It’s depressing at times, but I try to keep a sense of perspective. Sweet F.A. will never be more than a bunch of thugs and vandals, high in nuisance value, but politically irrelevant. I’ve seen them on TV, marching around their “training camps” in designer camouflage, or sitting in lecture theatres, watching recorded speeches by their guru, Jack Kelly, or (oblivious to the irony) messages of “international solidarity” from similar organisations in Europe and North America. They get plenty of media coverage, but apparently it hasn’t done much for their recruitment rate. Freak shows are like that; everybody wants to watch, but nobody wants to join.
Ranjit arrives a few minutes later, carrying a CD; he mimes staggering under its weight. “Latest set of amendments to the UNHCR regulations. It’s going to be a long day.”
I groan. “I’m having dinner with Loraine tonight. Why don’t we just feed the bloody thing to LEX and ask for a summary?”
“And get disbarred at the next audit? No thanks.” The Law Society has strict rules on the use of pseudo-intelligent software—terrified of putting ninety percent of its members out of work. The irony is, they use state-of-the-art software, programmed with all the forbidden knowledge, to scrutinise each practice’s expert systems and make sure that they haven’t been taught more than they’re permitted to know.
“There must be twenty firms, at least, who’ve taught their systems Tax Law—”
“Sure. And they have programmers on seven-figure salaries to cover their tracks.” He tosses me the CD. “Cheer up. I had a quick peek at home—there are some good decisions buried in here. Just wait until you get to paragraph 983.”
* * *
“I saw the strangest thing at work today.”
“Yeah?” I feel queasy already. Loraine is a forensic pathologist; when she says strange, it’s likely to mean that some corpse’s liquefying flesh was a different colour than usual.
“I was examining a vaginal swab from a woman who’d been raped early this morning, and—”
“Oh, please—”
She scowls. “What? You won’t let me talk about autopsies; you won’t let me talk about blood stains. You’re always telling me about your own boring work—”
“I’m sorry. Go on. Just … keep your voice down.” I glance around the restaurant. Nobody seems to be staring, yet, but I know from experience that there’s something about discussions concerning genital secretions that seems to make the words carry further than other conversation. “I was examining this swab. There were spermatozoa visible—and tests for other components of semen were positive—so there was no doubt whatsoever that this woman had had intercourse. I also found traces of serum proteins that didn’t match her blood type. So far, just what you’d expect, okay? But when I did a DNA profile, the only genotype that showed up was the victim’s.”
She looks at me pointedly, but the significance escapes me.
“Is that so unusual? You’re always saying that things can go wrong with DNA tests. Samples get contaminated, or degraded—”
She cuts me off impatiently. “Yes, but I’m not talking about some three-week-old blood-stained knife. This sample was taken half an hour after the crime. It reached me for analysis a couple of hours later. I saw undamaged sperm under the microscope; if I’d added the right nutrients, they would have started swimming before my eyes. That’s not what I’d call degraded.”
“Okay. You’re the expert, I’ll take your word for it: the sample wasn’t degraded. Then what’s the explanation?”
“I don’t know.”
To avoid making a complete fool of myself, I try to dredge up enough of the two-week forensic science course I sat through ten years ago as part of Criminal Law. “Maybe the rapist just didn’t have any of the genes you were looking for. Isn’t the whole point that they’re variable?”
She sighs. “Variable in length. Restriction fragment length polymorphisms—RFLPs. They’re not something that people simply ‘have’ or ‘don’t have.’ They’re long stretches of the same sequence, repeated over and over; it’s the number of repeats—the length—that varies from person to person. Listen, it’s very simple: you chop up the DNA with restriction enzymes and put the mixture of fragments onto an electrophoresis gel; the smaller the fragment, the faster it moves across the gel, so everything gets sorted out by size. Then you transfer the smeared-out sample from the gel onto a membrane—to fix it in place—and add radioactive probes, little pieces of complementary DNA that will only bind to the fragments you’re interested in. Make a contact photograph of the radiation, to show where these probes have bound, and the pattern you get is a series of bands, one band for each different fragment length. Are you with me so far?”
“More or less.”
“Well, the pattern from the swab and the pattern from a sample of the woman’s blood were completely identical. There were no extra bands from the rapist.”
I frown. “Meaning what? His profile didn’t show up in the test … or it was the same as hers? What if he’s a close relative?”
She shakes her head. “For a start, the odds are pretty tiny that even a brother could have inherited exactly the same set of RFLPs. But on top of that, the serum protein differences virtually rule out a family member.”
“Then what’s the alternative? He has no profile? Is it absolutely certain that everyone has these sequences? I don’t know … couldn’t there be some kind of rare mutation, where they’re missing completely?”
“Hardly. We look at ten different RFLPs. Everyone has two copies of each—one from each parent. The probability of anyone having twenty separate mutations—”
“I get the picture. Okay—it’s a mystery. So what do you do next? There must be other experiments you can try.”
She shrugs. “We’re only meant to do tests that are officially requested. I’ve reported the results, and nobody’s said, ‘Drop everything and get some useful data out of that sample.’ There are no suspects in the case yet, anyway—or at least, we haven’t been sent any samples to compare with the evidence. So the whole thing’s academic really.”
“So after ear-bashing me for ten minutes, you’re just going to forget about it? I don’t believe that. Where’s your scientific curiosity?”
She laughs. “I don’t have time for luxuries like that. We’re a production line, not a research lab. Do you know how many samples we process a day? I can’t do a post-mortem on every swab that doesn’t give perfect textbook results.”
Our food arrives. Loraine attacks her meal with gusto; I pick at the edges of mine. Between mouthfuls, she says innocently, “Not during working hours, that is.”
* * *
I stare at the TV screen with growing disbelief.
“So you’re saying that Australia’s fragile ecology simply can’t support any further population growth?”
Senator Margaret Allwick is leader of the Green Alliance. Their slogan is: One world, one future. Or it was last time I voted for them.
“That’s exactly right. Our cities are massively overcrowded; urban sprawl is encroaching on important habitats; new water supplies are getting harder to find. Of course, natural increase has to be reined in too—but by far the greatest pressure is coming from immigration. Obviously, it’s going to require some very complex policy initiatives, acting over decades, to get our birth rate under control—whereas the influx of migrants is a factor which can be adjusted very rapidly. The legislation we’re introducing will take full advantage of that flexibility.”
Take full advantage of that flexibility. What does that mean? Slam the doors and pull up the drawbridge?
“Many commentators have expressed surprise that the Greens have found themselves siding on this issue with some of the most extreme far-right groups.”
The Senator scowls. “Yes, but the comparison is fatuous. Our motives are entirely different. It’s ecological destruction that’s caused the refugee problem in the first place; putting more strain on our own delicate environment would hardly be helping t
hings in the long term, would it? We must safeguard what we have, for the sake of our children.”
A subtitle flashes onto the screen: FEEDBACK ENABLED.
I hit the INTERACT button on the remote control, hurriedly compose my thoughts, then speak into the microphone. “But what do these people do now? Where do they go? Their environments are not just ‘fragile’ or ‘delicate’; they’re disaster areas! Wherever a refugee is coming from, you can bet it’s a place where overpopulation is doing a thousand times more damage than it is here.”
My words race down fibre-optic cables into the studio computer—along with those of a few hundred thousand other viewers. In a second or two, all the questions received will be interpreted, standardised, assessed for relevance and legal implications, and then ranked by popularity.
The simulacrum reporter says, “Well, Senator, it seems that the viewers have voted for a commercial break now, so … thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure.”
* * *
As she undresses, Loraine says, “You haven’t been forgetting your shots, have you?”
“What? And risk losing my glorious physique?” One side-effect of the contraceptive injections is increased muscle mass, although in truth it’s barely noticeable.
“Just checking.”
She switches out the light and climbs into bed. We embrace; her skin is cold as marble. She kisses me gently, then says, “I don’t feel like making love tonight, okay? Just hold me.”
“Okay.”
She’s silent for a while, then she says, “I did some more tests on that sample last night.”
“Yeah?”
“I separated out some of the spermatozoa, and tried to get a DNA profile from them. But the whole thing was blank, except for some faint non-specific binding at the very start of the gel. It’s as if the restriction enzymes hadn’t even cut the DNA.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not sure yet. At first I thought, maybe this guy’s done some tampering—infected himself with an engineered virus which got into the stem cells in the bone marrow and the testis, and chopped out all the sequences we use for profiling.”
“Urk. Isn’t that rather extreme? Why not just use a condom?”
“Well, yes. Most rapists do. And it makes no sense in any case; if someone wanted to avoid identification, cutting out the sequences completely would be stupid. Far better to make random changes—that would muddy the water, screw up the tests, without being so obvious.”
“But … if a mutation’s too improbable, and deleting the sequences intentionally is stupid, what’s left? I mean, the sequences are not there, are they? You’ve proved that.”
“Hang on, there’s more. I tried amplifying a gene with the polymerase chain reaction. A gene everybody has in common. In fact, a gene every organism on this planet back to yeast has in common.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Not a trace.”
My skin crawls, but I laugh. “What are you trying to say? He’s an alien?”
“With human-looking sperm, and human blood proteins? I doubt it.
“What if the sperm were … malformed somehow? I don’t mean degraded by exposure—but abnormal to start with. Genetically damaged. Missing parts of chromosomes …*?”
“They look perfectly healthy to me. And I’ve seen the chromosomes; they look normal too.”
“Apart from the fact that they don’t seem to contain any genes.”
“None that I’ve looked for; that’s a long way from none at all.” She shrugs. “Maybe there’s something contaminating the sample, something which has bound to the DNA, blocking the polymerase and the restriction enzymes. Why it’s only affected the rapist’s DNA, I don’t know—but different types of cells are permeable to different substances. It can’t be be ruled out.”
I laugh. “After all this fuss … isn’t that what I said in the first place? Contamination?”
She hesitates. “I do have another theory—although I haven’t been able to test it yet. I don’t have the right reagents.”
“Go on.”
“It’s pretty far-fetched.”
“More so than aliens and mutants?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m listening.”
She shifts in my arms. “Well … You know the structure of DNA: two helical strands of sugar and phosphate, joined by the base pairs which carry the genetic information. The natural base pairs are adenine and thymine, cytosine and guanine … But people have synthesised other bases, and incorporated them into DNA and RNA. And around the turn of the century, a group in Berne actually constructed an entire bacterium that used nonstandard bases.”
“You mean, they rewrote the genetic code?”
“Yes and no. They kept the code, but they changed the alphabet; they just substituted a new base for each old one, consistently throughout. The hard part wasn’t making the non-standard DNA, the hard part was adapting the rest of the cell to make sense of it. The ribosomes—where RNA gets translated into proteins—had to be redesigned, and they had to alter almost every enzyme that interacted with DNA or RNA. They also had to invent ways for the cell to manufacture the new bases. And of course, all these changes had to be encoded in the genes.
“The whole point of the exercise was to circumvent fears about recombinant DNA techniques—because if these bacteria escaped, their genes could never cross over into any wild strains; no natural organism could possibly make use of them. Anyway, the whole idea turned out to be uneconomical. There were cheaper ways to meet the new safety requirements, and there was just too much hard work involved in ‘converting’ each new species of bacterium that the biotechnologists might have wanted to use.”
“So … what are you getting at? Are you saying these bacteria are still around? The rapist has some mutant venereal disease which is screwing up your tests?”
“No, no. Forget the bacteria. But suppose someone went further. Suppose someone went on and did the same thing with multicellular organisms.”
“Well, did they?”
“Not openly.”
“You think someone did this with animals, in secret? And then what? Did it with humans? You think someone’s raised human beings with this … alternative DNA?” I stare at her, horrified. “That is the most obscene thing I have ever heard.”
“Don’t get all worked up. It’s just a theory.”
“But … what would they be like? What would they live on? Could they eat normal food?”
“Sure. All their proteins would be built from the same amino acids as ours. They’d have to synthesise the non-standard bases from precursors in their food—but ordinary people have to synthesise the standard bases, so that’s no big deal. If all the details had been worked out properly—if all the hormones and enzymes that bind to DNA had been appropriately modified—they wouldn’t be sick, or deformed, in any way. They’d look perfectly normal. Ninety percent of every cell in their body would be just the same as ours.”
“But … why do it in the first place? The bacteria were for a reason, but what conceivable advantage is there for a human being to have non-standard DNA? Besides screwing up forensic tests.”
“I’ve thought of one thing; they’d be immune to viruses. All viruses.”
“Why?”
“Because a virus needs all the cellular machinery that works with normal DNA and RNA. Viruses would still be able to get into these people’s cells—but once they were inside, they wouldn’t be able to reproduce. With everything in the cell adapted to the new system, a virus made up of standard bases would just be a piece of meaningless junk. No virus that harms ordinary people could harm someone with non-standard DNA.”
“Okay, so these hypothetical tailor-made children can’t catch influenza, or AIDS, or herpes. So what? If someone was serious about wiping out viral diseases, they’d concentrate on methods that would work for everyone: cheaper drugs and vaccines. What use would this technology be in Zaire or Uganda? It’s ludicrous! I mean,
how many people do they think would want to have children this way, even if they could afford it?”
Loraine gives me an odd look, then says, “Obviously, it would only be for a wealthy elite. And as for other kinds of treatment: viruses mutate. New strains come along. In time, any drug or vaccine can lose its effectiveness. This immunity would last forever. No amount of mutation could ever produce a virus built out of anything but the old bases.”
“Sure, but … but this ‘wealthy elite’ with lifelong immunity—mostly to diseases they’re not likely to catch in the first place—wouldn’t even be able to have children, would they? Not by normal means.”
“Except with each other.”
“Except with each other. Well, that sounds like a pretty drastic side-effect to me.”
She laughs, and suddenly relaxes. “You’re right, of course … and I told you: I have no evidence, this is all pure fantasy. The reagents I need should arrive in a couple of days; then I can test for the alternative bases—and rule out the whole crazy idea, once and for all.”
* * *
It’s almost eleven when I realise that I’m missing two important files. I can’t phone the office computer from home; certain classes of legal documents are required to reside only on systems with no connection whatsoever to public networks. So I have no choice but to go in, in person, and copy the files.
I spot the graffitist from a block away. He looks about twelve years old. He’s dressed in black, but otherwise doesn’t seem too worried about being seen—and his brazenness is probably justified; cyclists go by, ignoring him, and patrol cars are scarce around here. At first, I’m simply irritated; it’s late and I’ve got work to do. I’m not in the mood for confrontation. The easiest thing, by far, might be to wait until he’s gone.
Then I catch myself. Am I that apathetic? I couldn’t care less if graffiti artists redecorate every last building and train in the city—but this is racist poison. Racist poison that I waste twenty minutes cleaning away, every morning.
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 70
