seeing her alive due to the Sustain hadn’t done anything to heal the scars in his mind.
Instead, each time he saw her, each time he remembered she lived because of a technological miracle like the Sustain, he wished he’d never strayed from the path of pursuing biomedical innovations to save lives. His foray into underground genetic engineering hadn’t just been a selfish pursuit of financial wealth; it had also needlessly risked the lives of others who purchased his products and others, like Veronica, who’d only been guilty of knowing him.
The car turned onto North Broadway as he held the small canvas. Veronica had always painted slightly abstract themes. Within the broad brushstrokes and swirls of color, familiar shapes would coalesce if the viewer provided careful and diligent examination. This painting, though a bit surrealistic in form, exhibited forms more distinct and recognizable than Veronica’s usual style.
Chris squinted at the tiny words emblazoned on the side of a three-masted wooden ship: USS Constellation. Veronica knew he possessed a slight infatuation for it. It was docked and preserved in the Inner Harbor, and Chris had explored the vessel with tour groups several times since moving to Baltimore. Veronica went with him on a couple of those occasions. He knew it might be childish, but the idea of sailing a ship across open waters with the stars, paper maps, and a captain’s determination to guide it captivated him.
The USS Constellation in Veronica’s painting navigated through dark crimson seas. Ominous clouds rolled above it, and green lightning arced in the distance. Another ship, steeped in shadows, crashed through the waves in one corner. It seemed to be a much larger frigate with a mess of masts and sails, rows of cannons dotting its sides. On closer inspection, the big guns almost appeared like the ends of syringes. Maybe Veronica intended the artwork to provide a sort of rebuke of the biotech industry. Chris chided himself and wondered if his own biases influenced his interpretation of Veronica’s art.
So far, he hadn’t figured out what the hell the painting meant.
Maybe the USS Constellation represented him or his dreams. He shrugged. His eyes landed back on the frigate. Atop an oversized crow’s nest, a pirate directed a telescope toward the smaller ship—Chris’s ship. At its bow, a figurehead appeared to be secured by ropes. Instead of a wooden depiction of an animal, the bonds held a cocker spaniel with golden fur.
The dog must signify Veronica. She had often told him stories about her childhood golden spaniel. When her parents brought the puppy home, Veronica loved its unique yellow fur. The dog’s golden coat inspired Veronica’s aptly chosen name for him: Goldie. Fortunately, her creativity had evolved over the years since.
Chris stretched out, spreading his arms and yawning. He would need an energy boost to be of any use when he returned to the lab. He felt drained. Hell, he had trouble figuring out Veronica’s painting, and now he faced a more daunting challenge. More important than a couple of ships on a canvas, he needed to solve a genetic conundrum to literally save his life and all those he may have wronged.
He directed the car to stop at Charm City Coffee. Holoprojections of anthropomorphized cups of the hot beverage danced across the windows and beckoned to potential customers. The red Audi slid into an open parking spot in front of the storefront. He stepped out of the car, and a navy blue Chevy seemed to slow as it passed. He stared at the opaque windows of the vehicle. It felt as though someone inside gawked back at him. The car sped back up and disappeared around the corner of the block as he rubbed his eyes.
As he slipped through the door, the air-conditioned interior of Charm City Coffee welcomed him with obnoxiously cheerful music playing over the speakers. Despite the abrasive brightness of the place, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans convinced him to stay. He walked up to the front counter where an autoserver window greeted him.
“Hello! Welcome to Charm City Coffee! How can we make you smile?”
Chris cringed. He selected a coffee from the hologram menu. Then, thinking better of it, he canceled the order. Triple-shot espresso. Two of them. He confirmed his payment on his comm card as another machine poured both his drinks. Downing one, he took the other back to the Audi idling out front.
He reset the car’s destination to TheraComp. Already, a tingle of vigor coursed through him. Maybe it was psychological; maybe the first espresso had hit him. Either way, he clung to the rejuvenated energy. He might yet have a fighting chance.
The Audi peeled away from the curb only to wait at the first stoplight. A gaggle of tourists meandered about the sidewalk, maps projected from their comm cards. He felt envious. Their worst problem was probably navigating to the Hard Rock Cafe. Other vehicles pulled up beside him and blocked his view of the tourists.
His eyes widened. One of the vehicles appeared to be the same navy Chevy he’d seen when he made his coffee stop. Like on the car he’d seen before,
an opaque tint covered the windows. Chris couldn’t make out the passengers.
Then he recalled his conversation with Dellaporta at the hospital. She’d tailed him there before she planned on meeting Haynes. Maybe she was still tailing him. Maybe she was trying to discreetly look out for him. Or maybe, despite her earlier claims, she distrusted him.
Chris sipped his second espresso as the Audi wound its way through Baltimore toward TheraComp. When he took a right turn, the Chevy did too. The car followed him through another intersection. His pulse quickened. Caffeine did not bear sole responsibility for his increased heart rate.
He tried to convince himself his pursuer was Dellaporta. But fresh memories flowed through his mind. He pictured the thief who had almost killed him and Jordan in their lab. And he couldn’t forget about the man’s partner, who’d escaped. Was this second intruder now following him? Did he want to avenge his partner’s death—or did he want something else?
Chris retrieved his comm card from his pocket. He searched for Dellaporta’s contact number. The line rang, and he held his breath.
“Morgan. How’s the research going?”
He ignored the question. “Are you still tailing me?”
“No.” She spoke in a lower voice. “I’m at HQ trying to stall the detectives here from bringing you in.”
“Do you have someone else following me? Or are any of your suspicious detective friends after me?”
“One second.”
Chris waited, dread filling him.
“No, no. Except for a couple of Bio Unit guys stationed at the hospital, it looks like everybody else is either here or off shift.”
“What are the chances an off shifter would be keeping tabs on me?”
“Morgan, are you in trouble? Do you want me to come out there?”
Chris pulled a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Someone’s following me around, and I hoped it was you. I’m headed back to the lab.”
The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3 Page 36
