Anthem's Fall (7 page)

Ryan leaned into his microphone, his voice echoing across the hall. “Anthropology.”

The lobbyist smirked with a belittling chuckle.

Julie Thorne turned from Alden Harris to Ryan and cast a fake smile. “We welcome both of you to the stage! Our first topic of discussion will pertain to genetically modified organisms. More specifically, the recent controversy regarding genetically altered fish. I have no doubt you are all familiar with the Rijcore Company, which has devised a means of doubling the growth rate and adult size of the North Atlantic Salmon. They have done so by inserting foreign DNA segments into salmon eggs, which promote the permanent release of growth hormones. This innovation brings into question a pervasive ethical dilemma. Now we have quite a bit to plow through, and we are getting a late start, so we will have to limit each debate to five minutes. Ryan, we’ll start with your position.”

For a moment Ryan’s tongue felt like lead as he looked into the sea of faces. He placed his palms on the podium and cleared his throat. “The issue of genetically modified organisms is one that—”

“Is nothing new,” Alden Harris interrupted him, his voice carrying over Ryan’s with practiced articulacy. “In fact, the concept of modifying our food at a genetic level goes back to the very roots of civilization. One could even say the altering of our food is what gave rise to developed society through the advent of agriculture and more prolific sources of crops. It is truly . . . 
disappointing
 . . . that a mainstream misunderstanding based solely in unqualified naivety is obstructing a perfectly innocuous technology. Furthermore I find it—”

“I’m going to have to stop you there, Alden.” Ryan forced his own voice over Alden Harris’s condescending tone. “The issue at hand is the insertion of foreign and
mutative
DNA into the heart of a species. You are inaccurately drawing a correlation between the adulteration of the North Atlantic Salmon’s natural biology and the practices of selective breeding through time.”

“I disagree,” Alden Harris said. “Each case is merely a matter of fish being altered for a more efficient yield. They’re both means toward the same end.”

“No, they absolutely are not. The two means to which you are referring are so incomparable to one another that I can’t allow you to suggest that point, or draw attention away from the main moralistic concerns that arise in this
specific
issue. If not, we’ll fall into a debate over perspectives so philosophical that no ground will be reached. When we consider these genetically engineered fish, we aren’t talking about a directional change through adaptation and selective breeding. We are referring to the alteration of a species’ very identity, with countless pitfalls both seen and unforeseen, all in the name of increased productivity.”

Alden Harris sighed and adjusted his tie. “There comes a point, Mr. Craigie—”

“Craig,” Ryan asserted instantly, and heard a laugh move through the audience.

“Craig. Forgive me. There comes a point, Mr. Craig, where technological progress must be allowed to move forward. You just said we should avoid abstract philosophical perspectives in this debate. I couldn’t have put it better myself. What justification does your opposition to this technology have if not a vague naturalistic nostalgia? There is no—I will repeat—
no
data that shows Rijcore Company’s technology to be dangerous in any way.”

“First of all,” Ryan said. He turned his gaze from the audience to Alden Harris. “I would point out that what you contemptuously refer to as my
naturalistic nostalgia
is no less defensible than what I would in turn refer to as your reckless hunger for increased profits.”

“Now wait one—”

“Further,” Ryan raised a hand over him. “You mentioned data. Let’s discuss that data. Your salmon grow twice as fast as a natural salmon and become an adult size that is double the size of a natural salmon. Is that correct?”

Alden Harris nodded. “Yes. And that is with absolutely no negative effect to their nutritional properties.”

“I have no doubt when a company as immense as Rijcore undertakes a venture seeking only to validate its research in one single respect—in this case, nutritional value—it will succeed in that one respect. I’m not going to argue the nutritional value of your monster fish.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to present any actual data, what exactly is your point, Mr. Craig? And I hardly think
monster
is an appropriate word to be using in this forum.”

“Very well,” Ryan said, slowly with thought. “For the sake of argument, by an injection of mutative DNA into their genes, the fish grow double as fast, and reach twice normal adult size. That is correct? That’s what your data shows?”

“Yes, Mr. Craig, I just said that is correct.”

“Then you’re right, monster was the improper word. Giant mutated baby fish sounds much more appropriate. I believe that name fits with all of your classifications.”

That got a rise from the crowd, and Alden Harris gave Ryan an enraged smile. “Look. What we are dealing with here is a healthy method of producing larger quantities of farm-harvested fish without any detrimental side effect to wild fisheries. In fact, the larger production of farm salmon will put less of a strain on wild resources. If wildlife is not what you are seeking to protect with your position, I’m not entirely clear what is? The fact of the matter is that the Rijcore Company has created fish that are more efficient to produce with no excess risk or side effects.”

Ryan stared at Alden Harris for a silent moment, only a few distant coughs breaking the silence.

“This discussion isn’t about what people can have for dinner tonight. The argument comes down to a gratuitous exploitation of the very identity of a species for the cause of dollars and cents,” Ryan asserted firmly into the hush. “What happens if and when these fish inevitably escape from their farms? What happens when, with their doubled size and accelerated lifespan, they can outcompete wild fish? As long as these mutated salmon even
exist
, the ecology of our waterways are imperiled on a global scale. Beyond that, the ecological side of my argument doesn’t even bring into question the massive ethical concerns involved in this research. How long until pork, beef, and countless other food sources are mutated to the point of being unrecognizable? Your scientists at the Rijcore Company are ripping apart the natural world, and justifying their insatiable onslaught by stating their products are
nutritional
. It’s madness.”

“You’re throwing so wide a net here, Mr. Craig, that I don’t know where to contest.” Alden Harris shook his head and shrugged in exasperation as Julie Thorne began to walk to the center of the stage.

“Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to end that very appealing discussion there. Some interesting perspectives were brought up, and I thank you both for your time.”

Ryan nodded in thanks to the polite applause that rose from the audience and left the stage as Julie Thorne introduced the next topic. Ryan sat down in front of Devon and rolled the tension out of his shoulders as he grabbed his backpack.

“Unbelievable, man,” Devon whispered over the seat. “Are you leaving?”

Leaning back, Ryan spoke softly so he would not disturb the speakers. Things were not going well for the student. Alden Harris was spewing impassioned declarations over her meek objections. “Yeah, I have to go to class. I’ll call you when I’m out.”

Devon nodded. “Later.”

Ryan slung his backpack over his shoulder and gave a thumbs-up to the rest of the debate team members assembled in the front row. A few returned his gesture, looking encouraged by his efforts against the ironclad lobbyist. He politely navigated through the spectators of the standing room to the side of the audience and out the back of the auditorium, receiving several whispered congratulations and disagreements as he went. Ryan shoved past the double doors into the breeze of the fall afternoon and began descending the pale granite stairs when someone called to him. He turned and saw a young woman exiting the auditorium.

“Hey,” she called in a friendly tone. She trotted down the steps and came to a stop a few above him. “I agreed with what you said in there.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said with a courteous smile. She was good-looking and around his age. Her glasses added an enlightened impression to her thin face, keen green eyes, and slender shoulders. “It’s never easy to take on paid researchers and their prized data with so petty a notion as morality.”

She nodded, her wavy hair pulled back and her manner considerate. “Ethics aren’t quite concrete enough for most of the scientists I’ve worked with. They’d rather work with numbers and figures. But morality scares me, too, considering it comes down to one person’s opinion.”

Ryan laughed in agreement and held out a hand. “Ryan Craig.”

“I remember,” she said. “Kristen Jordan.”

T
he doors to the many nearby halls opened all at once, and the deserted quad filled with students as they departed their early afternoon lectures. A promenade of undergraduates carrying backpacks and hefty textbooks walked across the path below the stairway. Ryan regarded Kristen Jordan amid the bustle.

“I’m getting the impression you’ve worked with many scientists?”

“You could say that.” Kristen smirked wearily and looked over the heads of the Columbia student body. “You hinted in there that researchers aren’t concerned about the repercussions of their technologies. What did you mean by that?”

“Well,” Ryan said. “The dangers of any new technology are self-evident aren’t they?”

Kristen shrugged. “I’m not sure if a technology’s potential danger is ever self-evident. Like any knowledge or tool, a technology is only as dangerous as the people that control it.”

“Well, sure, but technology is a form of power, and from what I’ve seen of the world, power is always a dangerous thing—the wrong minds are always drawn to it. By itself a technology might not be hazardous, but inevitably it will be manipulated by people with a hunger for power, whether that takes the form of money or who knows what else.”

“And the creators?” Kristen asked, her voice hesitant.

“Useful technologies have a nasty way of slipping from their creator’s grasp.” Ryan noticed the shadows under her earnest eyes. “I take it you are a researcher of some kind? Are you a research assistant or a graduate student?”

Ryan stepped aside for a group exiting the auditorium. A quiet moment passed between them.

“Sorry.” Kristen turned to face him, her expression distracted. “I’m a graduate researcher. Genetics.”

“You study genetics? At Columbia?”

Kristen nodded.

“Then,” Ryan paused, eyeing her in doubt. “Do you work with the Vatruvian cell?”

“Yep.”

“Ah, now I see,” Ryan said. Behind this girl’s pretty eyes and amiable disposition had to be genuine genius, a truly gifted mind. He had read somewhere recently that thousands and thousands of people apply each semester to the Vatruvian cell doctorate programs. This girl, Kristen Jordan, was one of the two or three that must have made the cut. Ryan pulled out his cell phone and checked to make sure there was time before his Cultural Anthropology class.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” Ryan asked. “I have class soon, but an opportunity to talk with a Vatruvian cell scientist is too rare to pass up.”

Kristen smiled with a touch of grim humor. “Only on the condition that we don’t talk about the Vatruvian cell. Sorry, but I spend way too much time stewing over that damn microscopic thing these days.”

They descended the stone stairs together and joined the flow of young people heading to the south end of campus. Students in plaid shirts, hooded sweatshirts, sneakers, and blue jeans surrounded Ryan and Kristen. The season was on the cusp of change, and a pleasant bite of chill touched the air. A clean breeze rolled across Manhattan from the west, rustling through the turning leaves overhead and across the meticulously cut lawns.

“So I have to ask,” Ryan said as he sidestepped a brunette blathering into her cell. “Where did you go to undergrad?”

“MIT.”

“And you graduated . . . ?”

“Two years ago with a degree in biology. I’ve been in New York working with Professor Vatruvia since. What year are you?”

“Sophomore.”

Kristen looked up at him casually. “So you’re twenty?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ve got you by a year.”

Ryan slowed his pace momentarily. “Shouldn’t you still be in undergrad?”

“Um.” Kristen gave a small courteous laugh. “Technically speaking, yeah. I skipped more than my fair share of grades back in the day.”

“Right. And you enjoyed being the youngest kid in your high school graduating class?”

“Oh yeah, graduated at sixteen. Nothing like it,” Kristen said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Although I then burned through undergrad in two years, and that was mostly by my own choosing. So I don’t know. I guess on some level I’m hurrying to get somewhere in life.”

“Where?” Ryan asked, noticing the sharp honesty of her words.

Kristen nodded. “Good point.”

“Well, it has clearly worked out for you. Landing a spot researching the Vatruvian cell is a status few can claim.”

“
Creating
the Vatruvian cell—I was on the team before it even had a name. But we had an agreement.” Kristen held up a finger. “No talking about it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Did you spend a lot of time preparing for that debate? I can’t imagine going against a lobbyist in front of that crowd was easy on the nerves.”

“I practically winged it, actually. You heard my position on the matter—it’s not like I needed a lot of data.”

“Mmm,” Kristen said. “Not much raw data behind naturalistic nostalgia.”

Ryan grinned at her as they turned into the walkway leading to one of the campus cafeterias. “The debate team rarely takes up much of my time, unless the subject is something that’s data intensive. For the past week I’ve been writing an essay for the class I’m heading to now. I was up pretty much all night last night putting the finishing touches on it.” Ryan patted his bag, where the twelve pages of the assignment were resting inside a spiral notebook.