He watched his father's hands on the steering wheel. Though large for his age, like his father, Paul's features still favored his Asian mother and he sometimes wondered if that was part of it, this thing between his father and him, this gulf he could not cross. Would his father have treated a freckled, blond son any differently? No, he decided. His father would have been the same. The same force of nature; the same cataclysm. He couldn't help being what he was.
Paul watched his father's hand on the steering wheel, and years later, when he thought of his father, even after everything that happened, that's how he thought of him. That moment frozen. Driving in the car, big hands on the steering wheel, a quiet moment of foreboding that wasn't false, but was merely what it was, the best it would ever be between them.
* * * *
“What have you done?” There was wonder in John's voice. Paul had snuck him up to the attic, and now Paul held Bertha up by her tail for John to see. She was a beautiful golden brindle, long whiskers twitching.
“She's the most recent generation, an F4."
“What does that mean?"
Paul smiled. “She's kin to herself."
“That's a big mouse."
“The biggest yet. Fifty-nine grams, weighed at a hundred days old. The average weight is around forty."
Paul put the mouse on John's hand.
“What have you been feeding her?” John asked.
“Same as the other mice. Look at this.” Paul showed him the charts he'd graphed, like Mr. Finley, a gentle upward ellipse between the X and Y axis—the slow upward climb in body weight from one generation to the next.
“One of my F2s tipped the scales at forty-five grams, so I bred him to the biggest females, and they made more than fifty babies. I weighed them all at a hundred days and picked the biggest four. I bred them and did the same thing the next generation, choosing the heaviest hundred-day weights. I got the same bell-curve distribution—only the bell was shifted slightly to the right. Bertha was the biggest of them all."
John looked at Paul in horror. “That works?"
“Of course it works. It's the same thing people have been doing with domestic livestock for the last five thousand years."
“But this didn't take you thousands of years."
“No. Uh, it kind of surprised me it worked so well. This isn't even subtle. I mean, look at her, and she's only an F4. Imagine what an F10 might look like."
“That sounds like evolutionism."
“Don't be silly. It's just directional selection. With a diverse enough population, it's amazing what a little push can do. I mean, when you think about it, I hacked off the bottom 95 percent of the bell curve for five generations in a row. Of course the mice got bigger. I probably could have gone the other way if I'd wanted, made them smaller. There's one thing that surprised me, though, something I only noticed recently."
“What?"
“When I started, at least half of the mice were albino. Now it's down to about one in ten."
“Okay."
“I never consciously decided to select against that."
“So?"
“So, when I did culls ... when I decided which ones to breed, sometimes the weights were about the same, and I'd just pick. I think I just happened to pick one kind more than the other."
“So what's your point?"
“So what if it happens that way in nature?"
“What do you mean?"
“It's like the dinosaurs. Or woolly mammoths, or cavemen. They were here once; we know that because we find their bones. But now they're gone. God made all life about six thousand years ago, right?"
“Yeah."
“But some of it isn't here anymore. Some died out along the way."
* * * *
It happened on a weekend. Bertha was pregnant, obscenely, monstrously. Paul had isolated her in one of the aquariums, an island unto herself, sitting on a table in the middle of the room. A little tissue box sat in the corner of her small glass cage, and Bertha had shredded bits of paper into a comfortable nest in which to give birth to the next generation of goliath mice.
Paul heard his father's car pull into the garage. He was home early. Paul considered turning off the attic lights but knew it would only draw his father's suspicion. Instead he waited, hoping. The garage was strangely quiet—only the ticking of the car's engine. Paul's stomach dropped when he heard the creak of his father's weight on the ladder.
There was a moment of panic then—a single hunted moment when Paul's eyes darted for a place to hide the cages. It was ridiculous; there was no place to go.
“What's that smell?” his father asked as his head cleared the attic floor. He stopped and looked around. “Oh."
And that was all he said at first. That was all he said as he climbed the rest of the way. He stood there like a giant, taking it in. The single bare bulb draped his eyes in shadow. “What's this?” he said finally. His dead voice turned Paul's stomach to ice.
“What's this?” Louder now, and something changed in his shadow eyes. Paul's father stomped toward him, above him.
“What's this?” The words more shriek than question now, spit flying from his mouth.
“I, I thought—"
A big hand shot out and slammed into Paul's chest, balling his T-shirt into a fist, yanking him off his feet.
“What the fuck is this? Didn't I tell you no pets?” The bright light of the family, the famous man.
“They're not pets, they're—"
“God, it fucking stinks up here. You brought these things into the house? You brought this vermin into the house? Into my house!"
The arm flexed, sending Paul backward into the cages, toppling one of the tables—wood and mesh crashing to the floor, the squeak of mice and twisted hinges, months and months and months of work.
His father saw Bertha's aquarium and grabbed it. He lifted it high over his head—and there was a moment when Paul imagined he could almost see it, almost see Bertha inside, and the babies inside her, countless generations that would never be born. Then his father's arms came down like a force of nature, like a cataclysm. Paul closed his eyes against exploding glass, and all he could think was, this is how it happens. This is exactly how it happens.
* * * *
Paul Carlson left for Stanford at seventeen. Two years later, his father was dead.
At Stanford he double-majored in genetics and anthropology, taking eighteen credit hours a semester. He studied transcripts of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Apocryphal verses; he took courses in Comparative Interpretation and Biblical Philosophy. He studied fruit flies and amphioxus. While still an undergraduate, he won a prestigious summer internship working under renowned geneticist Michael Poore.
Paul sat in classrooms while men in dark suits spun theories about Kibra and T-variants, about microcephalin-1 and haplogroup D. He learned researchers had identified structures within a family of proteins called AAA+ that were shown to initiate DNA replication, and he learned these genetic structures were conserved across all forms of life, from men to archae bacteria—the very calling card of the great designer.
Paul also studied the banned texts. He studied balancing equilibriums and Hardy-Weinburg; but alone at night, walking the dark halls of his own head, it was the trade-offs that fascinated him most. Paul was a young man who understood trade-offs.
He learned of the recently discovered Alzheimer's gene, APOE4—a gene common throughout much of the world; and he learned theories about how deleterious genes grew to such high frequencies. Paul learned that although APOE4 caused Alzheimer's, it also protected against the devastating cognitive consequences of early childhood malnutrition. The gene that destroys the mind at seventy, saves it at seven months. He learned that people with sickle cell trait are resistant to malaria; and heterozygotes for cystic fibrosis are less susceptible to cholera; and people with type A blood survived the plague at higher frequencies than other blood types, altering forever, in a single generation, the frequency of blood types in
Europe. A process, some said, now being slow-motion mimicked by the gene CKR5 and HIV.
In his anthropology courses, Paul learned that all humans alive today could trace their ancestry back to Africa, to a time almost six thousand years ago when the whole of human diversity existed within a single small population. And there had been at least two dispersions out of Africa, his professors said, if not more—a genetic bottleneck in support of the Deluvian Flood Theory. But each culture had its own beliefs. Muslims called it Allah. Jews, Yahweh. The science journals were careful not to call it God anymore; but they spoke of an intelligent designer—an architect, lowercase “a.” Though in his heart of hearts, Paul figured it all amounted to the same thing.
Paul learned they'd scanned the brains of nuns, looking for the God spot, and couldn't find it. He learned about evolutionism. Although long debunked by legitimate science, adherents of evolutionism still existed—their beliefs enjoying near immortality among the fallow fields of pseudo-science, cohabitating the fringe with older belief systems like astrology, phrenology, and acupuncture. Modern evolutionists believed the various dating systems were all incorrect; and they offered an assortment of unscientific explanations for how the isotope tests could all be wrong. In hushed tones, some even spoke of data tampering and conspiracies.
The evolutionists ignored the accepted interpretation of the geological record. They ignored the miracle of the placenta and the irreducible complexity of the eye.
During his junior and senior years, Paul studied archaeology. He studied the ancient remains of Homo erectus, and Homo neanderthalensis. He studied the un-Men; he studied Afarensis, and Australopithecus, and Pan.
In the world of archeology, the line between Man and un-Man could be fuzzy—but it was never unimportant. To some scientists, Homo erectus was a race of Man long dead, a withered branch on the tree of humanity. To those more conservative, he wasn't Man at all; he was other, a hiccup of the creator, an independent creation made from the same tool box. But that was an extreme viewpoint. Mainstream science, of course, accepted the use of stone tools as the litmus test. Men made stone tools. Soulless beasts didn't. Of course there were still arguments, even in the mainstream. The fossil KNM ER 1470, found in Kenya, appeared so perfectly balanced between Man and un-Man that a new category had to be invented: near-Man. The arguments could get quite heated, with both sides claiming anthropometric statistics to prove their case.
Like a benevolent teacher swooping in to stop a playground fight, the science of genetics arrived on the scene. Occupying the exact point of intersection between Paul's two passions in life—genetics and anthropology—the field of paleometagenomics was born.
Paul received a bachelor's degree in May and started a graduate program in September. Two years and an advanced degree later, he moved to the East Coast to work for Westing Genomics, one of the foremost genetics research labs in the world.
Three weeks after that, he was in the field in Tanzania, learning the proprietary techniques of extracting DNA from bones 5,800 years old. Bones from the very dawn of the world.
* * * *
Two men stepped into the bright room.
“So this is where the actual testing is done?” It was a stranger's voice, the accent urban Australian.
Paul lifted his eyes from the microscope and saw his supervisor accompanied by an older man in a gray suit.
“Yes,” Mr. Lyons said.
The stranger shifted weight to his teak cane. His hair was short and gray, parted neatly on the side.
“It never ceases to amaze,” the stranger said, glancing around. “How alike laboratories are across the world. Cultures who cannot agree on anything agree on this: how to design a centrifuge, where to put the test tube rack, what color to paint the walls—white, always. The bench tops, black."
Mr. Lyons nodded. Mr. Lyons was a man who wore his authority like a uniform two sizes too large; it required constant adjustment to look presentable.
Paul stood, pulled off his latex gloves.
“Gavin McMaster,” the stranger said, sticking out a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carlson."
They shook.
“Paul. You can call me Paul."
“I apologize for interrupting your work,” Gavin said.
“It's time I took a break anyway."
“I'll leave you two to your discussion,” Mr. Lyons said, and excused himself.
“Please,” Paul said, gesturing to a nearby work table. “Take a seat."
Gavin sank onto the stool and set his briefcase on the table. “I promise I won't take much of your time,” he said. “But I did need to talk to you. We've been leaving messages for the last few days and—"
“Oh.” Paul's face changed. “You're from—"
“Yes."
“This is highly unusual for you to contact me here."
“I can assure you these are very unusual circumstances."
“Still, I'm not sure I like being solicited for one job while working at another."
“I can see there's been a misunderstanding."
“How's that?"
“You called it a job. Consider it a consulting offer."
“Mr. McMaster, I'm very busy with my current work. I'm in the middle of several projects, and, to be honest, I'm surprised Westing let you through the door."
“Westing is already onboard. I took the liberty of speaking to the management before contacting you today."
“How did you...” Paul looked at him, and Gavin raised an eyebrow. With corporations, any question of “how” was usually rhetorical. The answer was always the same. And it always involved dollar signs.
“Of course, we'll match that bonus to you, mate.” McMaster slid a check across the counter. Paul barely glanced at it.
“As I said, I'm in the middle of several projects now. One of the other samplers here would probably be interested."
McMaster smiled. “Normally I'd assume that was a negotiating tactic. But that's not the case here, is it?"
“No."
“I was like you once. Hell, maybe I still am."
“Then you understand.” Paul stood.
“I understand you better than you think. It makes it easier, sometimes, when you come from money. Sometimes I think that only people who come from it realize how worthless it really is."
“That hasn't been my experience. If you'll excuse me.” Politeness like a wall, a thing he'd learned from his mother.
“Please,” Gavin said. “Before you leave, I have something for you.” He opened the snaps on his briefcase and pulled out a stack of glossy eight-by-ten photographs.
For a moment Paul just stood there. Then he took the photos from Gavin's extended hand. Paul looked at the pictures. Paul looked at them for a long time.
Gavin said, “These fossils were found last year on the island of Flores, in Indonesia."
“Flores,” Paul whispered, still studying the photos. “I heard they found strange bones there. I didn't know anybody had published."
“That's because we haven't. Not yet, anyway."
“These dimensions can't be right. A six-inch ulna."
“They're right."
Paul looked at him. “Why me?” And just like that, the wall was gone. What lived behind it had hunger in its belly.
“Why not?"
It was Paul's turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Because you're good,” Gavin said.
“So are others."
“Because you're young and don't have a reputation to risk."
“Or one to stand on."
Gavin sighed. “Because I don't know if archaeology was ever meant to be as important as it has become. Will that do for an answer? We live in a world where zealots become scientists. Tell me, boy, are you a zealot?"
“No."
“That's why. Or close enough."
There were a finite number of unique creations at the beginning of the world—a finite number of species which has, since that time, decreased dramatic
ally through extinction. Speciation is a special event outside the realm of natural processes, a phenomenon relegated to the moment of creation, and to the mysteries of Allah.
—Expert witness, heresy trials, Ankara, Turkey.
* * * *
The flight to Bali was seventeen hours, and another two to Flores by chartered plane—then four hours by Jeep over the steep mountains and into the heart of the jungle. To Paul, it might have been another world. Rain fell, stopped, then fell again, turning the road into a thing which had to be reasoned with.
“Is it always like this?” Paul asked.
“No,” Gavin said. “In the rainy season, the roads are much worse."
Flores, isle of flowers. From the air it had looked like a long ribbon of jungle thrust from blue water, part of a rosary of islands between Australia and Java. The Wallace Line—a line more real than any on a map—lay kilometers to the west, toward Asia and the empire of placental mammals. A stranger emperor ruled here.
Paul was exhausted by the time they pulled into Ruteng. He rubbed his eyes. Children ran alongside the Jeep, their faces some combination of Malay and Papuan—brown skin, strong white teeth like a dentist's dream. The hill town crouched one foot in the jungle, one on the mountain. A valley flung itself from the edge of the settlement, a drop of kilometers.
The men checked into their hotel. Paul's room was basic, but clean, and Paul slept like the dead. The next morning he woke, showered and shaved. Gavin met him in the lobby.
“It's a bit rustic, I apologize.” Gavin said.
“No, it's fine.” Paul said. “There was a bed and a shower. That's all I needed."
“We use Ruteng as a kind of base camp for the dig. Our future accommodations won't be quite so luxurious."
Back at the Jeep, Paul checked his gear. It wasn't until he climbed into the passenger seat that he noticed the gun, its black leather holster duct-taped to the driver's door. It hadn't been there the day before.
Gavin caught him staring. “These are crazy times we live in, mate. This is a place history has forgotten till now. Recent events have made it remember."
Asimov's SF, September 2007 Page 10
