by S. L. Dunn
“This is a large step in the right direction for our research,” Professor Vatruvia said as the room quieted down. “We have infused another viable biological attribute into the Vatruvian cell. The cellular replication we have produced in our lab emulates animal cell replication with flawless mimicry. I must emphasize that the Vatruvian cell is still by all definitions not alive, and as such we can progress our research without getting caught up in painstaking regulations. However, our synthetic organism, the Vatruvian cell, can now replicate.”
Another round of applause engulfed Kristen.
“This is of course thanks to the individual work of you all. You should be very pleased with yourselves. Let’s keep up the hard work in the weeks to come.”
Professor Vatruvia stepped away from the podium, turned off the projector, and flicked on the main light, filling the room with fluorescent brightness. Everyone was excited with chatter. Most of them made their way back downstairs to their respective workspaces immersed in fevered conversation. A handful remained, lining up with questions for Professor Vatruvia. Kristen noticed first in line was Cara Williams.
“Professor, I have a question,” Kristen heard Cara say. Professor Vatruvia looked up, and upon seeing Cara, cast her an uncharacteristically acidic look. His expression took Kristen aback, and she pretended to check something on her cell phone as she eavesdropped.
“What field are we taking this research into?” Cara asked with a nearly hostile sternness.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” Professor Vatruvia said, not looking up as he typed on his laptop.
Kristen feigned interest in her cell phone’s home screen as she leaned against a whiteboard and listened.
“I mean what is the intention of our work,” Cara said. “Is our goal to create artificial white blood cells, or something involving photosynthesis, or more efficient eco-fuel? I’m curious where we are taking all of this technology.”
Except for Kristen, everyone nearby seemed oblivious to their conversation.
“You are getting ahead of yourself, Ms. Williams. It would be best to stick to the task at hand before we can even dream of applications for this technology. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.”
Cara looked confused. “But it’s a perfectly valid concern, professor. Especially considering what my latest test results have continued to show—”
“Cara!” Professor Vatruvia suddenly snapped, his face transforming away from his professional guise. He leaned in to her, talking in a low voice. “I am tired of going over this with you. Your results are flawed. You will find a way to correct them or your position on this team may be in jeopardy.”
Professor Vatruvia looked to the few people waiting behind her and shifted his shoulders with agitation underneath his sportcoat. “Now please, Cara, I have to field the questions of these folks here. Talk to me when you correct your inaccurate and erroneous data.”
Kristen pretended to shuffle through her bag, straining to listen to the conversation. Evidently, she was not the only one concerned with the applications of Vatruvian cell technology. Cara looked both hurt and irate as she turned from Professor Vatruvia and stomped out of the conference room. Kristen threw her bag over her shoulder and chased after her down the hallway.
“Cara! Cara wait!” Kristen called.
Having torn down the main stairs to the lobby and rushed past the metal detectors of the security station, Cara now turned, one arm holding the door to the street ajar.
“Hi, Kristen.” Cara gave her a polite, tired smile. Her face was crimson with emotion.
Kristen hurried down the steps two at a time, and as she caught up with Cara, she noticed her colleague was on the verge of tears. “Where are you off to?”
“I, uh . . .” Cara cleared her throat and quickly composed herself. “I have to get out of here for a while and clear my head. There’s a student debate today in the Legrande building. I told my friend I’d go to watch her.”
“Want some company?” Kristen asked.
Although Cara looked like she would prefer not to have a conversation at the moment, she nodded calmly. “Sure, if you feel like it.”
Kristen pushed through the doors and they started up the sidewalk toward campus. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Professor Vatruvia back there.”
“I wouldn’t call it much of a conversation,” Cara said. She craned her head back and looked up with frustration at their research building, her gaze resting on Professor Vatruvia’s third-floor window. Reflected in the windows, a cover of gloomy clouds had moved in to conceal the sky from the morning sun. “He basically ignored my issue, my serious issue, and threatened my position on the team.”
Kristen saw in Cara’s exhausted eyes that they shared concerns. “For a while now I’ve been asking him the same question you just did. Over and over I’ve asked him. Professor Vatruvia always gives me the same vague answer—that he doesn’t know or it’s too early to say where our research is headed. It doesn’t make any sense. There is no way, no conceivable way, that he doesn’t know what the applications for Vatruvian cell technology could be.”
“I know, it’s insane.”
Kristen nodded emphatically. She’d been waiting for someone else to recognize the implications of the Vatruvian cell. “I don’t see how everyone isn’t questioning Professor Vatruvia. The technology is expanding way too fast. Most of all I’m concerned about the ethics involved. The Vatruvian cell isn’t living according to the regulatory definitions—”
“So in theory,” Cara continued Kristen’s thought, “the Vatruvian cell technology can develop without having to adhere to any scientific law.”
“Right,” Kristen said as they stopped at an intersection, the rich landscaping and dignified stone buildings of the Columbia campus sprawling before them. The sound of cars and taxis swallowed their conversation. “In truth we don’t really know what the Vatruvian cell is. We know its physical properties and how it works. But what if the biology textbook definition of living isn’t up to date with modern science. The Vatruvian cell could be outright dangerous. We’re messing with a completely unknown and untested technology.”
As the light signaled walk, Cara squeezed Kristen’s shoulder. Kristen could feel the urgency in her touch. “Can I trust you not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you?”
“Of course,” Kristen said.
“I’m serious. No one. Professor Vatruvia explicitly told me if I tell anyone about my findings, he would have me released from my doctorate program.” Cara relinquished her grasp of Kristen’s shoulder. “My life would be over.”
Kristen shook her head in confusion. “What is it?”
“It’s big.” Cara’s face coiled in distaste; she sighed nervously. “It’s really big. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Professor Vatruvia said if I discussed my findings, it would give people ‘the wrong impression’ of the Vatruvian cell. He said the whole thing might be above my intellectual capacity and that he may have made a mistake in accepting me to the program.”
“You’re kidding me!” Kristen said, genuinely shocked, but mostly intrigued. What could Cara possible know that she did not? “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
“Okay, I trust you. You’re worried about where this research is headed and what the applications for the technology will be. Well, in truth, Kristen, you and the team don’t even know half of the inherent risks of our research.”
Kristen shook her head, her eyes unflinching. It was hard for her to believe she didn’t know half of the dangers of the Vatruvian cell. It was her research that spurred this project, after all. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Over the past few weeks I’ve been performing stress tests on some of the Vatruvian cells. The specific cells I’ve been working with had their DNA transcribed from a single-celled bacterium. So, yes, the Vatruvian cells function and perform as most prokaryotes do. But get this . . .” They had come underneath an old elm tree. Cara leaned i
n to Kristen, bringing her voice to a whisper. “All the physical properties of the Vatruvian cell proved to be more resilient than the biological original. I’m talking everything. From physical environment requirements to subsistence levels, the bacterium Vatruvian cells were so much stronger than the bacterium cell templates that the two were almost incomparable.”
Kristen stared at Cara, at a loss for words. It was more dire than she ever could have imagined.
Cara exhaled angrily. “And worst of all, Professor Vatruvia is insisting I made a mistake somewhere in the data recording. I didn’t. Imagine not triple-checking data that showed a Vatruvian cell flourishing in a one-hundred-eighty-degree oven when the cell it was modeled after died at ninety-nine degrees. It’s an insult! My data collection is meticulous. I graduated number one in my biology program at Stan—”
“Wait.” Kristen held up her hand. “So what you’re telling me is the Vatruvian cells have more robust physical characteristics than the original cells used to transcribe them? That shouldn’t be possible. They follow the original cell’s DNA blueprints—they have nearly identical genetics aside from some of the ones that code for structural proteins.”
“I’m telling you what my data shows, what the facts show,” Cara said. “What they continue to show over and over again.”
Kristen took a deep breath. “Okay. First of all, I believe you. But if that is true . . .”
“It’s true.” Cara’s eyes narrowed. “The Vatruvian cells are superior to their biological counterparts.”
“Good lord.” At once, Kristen understood the magnitude of Cara’s discovery.
“That’s exactly my point.”
“But how could that be possible?” Kristen pondered the basic composition of the Vatruvian cell. “How could the Vatruvian cells have traits that differ from the template cells used to construct them? They’re forged using mostly the same DNA.”
“You tell me. You know the framework of the technology better than anyone on the team.”
An undergraduate in sunglasses walked casually past them. Kristen ran a hand over her forehead, her gaze following his shoes as she waited for him to be out of earshot. Once his Sperrys were far enough away, she continued. “Aside from a few signaling hormones and structural proteins here and there, just about every aspect of the Vatruvian Cell is based off mimicry.” Kristen stopped to consider the details. “I guess it’s possible the synthetic composition could function at a more efficient capacity than the natural one. That could provide greater physical thresholds and strengths to a Vatruvian cell, but it runs counter to the whole foundation of our research.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing that’s absolutely certain,” Cara said, her whisper staunchly matter-of-fact as they ascended the stairs to the Legrande building. “The Vatruvian cells are physically superior to their original cells—in every tested aspect. And Professor Vatruvia has explicitly threatened me against telling anyone about my findings. I have no idea what I’m going to do.” They joined a small group waiting to enter the large auditorium.
“Unbelievable.” Kristen murmured, stepping over the tall entry threshold into the bustling auditorium. Several hundred people were crowded into rows of seats.
“You’re telling me.” Cara sighed anxiously. She pointed to a poster by the entrance, where the Columbia student debate team’s program schedule was listed in a flowery hand. “Fitting subject for us.”
Kristen turned and read the first topic: Ryan Craig, sophomore Anthropology major, and Alden Harris, consulting lobbyist for the Rijcore Company discuss the ethical principles in the ever-growing field of genetic engineering.
“Oh boy,” Kristen said.
They pushed through the standing crowd and sat in a pair of seats, Kristen still replaying the images of the replicating Vatruvian cell and all of its constituent parts in her mind. The Vatruvian cells were superior to their natural versions. Kristen had no doubt Professor Vatruvia knew this truth from the very beginning.
Chapter Three
Ryan
Ryan Craig sat in silence at a circulation desk in the Columbia student library. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a controlled mess, unchanged since he rolled out of bed late that morning. The slight shadow of a beard—simply the result of forgetting to shave—spread from his neck to his high cheekbones. He was absentmindedly checking and rechecking status updates on his laptop, his eyes half dozing and his mouth agape. His mind was inundated by the tedium of his desk job.
Ryan was responsible for manning the circulation desk closest to the first-floor bathrooms. His sole job was to assist students or faculty members if they approached with questions, though no one had visited Ryan’s corner desk since his shift had started that morning. He’d spent the stultifying hours observing young men and women as they entered and exited through the library’s side door. He stifled a yawn and swiveled his chair to check the clock above the men’s room. Quarter to one. The end of his shift, but the clock was set ten minutes fast.
Ten more minutes of mind-numbing torture. Ryan sighed and looked back to his laptop. He opened his homework for a class on globalization. It was a sham of an assignment: Explain the conflicts that arise between capitalism and international human rights in two hundred words or less. Ryan shook his head as he reread the guidelines. The professor wanted him to take a topic that would normally require a hundred-page explanation, and do so in a few sentences. He grabbed his headphones and began constructing the essay, focusing more on the music than the words he typed. Although the particular subject was one he cared about intensely, Ryan was fairly certain this excuse of an exposition would never be read by anyone, his professor included. He would earn the universally recognized and ambiguous red check mark, as always. Turning up the volume, he began writing.
There is a fundamental conflict that arises between human rights as defined in the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights and the everyday practices of modern capitalism. The free-trade model of transnational capitalism leads to an inevitable disregard of the economic civil rights of citizens in third-world countries. Corporations depend upon a cheap global labor force to act as the backbone for inexpensive creation of capital goods. If one cannot charge the consumer more for a given product, one can pay the factory worker less for the creation of said product. Adhering to either approach, profits will increase. Companies in the global economy are dependent upon the exploitation of peripheral populations—
“Excuse me!”
An agitated voice rose over the bass and guitar riffs in his ears. Startled, Ryan looked up from his perfunctory typing. He quickly pulled off his headphones, silently cursing himself. Caught listening to music on the job again—luck was not on his side this afternoon. It was Janet McCreedy, the community taskmaster of the library supervising staff. The dowdy older woman glaring at him was short and stolid, her white hair pulled into a tight bun, which stretched her forehead. Janet McCreedy was Ryan’s most critical and overbearing boss. She had threatened to fire Ryan on more than one occasion for what she called “poor work ethic,” despite the fact there was rarely a speck of work to do. None of his other supervisors had issues with him, but the knowledge that others considered Ryan Craig a conscientious worker held no weight with Janet McCreedy. In fact, it seemed to irritate her.
Ryan wondered how miserable Mr. McCreedy must be.
“Hi, Mrs. McCreedy.” Ryan forced a genuine-looking smile. If he acted oblivious, maybe she would forgo the tirade and write him off as a lost cause.
Janet McCreedy glowered down at him, her prickly demeanor masking any trace of warmth. “Ryan. Would you say I’m a reasonable supervisor? Mind you, I ask this question at the very same moment you sit and complete your own homework while simultaneously getting paid to work for me.”
“I think you’re a great supervisor,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry. I won’t wear my headphones again while I’m working at—”
“And you are aware at this very moment there are hundreds of books that need
to be put back on their respective shelves?” Janet McCreedy regarded Ryan humorlessly. “Hundreds of books that easily could become your responsibility.”
“I was not aware of that.”
“Your duty at this desk is to help people with circulation questions. How can you answer their questions if you can’t hear them? If you want to listen to music, you can be reassigned to shelving duty quite easily.”
Ryan nodded noncommittally. Shelving books was the worst job in the library, by far, and everyone knew it. Endless and constantly growing stacks of worn books—often with infuriating broken bindings—requiring placement in one precise location on one of the hundreds of shelves. Shelving was a drudgery mainly relegated to incoming freshmen that did not know any better when signing up for the work-study jobs. Ryan had been on shelving duty last year, and he had no intentions of returning to it.
“You’re right,” Ryan said. “I won’t put on my headphones again. Really, I promise.”
“Oh, I know you won’t. If I ever, ever see you wearing headphones at this desk again, you will be formally let go from your position. Is that clear?”
Ryan nodded. “Crystal.”
“Good,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “Since you’ve already been warned once, you can place this cart back onto shelves before you leave.”
Ryan rose and leaned over the desk. She had pushed over a rickety steel cart filled with nonfiction books. It was a sight he knew all too well from his shelving days. He guessed from the size of the stacks that it would easily take an hour or more to place all of the books in their appropriate places.
Ryan looked up at her with resigned dismay. “Today?”
“Yes, I should think so. And don’t leave until it’s finished. Maybe this will remind you how easy you have it at this desk. I’m certain one of the freshmen would jump at the chance to have your position.”
