Jupiter would give her no peace. She went back to the study and turned the computer back on.
As soon as the program booted up, Anne asked it to call up one of those extra sight genes—the one located at Xql2. Next she directed Jupiter to highlight the sequences that began and ended the gene. Jupiter obliged. Anne studied the sequences, then checked them against several reference sources. They were precisely what they should be—promoter sequences that carried the coded instructions necessary to turn a gene on and off.
Anne printed out the entire sequence of the gene and then asked Jupiter to call up her own genome and tell her how many sight genes it contained. Jupiter answered thirty-six. She repeated the process with Dalton’s genome and several others she had at hand.
In all of them Jupiter found only thirty-six sight genes.
Anne then printed out the area of her own chromosome 13 that corresponded to the location of the sight gene at Xql2 on Genny’s genome. She did the same with Dalton’s chromosome 13. She aligned the three printouts on her desk and studied them. She expected to find the whole twelve-kilobase-long sequence that formed Genny’s extra gene entirely missing from the other two printouts. But that’s not what she discovered at all. To her astonishment, all three of the printouts showed identical sequencing, with one small but crucial difference: the stretches of twelve kilobases on her genome and Dalton’s genome were not bracketed by promoter sequences. Their genomes contained the same gene as Genny’s, but theirs were inactive. Turned off. Shut down, like engines whose ignition systems had been removed.
The gene at Xql2 in Genny’s genome was therefore not a new gene at all.
It was an old gene—one that had been abandoned, probably tens of thousand of years ago. It was a vestige from mankind’s prehistoric past. The human genome had long been assumed to carry chunks of its heredity in the long stretches of inactive DNA, but no one had yet made a thorough study of it.
Science had had its hands full the last two decades just trying to determine the functions of the genome’s active genes.
Anne repeated the same exercise with the other five extra sight genes in Genny’s genome and got the same results.
So Goth’s great secret was not that he had invented anything new but that he had discovered something lost. He had salvaged old genes from mankind’s past—genes that evolution, for one reason or another, had seen fit to abandon—and switched them back on again, using standard, well-understood DNA control sequences. And by so doing, he had created Genevieve Stewart, a new human with extraordinary capabilities.
Anne recalled the bone Goth had wielded in her dream. He had collected prehistoric fossil remains—had left boxes of them behind at his old laboratory in Coronado. He must have extracted DNA fragments from them. That was probably where he had discovered these genes.
So Genny was not a new kind of human so much as she was a return to a kind of human who must have existed a long time ago. She was a kind of throwback—yet a throwback markedly superior to the present model.
During mankind’s evolution the genes responsible for these superior abilities had been shut down. Why? Had their survival value been lost?
It was no doubt true that senses as keen as Genny’s were hardly necessary in today’s world. They were perhaps even a handicap, overloading the mind with more information than it could usefully process. But superior strength? Health? Intelligence? They had enormous survival value. Why had they declined? Was mankind somehow gradually weakening its own gene pool?
And what other vestigial genes might Goth have reactivated?
Anne asked Jupiter for a total gene count of Genny’s genome.
Jupiter gave the number as 150,826. She called for the totals in her genome and Dalton’s. The numbers came back the same for both: 150,022.
That meant Genny was carrying 804 extra active genes. Her additional sensory genes totaled only 54. That left 750 unaccounted for. How many of those could be devoted to enhancing intelligence, health, and strength? Certainly not all.
Anne thought about Genny’s remarkable healing ability. And her seeing auras. They no doubt accounted for some of the extra genes as well.
But could they account for so many?
What else was there hidden in Genny that hadn’t yet surfaced?
It frightened her to contemplate the possibilities.
Anne yawned so hard her jawbone cracked. She felt a profound fatigue.
The implications of her discovery would take months to sort out and digest. Meanwhile, she wanted to sleep for a week.
The telephone rang. She looked at the little clock by the computer.
Just six A-M- She fumbled for the receiver. She felt so weak, so crushed by the weight of her fatigue, it was all she could do to bring the receiver to her ear.
“H’lo.”
“It’s Hank Ajemian, Anne. Sorry to call so early.”
“S’okay.” No point in telling him she hadn’t really been to bed yet.
“How are you?”
“I thought I’d better call you.”
“Something wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong. The baroness is taking over. She’s got control of Jupiter. In another month or so she’ll probably have control of Biotech as well.”
“It doesn’t really upset me very much, Hank.”
Anne could hear a snuffle at the other end of the phone.
“They’re accusing me of stealing a copy of Jupiter.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Remember I told you we keep a copy of Goth’s program in Dalton’s office safe? The baroness demanded it be sent to Munich ; to be copy-protected. She was just angling to get control of all the copies.
I sent it, but before I let it go, I made another copy, just to protect Dalton.”
Anne felt suddenly short of breath.
“When they got their copy, they found it was blank. Empty.
Nothing on it. I couldn’t believe it. I thought they were lying.
Then I got out the copy I had made from it and put it in the computer.
It was blank too. The only possible explanation was that someone had stolen the real copy from the safe and substituted a blank. But Dalton and I are the only ones with access to the safe. Dalton had no reason to take it, so naturally the baroness is convinced it was me. But it wasn’t. I don’t know what the hell to do. I think somehow she’s framed me, but I can’t figure out how. Nobody could get into that safe. Even if they knew its location and the right combination, they’d still trip a burglar alarm.
Nothing had been touched. I think that somehow the blank must have been switched for the real one before we even put it in the safe the first time. But how the hell can I prove it?”
Anne struggled with her conscience. She was too sleepy to think straight. But she knew she couldn’t let him take the blame for something she had done. “I took the copy, Hank.”
There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.
When Ajemian finally answered, he sounded more hurt than alarmed.
“Christ, Anne. I wish you’d’ve told me. How did it happen?”
Anne sighed. Poor Ajemian. Caught in the middle. She had great affection for him, but he still worked for Dalton, still looked out for Dalton’s interests. She couldn’t be completely open with him.
Reluctantly, she described how she and Lexy had broken into Dalton’s office and replaced the Jupiter RCD with a blank one.
Hank’s gravelly voice became louder, sharper. “Anne. Listen.
Just let me come over and make a copy. You can keep the one you have.
I won’t tell him you took it. Just let me copy it. I’ll make two copies—send one to Munich, put the other away for Dalton. I’ll tell him there was a mixup. It’ll get me off the hook.”
Anne smiled. “Okay, Hank.”
“Thank God…. Anne, you’re an angel. I’m so sorry you got mixed up in this.”
“I know.”
“How’s Genny?”
“Wonderful. As ever. More surprises every day.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’ve been working on Jupiter.”
“Working on it?” Ajemian’s tone was disbelieving.
“I’ve discovered a lot.”
A few beats of silence. “You have? Like what?”
“Jupiter has an access code. It won’t work without it.”
“You sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“The geneticists in Romania must know that.”
“I don’t think they do.”
“Do you know the right code?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find it out?”
Anne didn’t reply.
“Anne. How the hell do you know this? Who told you?”
“No one told me. I worked it out by myself.”
“Are you going to tell Dalton?”
“I wasn’t planning to. You can tell him if you want.”
“You’re kidding. He won’t believe it for a second.”
Anne laughed. “Well, just tell him I told you.” She could picture how Dalton would take the news—how incredulous and angry he would be.
Sweet revenge.
“Then he’ll know you have a copy of Jupiter. And he’ll assume I gave it to you.”
“Tell him the truth. Tell him I stole it.”
She heard Ajemian sigh.
“Well, tell him whatever you like. I really don’t care. You know my feelings. I don’t think anybody should have Jupiter. I don’t want anybody else to be used as a guinea pig the way I was. And especially I don’t want anybody using it just to make money.”
“I don’t know what to say, Anne.”
“When are those Romanian babies due?” she asked.
“About a month . . . maybe less. Are you positive it’ll go wrong?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“What’ll happen?”
“I don’t know. But the babies probably won’t be normal.”
“If I could tell Dalton something about Goth’s code and how it works, he might believe me. You don’t have to tell me everything, Anne. Just give me some plausible details.”
“No,” Anne said, her voice firm. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“But you know how Dalton is. You’ve got to give me some plausible evidence. He won’t believe for a minute that you could possibly know anything about Jupiter.”
“You’re right, Hank. He probably won’t. We’ll let him learn the hard way.”
“You have to realize how desperate he is. He’s depending completely on Jupiter to save him. He doesn’t have anything else.
If he thinks you hold the key, he’ll do what he has to to get it from you.”
“I’m not afraid of Dalton, Hank.”
She could hear a long, drawn-out sigh of resignation on the other end of the line. “Okay. I’ll warn him. And I’ll tell him you told me.”
Anne sensed Ajemian’s despair. She didn’t share it. “Things will work out, Hank.”
“I don’t see how, Anne. Jesus, I really don’t see how.” Ajemian hung up.
Anne turned off the computer and the desk lamp and went to the window.
She opened the drapes and looked out. The first glimmers of dawn had settled a dim red glow on the tops of the roofs across the street.
Below, the rows of neatly fenced backyards were still sunk in a pale, ghostly gray. No one was abroad. The back windows of the brownstones across the way on Perry Street were all dark.
Except for one. On the top floor of the building directly opposite hers a shade on one window was raised partway up and the room inside was illuminated by a bright light. She had thought the apartment behind that window to be unoccupied.
She could see three men. They were standing around, talking casually, as if taking a break from their work. One was darkhaired and muscular, another red-headed and slight. The third man, older and taller than the other two, had a peculiar-looking long face, with big ears and close-set eyes. His hair was snow white and his skin dark black. She thought that she had seen him somewhere once before, a long time ago.
Mounted on tripods and clearly visible just inside the window were two large pairs of binoculars. Their lenses were pointed directly at her.
One pair appeared to have a camera attached to its back end. On a third tripod just behind the binoculars was what looked like a small TV
satellite dish. That was also pointed directly at her.
The call came in the middle of the night. Dr. Laura Garhardt groped in the dark for the telephone receiver and tried to clear the sleep from her throat. “Yes?”
“Doctor. It’s Franz Hartmann, at the clinic.”
“Yes, Franz.”
“One of our women in the pilot program was just brought in, about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“Nadja Georgiescu.”
Garhardt sensed the anxiety in Hartmann’s voice. “What’s the matter?”
“She . . . We delivered her baby.”
“So soon?”
“It was stillborn.”
Dr. Garhardt pressed a hand over her eyes. “What was wrong?”
Hartmann didn’t answer immediately. Garhardt repeated the question.
“We don’t know,” he said. “You’d better come down.”
Garhardt threw on some clothes and hurried through the long, deserted corridors of the palace. Rather than wait for an elevator, she ran down the four flights of stairs and across the building’s main lobby to the wing in which they had installed the clinic.
Hartmann met her at the door to the delivery area. The tall young doctor’s face was grim.
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“How is she?” Garhardt asked.
“Nadja? She’s all right. We gave her a tranquilizer and put her to bed.” Hartmann ushered Dr. Garhardt into a small laboratory down the hall from the OR and the delivery rooms.
“Over here,” Hartmann said, pointing toward the counter along the far wall. A bundled-up white cotton blanket lay on the black Formica surface. Large areas of it were covered with a mysterious dark brown stain.
Hartmann pulled the cloth aside to reveal the dead infant. Garhardt uttered an involuntary gasp, closed her eyes, then opened them and stared at the nine-pound baby boy lying inert and lifeless on its back, its eyes closed, its head turned to the side. One arm was stretched out, the fingers extended from its tiny hand, as if it had reached out to clutch at something during its last moments. Garhardt gently pushed the arm down against its side.
“I drew a blood sample,” Hartmann said. He tilted his head in the direction of the lab bench across the room, where two technicians, also just roused from sleep, were beginning work preparing the sample for tests.
Garhardt just nodded. The infant looked entirely normal.
Except for the color of its skin. It was a dark shade of blue.
Garhardt had a terrible premonition. She touched a patch of the chocolate-brown stain on the blanket. “Is this its blood?” she asked.
Hartmann nodded.
“Hemoglobin M,” she muttered.
Hartmann didn’t reply. He was watching her nervously, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted him to do.
“Take a mucus sample for DNA testing,” Garhardt said. “I need chromosome 11. Isolate and sequence the beta globin and the epsilon globin genes. As soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
“And get all the other women in the program in here immediately. Start calling them right now. I want blood and tissue samples taken from all the fetuses this morning. Run the same tests on the globin genes. Get the whole staff up. We need the results today. And keep the women here.”
J U p I e r s LJ a u g n l e r Hartmann went off to find the list of phone numbers for the other twenty-three women. He shouted at somebody to wake the second ambulance crew.
Garhardt took one last look at the inert form of the infant on the lab bench and then gently pulled the cotto
n blanket over it and went to her office to wait for the results of the testing.
The hours passed with a glacial slowness. Garhardt drank cup after cup of black coffee and alternately paced her office and stood by her windows, staring out at the snow-covered peaks of the Carpathian Mountains to the north. She filled a hypodermic syringe with a powerful tranquilizer and injected it into her forearm. It failed to still the panicky tumult boiling in her chest.
All during the early hours of the morning the pregnant Romanian women were brought in, undressed, and put to bed. Long needles probed into their uteruses and through the amniotic sacs to extract a few drops of blood and a few cells of tissue from the still-living embryos inside.
The blood and tissue samples were swiftly processed and analyzed.
It was late at night before the results were complete. They confirmed Garhardt’s worst fears. The fetuses of all twenty-four of the women in the test program had the same problem—an error in the genetic coding of the epsilon globin genes, causing them to produce a defective hemoglobin called hemoglobin M.
This same error sometimes occurred in natural circumstances, usually on a beta globin gene. Those who suffered from it had blue skin and blood the color of chocolate. Ordinarily they survived, because the mutation appeared in only one of the two copies of chromosome 11 that everyone was born with. But the tests of the twenty-four fetuses in Doctor Garhardt’s program all showed the identical flaw occurring on both copies of chromosome 11. The coding error was incredibly minute—one incorrect nucleotide sequence out of three billion. And it was absolutely fatal. Every single one of the fetuses would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth. Nothing could save them. They were the victims of a design flaw.
If she had been allowed the time and expense to subject Jupiter’s blueprints to the kinds of preliminary screening tests she had requested, all this might have been avoided, she thought.
Might have been avoided.
She would have checked Jupiter’s beta globin sequences for the kind of coding error that would produce hemoglobin M, but she might well have overlooked epsilon entirely. The epsilon globin gene functioned only during the first few weeks of an infants existence. Then it shut down entirely, leaving the task of hemoglobin production to the other globin genes, primarily beta.
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