***
At work, he cajoled Whitney into delving into the mix-up with the genetic samples.
Sure enough, according to her, an error with the automated sample retriever in the liquid nitrogen vats had resulted in the mislabeling and misappropriation of the Sustain tissue samples. She promised to have the machine properly looked at and fixed.
With Matthew watching her over her shoulder, she tracked down the location of the missing samples for Joel Cobb, Jonathan Grieves, and the rest of the stroke victims. They were both dismayed to discover that due to the original automated sample retriever error, the samples had been dumped in a biohazard disposal container set to be picked up later that day.
Whitney was resigned to reporting the mix-up as a mechanical error and to calling it a day, but Matthew wasn’t satisfied with accepting that.
He silently cursed Whitney’s laziness and took the biohazard container with the mix of samples back to his lab. The tissues had already been lysated and all the contents of the cells, DNA included, were mixed together. There would be no way of knowing which part of the DNA belonged to which deceased patient.
Still, Matthew ran a sample through the PCR machine.
A chill ran down his spine as he stared at the holoscreen. While he could identify each of the chromosomes belonging to the Sustain tissue of each respective owner, there were still genes that, according to his computer records, belonged to no one. They were errant molecules with no identifiable source or owner.
The genes were short and Matthew wasn’t familiar with them. None of them matched the common therapeutic genes that LyfeGen added to their patient-specific updates. None matched the genes that Jacqueline and Matthew were researching for the improved universal Sustain updates, either.
In another set of computational experiments Matthew began to identify the genes. He ran a script that culled potential matches from a known database of sequenced genes.
It didn’t take long to identify his first match: a variant of HDAC9. A quick literature search identified the variant as one commonly associated with heightened stroke risk.
None of the deceased Sustain owners had naturally expressed this gene, so Matthew knew the variant didn’t belong to any of them. According to their genetic records and the records of their personal Sustain organs and updates, this variant should not have existed in any of their samples.
Further analysis produced more genes associated with stroke risk, excessive blood clotting, and reduced effectiveness of fibrinolysis, the process that inhibits clot growth. If those genes made it into a patient, that person would be hosting a stockpile of microscopic bombs just waiting to go off.
Realizing the deliberateness of this biological Anarchist’s Cookbook of a recipe, he shuddered. He was glad that he hadn’t waited for Whitney to do something. She might have simply tossed the samples after realizing they were contaminated.
There had to be nefarious intent behind these added genes. The combination was much too perfect to be the result of an accidental production error.
Jacqueline might have been right all along.
She was an undeniable expert, well versed in genetic delivery. Most of that must have come from her experience at ProlifiTEC. Matthew had enjoyed learning from her as she explained the molecular underpinnings behind the organization of synthetic genes and how best to design a gene for efficient integration into the host cell. Maybe she would have a better idea of how it was possible for someone to sneak the stroke-causing genes into their Sustain patients.
He stared at the gene projected on his holoscreen. Rotating the 3D shape mindlessly with his gestures, he wondered how a radical church group or a disgruntled anarchist group could acquire the technology to develop the stroke-causing cocktail and then deliver it to the unsuspecting host.
Then again, what if Anil Nayak was right? He had insisted that the doctors of the dead patients had injected their patients with some experimental genetic treatments. As unbelievable as that still sounded, it could explain the origin and delivery of the stroke cocktail. Still, Matthew was troubled by doctors injecting their patients with genes they certainly knew would cause health issues. What could their motivation possibly be?
He considered calling Jonathan Grieves’s permanent replacement, George Nelson. George had been an unrelenting yes-man, trying to please his CEO. Reports from Jacqueline and Matthew’s colleagues of successes in the regulations and research department were sent to George for review. Somehow, he always managed to take credit for their findings, desperate to impress Nayak.
And if there was a report that appeared to tarnish the reputation of any technology—marketed or still in development—George would do his best to minimize the apparent findings, preventing such reports from making their way into Nayak’s hands.
Matthew called Anil Nayak’s office directly.
He didn’t have a favorable impression of the new CEO, but he liked George Nelson even less. So, instead of following protocol, he ignored the internal company rules and thought that his findings would be important enough for the CEO to know. At least, he was certain that Preston Carter would’ve wanted to know immediately.
“Hello, this is the office of Anil Nayak. How may I help you?” A woman’s voice came through Matthew’s comm card.
“This is Matthew Pierce from research. I need to speak to Mr. Nayak.”
“He’s currently in a meeting. I can take a message and let him know at his earliest convenience.”
“This is absolutely urgent.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave a message with me.”
“Marie, right?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Marie, if you’re going to prevent me from reaching Mr. Nayak, you better be prepared to risk your job on Mr. Nayak’s patience.”
“I can assure you, it’s my job to take your message and relay it to Mr. Nayak.”
“Honestly, the longer I wait to talk to Mr. Nayak, the worse this situation will get. It’s in regard to the Sustain patient deaths. Last time I left a message with you, Mr. Nayak didn’t get back to me until almost a week later. I’ve discovered sensitive information that may help resolve our current situation. That means we could act to resolve the company’s financial solvency. Which means there will still be a company around for you to work at. If I don’t get to speak to Mr. Nayak, more people might die, and this whole company could implode. You realize what that means, right, Vanesa?”
The line was silent.
“It means that you doing what Mr. Nayak requested of you will have little to do with whether or not you’ll have a job in the near future.”
“If Mr. Nayak is displeased with the interruption, I will ensure that you can’t bother him anymore.”
“Fair enough.”
Matthew waited for several seconds, tapping his fingers on the benchtop.
“Mr. Nayak will speak to you now.”
“Thank you.”
Another brief pause and then Anil Nayak’s cool voice came through the line. “Mr. Pierce. I hear you are most insistent on reaching me. As Marie has made you aware, I was, up until you called, in a meeting with some individuals in marketing and finance. I’m sure you understand the importance of revitalizing our brand and re-instilling trust in the general public at this time, so I assume you have a vital reason for stalling our progress on the issue.”
“Yes, Mr. Nayak,” Matthew said. “I found what I think is the cause of the strokes in the Sustain patients.”
“Have you?” Nayak cooed.
“Amongst the samples, I found a significant number of factors associated with increased stroke risk, clot formation, and clot degradation inhibitors.”
“Ah, how interesting,” Nayak said. “And do you know precisely how these factors were introduced?”
“Well, none of the genes I found were represented in any of the patients’ original DNA, nor were they part of any of the Sustain update records for the patients.”
“That
seems to provide ample evidence of my previous assertions. That is actually helpful to me, Mr. Pierce.”
Matthew frowned “Yes, it could mean that the doctors added this to their patients’ Sustain updates. But there’s no conclusive evidence to prove it. In fact, it could be that a radical group associated with the protests sabotaged or infected Sustain patients with the stroke-causing genetic material.”
Nayak laughed. “So you would like me to entertain the possibility that the people protesting on our front lawn had the technical acumen to manufacture and deliver the material, somehow completely inconspicuously, to Sustain patients.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“So is the potential of alien abduction and experimentation. In any of these cases, we aren’t the ones responsible.”
Matthew withheld a sigh, frustrated with Nayak’s unwillingness to listen. Jacqueline would have supported the notion and he was certain that Preston would have at least accepted the explanation as worthy of investigation.
Nayak’s voice had become humorless and menacing. “Is that all you have to report, Mr. Pierce? You suggested that your need to speak with me was of an urgent and pressing nature, and, instead, I have been met with wild speculations. Unless that was only the warm-up, I suggest you reconsider your need to waste my time.”
Matthew’s thoughts raced. There would be no promotion for him, no laudatory congratulations for finding a break in the case. “There’s one more possibility. It could be internal sabotage.” His voice was hushed, despite his solitude in the lab. “I know this might sound bad, but it could be that someone compromised the Sustain updates before they were even sent to the physicians. Someone with access within the company could do it and no one would be the wiser, if it was performed after the initial quality control assays.”
Nayak remained silent for a moment. “Well, Mr. Pierce, that’s true, as preposterous as it sounds. Fortunately, I’ve considered that possibility, despite its repulsive nature.”
“Do you need me to investigate any further? I think I could talk with some people in regulations and then some of the production people. Just probe around a bit, you know?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already assigned an individual from your department to perform the internal investigations. She’s quite competent in both regulations and productions, judging from her past experience.”
“Will one person be enough?” Matthew asked.
“I urged her to let me know if additional personnel will be necessary. She specifically said you are to remain in your current position.”
“What? Why?”
“I trust her judgment. I don’t have time to perform too many investigations of my own.”
“Who is she?”
“One of your colleagues, I believe. Jacqueline Harper.”
Chapter 34
Hannah Boyd
November 29, 2063
Hannah scrunched her nose, trying to avoid the pungent body odor emanating from the large man seated next to her. His body spilled over from his plastic chair. Several more people were moving toward the rows of chairs facing the thin wooden lectern.
The church’s basement was especially musty. The friendly smiles and white hair of the old ladies serving the coffee and cheap donuts that followed Father Cooney’s Mass couldn’t be found here.
Instead, St. Gemma’s was aged and worn. The basement floor was dusty and graveled. At least a century old, the wallpaper peeled and hung like dead leaves.
Hannah glanced at a man she recognized as a beggar from State Avenue. His grisly beard and pockmarked face stood in stark contrast to his piercing blue eyes. Those eyes were the only feature untouched by dirt and grime, age and wear.
Nearer to Hannah and the obese man sat a woman whose collarbones stretched her leathery skin. Her low-cut t-shirt hung off her loosely. She had a bent nose, but her high cheekbones and long face suggested that she’d once been beautiful.
Others filtered in. Some were as downtrodden and dirty as the beggar.
Hannah caught a couple of men eying her, and for the first time in a long while, she felt as though she were the prettiest woman in the room. That feeling was soon replaced by guilt and awkwardness. She wanted to be a part of this group, and already she felt alienated.
Here, she was among the most fortunate. Her clothes were new, stylish even, and she had a decent job to go to in the morning. A paycheck. A small but livable apartment in a relatively safe neighborhood. Where did these people go at night? Where would they go tomorrow?
A low chatter hummed among several of the attendees. Their voices were hushed and Hannah strained to listen. The obese man next to her leaned over, his breath spilling toward her, smelling no better than his body odor.
“Are you nervous?”
She shrank into her seat. “About what?”
The man let out a rumbling, but short, guffaw. “You keep twitching your hands and looking like a lion’s out to get ya.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, darling. We’re all here for each other around here. We’re the only family we got. We like newcomers to feel like family, ’cause we’re always looking for others willing to help.”
Hannah derived no comfort from the man’s words. “If everyone’s like family, how come it’s so quiet?”
Again, the man laughed. The woman with the protruding collarbones gave him a scornful look, shaking her head. Despite the stern look, her lips were curled into a slight smile.
“Roy, you giving that girl a hard time?”
Hannah could feel the mood lighten in the dimly lit room.
“No,” Roy said. “Just trying to get to know the new blood.”
“Aw, come on, now,” the woman said. “She don’t need you to give her an introduction to the group. You’re just as likely to scare the poor girl.”
Roy bellowed in laughter, waving off the woman. He leaned toward Hannah. “I expect everyone is just a bit on edge tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Tonight’s the night we decide on some big plans.”
The woman slid into one of the seats in front of Hannah and Roy.
“I’m Janet,” the woman said, reaching her skinny arm out to Hannah.
Hannah grasped her hand. “Hannah. Nice to meet you. What are the big plans?”
“Nothing for you to worry about yet. We just want to do something about all those heathens and their god organs.”
“Oh,” Hannah said. “Me, too.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re here, huh?” Roy said.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
Except Hannah wasn’t truly sure what was in store for her.
***
Earlier that week, Charlotte had picked Hannah up from her apartment.
They had driven to a small restaurant in Little Italy. The walls were festooned with pictures of historical landmarks in Rome and the canals of Venice, gondola boats and outdoor cafes.
She had grown to like Charlotte despite the woman’s incessant chatter. In between stories and political monologues, Charlotte asked quite personal questions of Hannah. But the woman mostly talked and Hannah enjoyed it.
“Bug, I just love that cute salmon blouse on you. It brings out your cheeks.”
Hannah blushed. “My cheeks?”
“Especially when you blush like that How come you always get so flustered when someone compliments you?”
“I don’t get many compliments. And, well, you know the only other person who ever paid me much attention...well, he’s gone.” Hannah shrugged. “I never felt pretty besides when he said something.” She laughed weakly.
But Charlotte didn’t laugh. She frowned. “Don’t ever build your self-worth on what anyone else thinks of you. Especially some despicable boy who isn’t man enough to tell you he’s a chump.”
“You’re right, I guess.”
That familiar, overly friendly smile spread a
cross Charlotte’s lips again. “Of course I am, Bug.”
Hannah returned a faint smile. “So, tell me more about the new church group.”
As it had Hannah, the blasphemous invention of the god organs incensed the group at St. Gemma’s. They, too, thought the act of achieving virtual immortality on earth and walking around like living gods was a wretched sin.
“You should come with me next time,” Charlotte said. “You’ll find everyone there is a little—shall I say—rough around the edges. But once you get to know them, they are really rather charming.”
“I’m sure.”
“And Pastor Gray is quite the leader, Bug. He’s even more charismatic than Father Cooney.” Charlotte clenched her fists and dropped her voice down an octave. “He’s got this big old baritone voice like one of those opera singers.”
Hannah laughed and, leaning across the table, Charlotte pretended to tell a juicy secret. “It doesn’t hurt that he’s a pretty handsome fellow, too.”
***
Charlotte wasn’t wrong. A few minutes after the chatter had died down again, Pastor Gray walked up to the lectern and nodded his head in a silent greeting to the small crowd. By now, all the seats were filled and the rest of the St. Gemma’s Thursday meeting attendees were standing behind the rows of people in the plastic chairs.
“Good evening, disciples,” Gray said. His deep voice boomed and echoed.
“Good evening, Pastor.” In unison, the response resounded from his audience.
His brow creased, stern and dramatic. Even from a distance, the intensity in Gray’s eyes shone as he scanned the crowd. When those eyes dashed across Hannah’s face, she instinctively shifted her gaze toward the floor.
“I’ve spoken to God. I’ve heard His voice. And I want to tell you what He has told me.” Gray stepped out from behind the lectern and paced in front of the crowd, reaching out to his followers.
“He has not forgotten you. He has not forgotten your devotion to Him and your dedication to the righteous path.” A frightening tremble shook in his booming voice. “You have chosen His path. You are not corrupted by allowing the devil into your body, by letting false idols bleed into your blood. The false gods have not impregnated you with sacrilegious promises of immortality on this Earth.”
The God Organ Page 26
