When the door shut behind her, Chris turned back to David. “So what now? Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much to do,” David said. “You and Dr. Haynes have scrabbled together a killer—pardon the language—proposal. You’re at the whims of the human psyche, which is far from perfect. If there’s any way to convince Murray to lower his guns, you can be sure I’ll employ it. Now the only thing for you and Dr. Haynes to do is wait.”
Nodding, Chris folded his arms over his chest. It seemed waiting was all he could do lately. Wait for the IRB’s proposal approval. Wait to see if Dellaporta still lived. Wait to see if Vincent’s gang planned to take out him, Jordan, Robin, and Veronica. He didn’t like leaving his friends’ lives and his own to the devices and inclinations of others. If Vincent didn’t get to Chris, the waiting would kill him first.
Chapter 5
Robin dashed down the corridor toward Jacob Wright’s room. The child, a month away from his first birthday, had been diagnosed with leukemia.
When he’d been brought to Robin’s care, she’d ordered immediate nanodiagnostics and started him on a targeted drug-delivery regimen. She had prescribed a treatment using nanoparticles with the ability to target specific cancer cells. The nanoparticles administered a chemical drug only to cells they identified as cancerous, which meant the side effects of the treatments were greatly minimized compared to the more archaic cancer remedies involving indiscriminate therapeutics like old-fashioned chemo or radiation therapies.
Jacob had responded well. His white blood cell counts were returning to normal, and his parents reported he’d been sleeping much better. A warm, peachy hue had replaced the boy’s pallor, and Robin predicted they’d see complete remission within a matter of weeks.
Now she burst into Jacob’s room. A nurse leaned over the child’s bed and held him in place.
Jacob’s mother grabbed Robin’s wrist. “What do we do?”
Robin shook herself free and pointed at another nurse. “Please get Mr. and Mrs. Wright out of the room.” She spoke with a deliberate sternness while her mind churned.
In the oversized bed, Jacob’s diminutive form convulsed. The nurse held him on his side and placed her hand over the boy’s head to prevent him from thrashing against the metal guard rails. Robin checked the boy’s vitals, but while his heart rate appeared slightly elevated, it was ordinary for an epileptic fit.
Her heart sank as the projection above his monitor displayed a temperature of 100.5o. A slight fever was a normal side effect as the boy’s immune system responded to the cancer therapeutics and the synthetic boosters used to keep him relatively healthy. But 100.5o was unexpected.
A rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of Jacob’s lips. Robin suspected he must’ve bitten his tongue, but trying to cram anything into the boy’s mouth now might only make the situation worse. Despite the child’s violent movements, there wasn’t much more to be done but wait the seizure out.
The boy’s body calmed, and his twitching eyelids closed. His little chest rose and fell as his normal breathing resumed.
Robin slid her comm card over a small nodule at the end of Jacob’s bed, and his medical charts projected in front of her. She scanned each line indicating when one of the nurses had administered a new round of the targeted drugs through his IV line along with the synthetic immune system boosters to help Jacob ward off diseases and infections while he recovered from the leukemia.
Nothing appeared abnormal, and she found no obvious reason for the seizure.
With a furrowed brow, she gazed at the nurse. “Sam, were there any therapeutics or meds administered that weren’t recorded on the chart?”
“No.” Sam shook her head and tucked the boy back in. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Mom and Dad didn’t slip him anything, did they?”
Sam shrugged. “I’d tell you if they did.”
“Carolyn, you can let the Wrights back in,” Robin called to the nurse at the doorway.
Nancy and Doug burst in.
“Is he okay?” Nancy said, her eyes red as she reached for Jacob. “Can I hold him?”
The boy’s symptoms spun through Robin’s mind. She nodded. “Yes, I think that’s fine.”
Nancy grabbed the boy and hugged him to her chest. Her eyes, wide and puffy, caught Robin’s. “What’s wrong? Is the leukemia getting worse?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not quite sure—”
“Not quite sure?” Doug stepped forward. “I thought you said everything was under control. You told us he was getting better. He’d be ready to get out of here.”
“I know,” Robin said. “Maybe there’s something else we missed. Did you give him any medicines—anything at all I didn’t prescribe?”
Nancy’s face turned crimson. “No. Of course not! You can’t possibly accuse us of doing something to hurt him.”
Inwardly, Robin sighed. She held her hands up. “I’m not accusing anyone of doing anything. I want to make sure all my bases are covered, and we can get to the bottom of this immediately. It’s always a lot quicker if I can narrow down the suspected causes.”
“Causes?” Doug’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘causes’? How many diseases do you think our son has? How come this wasn’t diagnosed before?”
“Please,” Robin said, hoisting her hands up in another placating gesture. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, but I need you to be patient. Jacob needs you both to be patient.” She turned to Sam. “Could you call the MRI tech up here?” She returned her gaze to the boy’s parents. “This could be a febrile seizure. It’s usually not serious and occurs sometimes in children with a fever.”
“Not serious?” Doug said, his voice rising. “Fevers causing seizures sound serious.”
“I assure you, it isn’t as bad is it looks.”
“You assured us he was in recovery, too.”
Robin paused for a moment, willing herself not to rise to Doug’s bait. “Most likely, this is a one-time occurrence. Something associated with the fever and something you probably won’t see again.” As Doug opened his mouth, Robin held up a finger. “I’m going to run a battery of diagnostics to ensure a febrile seizure was all this is. Once we know for sure, we’ll be able to move on as normal, but I’m afraid we’re going to need to cease both the targeted therapeutics and the synth immune boosters for now.”
“But they’re working!” Doug said. “Why would you do that?”
“He’s got a fever,” Robin said, keeping her voice to a matter-of-fact tone. “His immune system may be responding to the nanoparticles within his bloodstream and acting as if they are an invasive body. This could actually be a positive sign, as it shows his immune system is returning to normal.”
Nancy appeared as though she didn’t know whether to cry or smile at the news, but Doug’s face retained an expression of frustration.
“I’ve witnessed a similar immune response in many patients who ended up going home days later and never saw evidence of leukemia again.” Yet she’d never seen a child undergoing the treatment endure a fever resulting in a febrile seizure. Although she wanted to be honest with the Wrights, she didn’t want to unload too much on them. They were fired up as it was. “In any case, I do want to run these next few assays and imaging diagnostics to be sure nothing else is complicating your son’s recovery. Is that okay?”
Both nodded.
“Great.”
A knock at the door caused all three to turn. Beside Sam stood the MRI tech with a white helmet apparatus tucked under his left hand.
“Come on in,” Robin said. She turned to Nancy. “Could you put Jacob back down?”
The tech walked to the side of the bed and placed the helmet on Jacob’s head. The boy, still apparently exhausted from his seizure, looked up at the tech with dreamy eyes.
Robin sidled up to hold Jacob still while the tech performed the MRI. The small, self-contained device provided a stark contrast to the gigantic
donut-shaped machines Robin had seen in a few of the medical history books she’d read. After a couple seconds of quiet humming, a small green light atop the helmet blinked, and the tech removed the device.
“You want to see the results now or later?” He glanced at Jacob’s parents.
“I’ll meet you outside,” Robin said. She was anxious to see the images but didn’t want the Wrights to be alarmed by her examination of the three-dimensional projections of their son’s brain. “Sam, could you order a nanodiagnostic for any potential neurological disorders?”
“Certainly.” The nurse nodded and tapped on the holoscreen next to the entrance to the room. “Looks like we can have comprehensive results by three or so.”
“Perfect.”
Robin ushered the MRI tech out of the room and glanced at the Wrights. “We’ll be back shortly.” They continued down the hall to Robin’s personal office. She unlocked the door and indicated the empty seat in front of her desk. The tech sat and set the MRI device on the desktop. He booted up its holoscreen display.
With a ghostly blue glow, Jacob Wright’s brain appeared before them. The tech gasped and stared at Robin with a gaping mouth. “I swear to God this is his brain.”
Robin gulped. She’d made no accusation but understood exactly why the tech had jumped to defend himself. Bright white splotches riddled the brain. She recognized what those amorphous blobs signified. Amyloid plaques covered Jacob’s cortex. The aggressive protein buildups were a common sign of advancing Alzheimer’s disease. She’d never seen such formations in a child.
“What the hell is going on?” the tech asked, his eyes still trained on Robin’s face.
She held her hand over her mouth. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she weighed the ramifications of this find. “You got any other immediate calls?”
The tech shook his head. “No emergencies. Just a couple of scheduled visits.”
“Cancel them, because I’m going to need you all afternoon.”
Chapter 6
The warm afternoon air enveloped Chris as he left the hospital. He sucked in a breath and detected a hint of saltiness drifting on the breeze from the harbor. The Baltimore city government had made good on its promise of cleaning up airborne pollution through a series of regulations on the industrial districts. Their efforts had been helped by the population’s conversion to electric cars.
But despite its environmental progress, Baltimore had never grown out of its well-earned reputation for crime. Chris wondered why the city hadn’t fallen into disrepair like Detroit. Maybe the same cancerous corruption that led to the city’s repute kept it afloat. It was a veritable den of biotech pirates. Instead of disorganized street gangs, Baltimore’s underground economy consisted of groups experimenting in illicit biowares like neurological implants and genetic enhancements. The technological prowess displayed by these organizations might have rivaled the early years of Silicon Valley’s more reputable practices.
Chris guessed enough money sifted in through the illegal trade by means of bribes and taxes paid by these organization’s legal fronts to keep Baltimore’s finances in the black. He wondered why he had ever tried to make it in this city. Maybe it had been bullheaded of him to ever attempt to rebuild his life in the city that had almost claimed it.
He kicked at some loose gravel on the sidewalk. Hell, the city’s biotech underbelly may have claimed Dellaporta’s life. With a couple of taps, he called a cab through his comm card. A yellow vehicle rolled up to the curb within a few seconds, and he dipped into the back.
The driverless car requested his destination on a holoscreen map. Chris plugged in the address for TheraComp. He didn’t feel mentally prepared to jump back into running his company with Jordan after Dellaporta had apparently gone missing and the IRB delayed the approval of their clinical trials for HDXT. But Robin’s words rang out in his head: Forge ahead.
His comm card buzzed in his pocket, and he withdrew it. A single message projected before him when he pressed his thumb to the screen. It read, “Meet me at Shannon’s Pub ASAP—AD.”
For a moment, he stared at the text and squinted as though that would clear up his confusion. He couldn’t remember who he knew with the initials “AD,” and then it struck him.
Ana Dellaporta. It couldn’t be, could it?
His heart raced and his fingers danced across the taxi’s holoscreen to input the new destination. She was alive.
***
Chris hurried into the Irish pub. Illuminated by beams of sunlight filtering between heavy curtains, a haze of dust floated through the air. The lunch crowd occupied the booths and high tables as a bartender filled pint glasses from the tap.
“Chris,” a voice called out from past the bar. In a dark blazer and collared white shirt, Dellaporta stood and waved.
Relief immediately washed through him. He dodged an autoserver bot carrying a tray of beer to a table and hugged Dellaporta.
She let out a muffled yelp. “Watch it.” She nodded to the booth, and they sat on opposite sides.
“I’m so damn happy to see you. I was afraid they’d gotten you, too,” Chris said. “Pardon the bluntness, but how the hell did you make it out of last night’s attack?”
“The more important question is how the hell I escaped the department today. So many damn questions this morning, and nobody seems to believe me.” Her lips quaked, and a fire seemed to burn in her eyes. “They need to stop worrying about me and go after the bastards that did that to our people. We need more badges on the streets, more troopers looking into every damned possible lead to bring those assholes in.” She slammed a hand on the table. A splash of beer jumped out of the glass, and another table of lunch-goers quieted, staring at Dellaporta. She lowered her voice. “I told them I needed to use the restroom and ran out one of the department’s rear exits. No one bothered to bring me back in.”
“You kidding me?”
“Afraid not,” Dellaporta said. She rubbed the top of her right arm. “Last night was insane.”
“Are you sure you’re not insane?” Chris cocked his head. “The first person you call is a convicted genie dealer.”
Dellaporta laughed and then cringed as though in pain. “Oh, don’t make me do that.”
“If I know you, you didn’t invite me here to catch up over a Guinness after you survived a veritable terrorist attack.” He leaned across the table. “What the hell happened?” His eyes were drawn to the sweating pint in front of her. “And should you be drinking on the job?”
“Screw that,” Dellaporta said. “I’m taking myself off the job today—or at least out of the department’s eyes. They were nice enough to cut my shift today and bring me in for several hours of interviews.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “You might want to grab a drink yourself, because I’ve got a hell of a story.”
Chris ordered a Beaver Dam Blue pale ale from the holoscreen menu at their table. His mood and expression turned dour as his initial excitement at seeing Dellaporta alive faded. He imagined what she had witnessed. She must have seen her coworkers, her friends, her partners cut up by those gunmen. “I’m so sorry about everything,” he said, his words sounding lame in his own ears.
“Thanks.” Dellaporta’s nose scrunched in a snarl, and she looked away for a moment. “I want to bring those bastards in myself, but truthfully, I have no idea where to start looking.”
“And that’s why you called me, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “They shot me, Morgan. They shot me. They shot my partner. They killed the goddamned senator.” Spittle flew as she spoke. “And you know what the feds told me? They said ‘they can handle it.’ They told me not to worry.”
Chris opened his mouth to speak.
“Screw them,” she said before chugging the rest of her beer.
An autoserver bot rolled up with Chris’s ale as Dellaporta ordered another round.
After a long swig of his drink, Chris let out a slow exhalation. “Look, I’m glad to see you alive. We were worried sick.
”
Dellaporta clenched her hands together until they were white.
Chris patted her wrist. “I owe you big. So tell me what’s going on, and I’ll see what I can do.” When he leaned back in the booth, Dellaporta followed suit. She stretched her left arm behind her head, but her right remained on the table.
“It’s too damn hot in here,” she said and pulled the blazer off. A white bandage clung around her right bicep.
“What the hell happened there?”
Dellaporta’s nose twitched. “I was shot.” Her eyes narrowed, and she held her right hand out, fingers splayed and thumb tucked into her palm. “Four times. Four fricking times.”
Chris’s mouth dropped. “Jesus, are you sure you should be out?” He glanced around the bar, worried someone watched them or might still be after Dellaporta. “Should we get the hell out of here?”
“No. I’m not scared, and I’m not going to run away with my tail between my legs.” She picked up the pint of Guinness from an autoserver bot that had rolled over to them. “Thank god for nanofiber bulletproof vests. The stuff you scientists come up with...”
His cheeks warming, Chris felt guilty Dellaporta would include him in a list of people who developed devices to save lives.
“I’m bruised but alive. One bullet tore straight through my arm, but they patched it up when I hit the emergency room and added some tissue stuff—”
“Tissue regeneration scaffolds?” Chris asked.
“Sounds right.” She gulped down a swig of her stout. “Said it’d heal up nicely, and they let me out within hours.”
Chris cocked his head to the side, trying to construct the timeline in his head. “So you got attacked, went to the hospital, and then went straight into the department for questioning. You haven’t even slept, have you?”
She shook her head, her loose hair flopping in front of her face. “Don’t worry about me. I survived a shooting. I can survive a little sleep deprivation.”
The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3 Page 55
