Twenty-four days had elapsed since the original glial cell in her brain had turned traitor. It had now produced countless clones of itself, all with equally rebellious DNA. Even as Holly slept, the tireless revolution was gathering pace, growing faster than DAN had predicted. The obedient brain cells could do nothing to quell this uprising. Even the immune system, the body's militia geared up to repel invaders, ignored these mutations of the body's own cells, letting them go about their murderous business unchallenged.
Only two days ago, when her godmother and father had taken her to Star Wars VII, Holly had experienced the first headaches, accompanied by a rush of giddiness. But she hadn't told anybody because she was worried her dad would blame the computer, and stop her from playing on it. So Holly had simply decided to cut down and use it only a few hours at night, feeling sure the headaches would go away. But of course they wouldn't. They would only get worse.
Even as Holly dreamed of last summer when Mom and Dad had been together, playing with her on the pink-white sands of Horseshoe Bay in Bermuda, the traitorous cells were already entering the second mutation of clonal evolution. And if the rebels of this genetic war of independence remained unchecked, if they were allowed to proliferate indefinitely within the tight confines of Holly's skull, then it wouldn't only be in her dreams that Tom's precious daughter was reunited with her mother.
Tom Carter was still unaware of Holly's condition when he drove to work the next morning, and he would remain so until her monthly brain scan in a little over a week's time. In the fifteen days since finding the Nazareth genes he had been focusing all his thoughts and energies on unlocking their power. He had barely had time to reflect on the significance of seeing the resurrected holo-image of Jesus Christ, let alone worry if Holly had already succumbed.
The first thing Tom did in the Crick Lab that morning with Bob Cooke was check the Gallenkamp incubators. He pulled four of the transparent circular culture dishes from the top rack and studied them closely. Three of them contained Streptomyces bacteria with one of the three new Nazareth genes cloned into them. The bacteria were acting as factories, converting the new genetic instructions into their coded proteins. The fourth dish contained the same bacterium with all three genes combined.
"Any change?" asked Bob Cooke beside him.
"No, it's the same as the E coli. We don't obviously have the same inclusion bodies, but the pattern's similar. You used the same plasmids and restriction enzymes for all the dishes?"
"Identical."
"Well, the naz 3 gene still refuses to behave. Whatever protein it codes for still isn't folding."
Bob Cooke took the fourth dish labeled the "Trinity--Streptomyces" and frowned. "But we're getting the un known protein when we put all three genes together."
"Yeah, but what does it do? The human cell cultures prove that naz 1 obviously codes for some kind of DNA repair protein, but not a particularly spectacular one. And the protein from the naz 2 gene has limited cell control characteristics--but again that's nothing new. What I want to know is what this totally new protein from all three combined is. It doesn't actually appear to do anything."
Bob picked up his notes from the bench beside him. "If only we could get the damn naz 3 gene to work in isolation."
"Assuming it does, of course," muttered Tom.
"If it doesn't," said Bob, "then it's going to take a helluva long time to unravel what it's doing in the total mix. Perhaps it might be better to try and find a match?"
Tom put the culture dishes down and paced around the lab. This was proving more difficult than he'd thought. He was sure his strategy was correct. But it looked as if he might have to shift the emphasis. It had been obvious from the start that if there was something therapeutic in the Nazareth genes, then the answer lay in the composite protein formed by all three together. The enigmatic naz 3 gene appeared to be adding an unidentifiable element to the other two, turning their individually unremarkable proteins into something unique and potentially exciting. But unlocking the enormously complex third gene in isolation would take even DAN too long. So his strategy boiled down to focusing on three broad areas.
The first involved farming the protein in the lab. By inserting the three genes into bacteria, the bacterial cells could be turned into mini-factories producing the coded proteins. And after some modifications Tom hoped he could then inject the proteins like a drug.
The second meant inserting all three genes directly into live animals, to see what effect they had on an organism and what proteins were produced in vivo.
The third option he'd formulated only as a last resort, in case the first two failed, or took too long. This entailed finding a live person who possessed a fully functioning set of the genes. Tom thought he could then analyze the nat urally occurring genes in situ. And if he still couldn't determine how they worked, then he would try to persuade the individual to realize any healing powers he might possess, and use them to save Holly. This had originally been the least attractive option, but as he considered their progress to date it was fast becoming the front runner.
They had already tested option one endlessly. All the genes had been tried individually and collectively in E coli, Saccharomyces cerevisiae, Streptomyces, and even human cell cultures. But always the naz 3 gene refused to express its protein, and always they got the mysterious composite protein when all three genes--what the irreverent Californian had termed the Trinity--were combined. However, each and every time they made it, this laboratory-farmed version of the composite protein appeared to be inert.
Option two had also yielded little so far, although there were other tests to run. To date the Trinity had had no effect on mice, or on live tumor cells when inserted by viral vector. To his left in the glass-fronted refrigerated cabinet he could see the rack of beautiful serums his team had developed--all designed to deliver the three genes into an organism's stem cells. But the genes still didn't appear to make any difference when they got there.
Unless these serums came through in later tests it looked as if Bob Cooke was right, and they'd have to prioritize option three. They would have to find someone who already possessed a working set of these genes, so they could analyze them in vivo, or persuade the individual to heal Holly directly. Tom reached for the phone and dialed Jasmine's extension downstairs in the IT Section. She picked up on the second ring.
"Jazz."
"Hi, it's Tom. How's the search going?"
A pause. "Not good. A couple of people, and I mean a couple, have got one of the genes--either naz 1 or naz 2. But no one's got all three. I haven't seen anybody with naz 3 yet. Big Mother's feeding in more scans all the time, but I've been through most of IGOR's past entries now and we're fast running out of prospects."
"How many scans is Big Mother picking up?"
"The usual. One in five."
"Make it five out of five. From now on I want to check on everyone who takes a Genescope scan anywhere in the world."
"Every single one? What's going on? Has your mysterious Ezekiel been applying pressure?"
"No, we've got three more weeks before he starts getting antsy." Tom remembered how excited the old man had been when he'd returned the samples and told him they'd found the three genes. Ezekiel had asked when they might have a match but hadn't pushed him to pull the five-week deadline forward. "It's my other options that are applying the pressure, Jazz. They're running out. You look like our best bet now."
"Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better. But don't get your hopes up. It could take years for a subject who has all three of the genes to be scanned and deposited in IGOR--assuming one exists."
"How about the other eighty percent of genomes Big Mother wasn't storing on IGOR?"
A sigh. "They're on a range of private databases around the world. Trying to hack into them is illegal."
"Only if anyone finds out."
Jasmine tried to sound shocked, but Tom could hear the excitement in her voice. "They're extremely well protected."
; "You're saying it can't be done? Or it would take a genius to do it?"
A small laugh. "Dr. Carter, has anyone ever told you that you can be a real sweet-talker when you want to be?"
It was his to turn to chuckle. "No, Dr. Washington, I can honestly say they never have."
Another pause, her voice more serious. "How's my goddaughter? She seemed a bit quiet at the movies."
"I know, but she says she's fine."
"When's her next scan?"
"About a week."
"You really believe you need a match to help her?"
"We're still trying the other routes, but they're not looking good so far. So, yeah."
A sigh. "I'll see what I can do. But promise me one thing, Tom?"
"Name it."
"Visit me in jail!"
He was perfect. His build, height, even the shape of his face was ideal. He was a loner too. Over the last two weeks Maria Benariac had followed the dark-haired man around most of Boston, and it was clear that he was new to the city and had few friends. On the third day he'd gone to that downtown club where she'd discovered he was bisexual, but that wasn't a problem; he only had casual partners. There appeared to be no one who would miss him for a week or so. Even his phone was barely used--her phone tap had told her that much--and when it did ring he never seemed to pick it up, preferring to let the answering machine screen the callers for him.
Apart from the obvious necessary changes, he was exactly what she was looking for. Even his sexuality made it easier to justify what she was going to do to him. It made him unrighteous and therefore eminently expendable.
Maria took care when she followed him from the company building. Her research had uncovered that he'd once worked for the New York Police Department and would therefore have some training. She noticed the polyethylene bag draped over his right shoulder and the cap in his right hand. Obviously his midday interview had gone well.
Excellent.
If he hadn't got the security job then all his other qualifications would have been worthless. But with it he was more than perfect--he was a gift from God.
He climbed into his car, and she followed in hers. She didn't need to shadow him too closely; by now she could guess what he was doing and where he was going. He'd rented an apartment in a block near Harvard. When they passed the GENIUS campus ten minutes later she allowed herself a small tight smile. She could almost taste the satisfaction of killing the scientist. And in a few days she would be able to satisfy that taste for real.
As they neared the man's apartment she parked her rental car a block away and walked. By the time she reached the main door of the brownstone he was already inside. She tried the door and like yesterday, and the day before, found it open. She entered and checked that she was alone, then sauntered over to the two elevators, taking the one that still worked. The run-down building had paint peeling off the walls and was mainly inhabited by students. But it would do fine for a few days. Brother Bernard was no doubt still trying to contact her; he had already left three messages at her London apartment, none of which she'd answered. But Bernard, or whoever he sent looking for her, would never find her here. And when he did it would be too late.
On the third floor she checked her overalls and the contents of her toolbox, then strolled down the corridor to the man's apartment. Number 30. She stopped and knocked.
Silence. Then a muffled "Who is it?" She heard breathing from the other side of the black door and guessed he was looking through the peephole.
Holding up her toolbox, she turned to show the orange logo on the back of her overalls. In her deepest blue-collar voice she rasped, "Power company, sir. Been a few dangerous surges in this building and the one next door. Need to check your meter and wiring. Just a safety measure."
A pause. "Have you got any ID?"
This annoyed her. Why were people so suspicious? she thought. What reason did a fit, young ex-cop have for not trusting a power company employee? What could he possibly be scared of?
She reached into her overalls and pulled out a typed letter. "I got a letter from the boss. It's on company paper. That okay?" She pushed the letter under the door. "Or do you want my card?" She made a big show of opening her toolbox and scrabbling around inside. As though she'd put it in there somewhere and was trying to find it.
She made a few frustrated noises as she rummaged. But really she was waiting. And listening.
On the other side of the door she could hear the sound of the letter being unfolded. They guy was still there. He wasn't walking back into his apartment to make a call to the company. That was good.
"Goddamn!" she cussed. "I know it's here somewhere. Hell, if you like I can come back later, when I've found it."
A pause. She could almost hear the man's mind working, as she heard the crisp letter being refolded. The last thing this guy wanted was her coming back again. He wanted whatever it was she had to do over and done with.
Suddenly there was a scrabbling sound, as locks were clicked and chains pulled back. "Come in," said the man, opening the door and handing back the letter. He was frowning, still holding his cap. "How long do you think you'll be?"
"Five, ten minutes. I'll be as fast as I can." Maria closed the door behind her and followed him to a cupboard by the small kitchen.
The man stood with his back to her and opened the cupboard door. "The meter and stuff's in here. Help yourself."
"Thanks." Maria reached into her toolbox, and pulled out a plastic Kmart bag and her Glock semiautomatic, complete with silencer. Before the man could turn she flipped the plastic bag over his head, pressed the gun into his temple, and fired twice. Even with the bag there was the inevitable mess, but it was minimized. She bundled the man's body into the bathroom, placed him in the bathtub, and ran the cold water. With ice she could slow the body's decomposition for up to a week, and after that it wouldn't matter.
She turned to the man's discarded cap, wiped two flecks of blood off the black peak, and put it on. It fitted well. She was right, she thought with a smile. He was perfect.
Chapter Twenty.
Three nights later, GENIUS Headquarters
Boston
Like all societies, the cyberworld has its own subculture. Bored, computer-literate kids prowl the cyberstreets seeking kicks and recognition by trying to break into any system they can. These so-called cyberpunks cruise the electronic highway, joyriding from one net site to the next, trying to convince each other that they are the hottest net heads in cybertown. They all share the same dream: to perform some dangerous, heroic feat; to slay some electronic dragon and graduate from mere cyberpunk to cyberlord.
Few succeed. But there have been some true legends. No more so than the net head who broke into the Treasury's Federal Reserve database, the NASA Satellite guidance system, and the Russian Strategic Nuclear Missile command center, taking complete control of each one in turn. Fortunately, the net head was benign and on every occasion merely alerted the authorities to the breach and indicated how they could, and indeed should, improve security. Naturally these same authorities tried to trace the hacker and arrest him or her, but because the net head used a complex route, switching nodes and jumping from network to satellite links and back again, they lost their prey. But the cyberpunk community knew who'd done it. It was one of their own--the net head who went by the User ID of Razor Buzz.
That was twelve years ago. And after that the Razor Buzz tag virtually disappeared from the Internet, but the name lived on as one of the greats--a true cyberlord.
Tonight, however, Razor Buzz was again riding the information superhighway. The net head's alter ego required the tag's anonymity, and felt the need to feed off the reassurances of past triumphs that the name carried with it. Because tonight the woman, who had spent years becoming a highly respected member of the scientific community--a Nobel Prize winner no less--was again breaking the law.
Dr. Jasmine Washington took another sip of her diet Coke and bit into the slice of pizza, her eyes not mov
ing from the twenty-inch screen in front of her. She had been working in her office on the ground floor of the GENIUS pyramid for fifteen hours now. For once she was glad Larry was out of town. She enjoyed the quiet of the night; it was when her mind worked best.
Apart from the blue glow of the screen, the sharp circle of light from the lamp beside her was the only illumination in the small, uncluttered office. Next door, in the all-white temperatureregulated room that formed the heart of the Information Technology Section, Big Mother emitted a gentle, almost soothing hum as a tiny part of its vastly powerful brain busied itself with collecting and collating each and every scan from all the Genescopes in operation around the globe. But apart from the quiet ticking of the clock on top of the screen there were no other sounds. It was past midnight and it seemed to Jasmine as if all the world, save her, was asleep.
She checked the notes beside her. The search of all IGOR historical files had been completed two days ago and no match found--although data was coming in every hour from new Genescope scans not yet captured on IGOR. But now she was looking elsewhere. She had already hacked into many of the easier DNA databases on her list, such as the hospitals and smaller insurance companies around the world. In every database she had inserted her compressed smart file, which contained just the genetic sequence of the Nazareth genes, to search for a topline match. And she had just finished some of the larger more difficult databases including the U. S., British, and French Military Personnel DNA repositories, all of which were protected by software alarms and Predator Version 2 tracing software. However, these barriers hadn't proved too difficult for a cyberlord, and she was pleased she had lost none of her hacking skills. But she was disappointed that after screening almost two hundred million individual genomes she still hadn't come close to a full match.
the Miracle Strain (aka The Messiah Code) (1997) Page 22
