The Athena Factor (48 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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Dear God, I hope this was a good idea.
Setting foot aboard that ship went against every instinct. He reached down for the handles on his locked plastic case.
Sheela looked pale despite her makeup and brown wig. She gave him an uncertain smile, as if the reality of what she had plunged them into was dropping home like an anvil.
“This is going to be interesting,” Sid muttered. He'd been on the verge of seasickness for most of the trip.
The launch rose and fell, rubbing on fenders as it came to rest beside the lowered landing. While the huge bulk of the ship blocked the prevailing wind and the swells, it still appeared dubious to Sid.
“If you'll each just wait until the surfaces match,” one of the deckhands said, “we'll have you step right across.”
Lymon met Sheela's wide-eyed stare with an encouraging smile. “Want to go back now?”
She shook her head too fast. “See it through.”
“It's your call.”
They watched as one by one the other passengers climbed up, held the handrails, and easily stepped across. After the two pregnant women, Sheela took her turn, stepping across as the launch rose. One of the
ZoeGen
's crew women steadied her hand, then gestured her up the short set of steps to the hatch.
Lymon tightened his grip on the black plastic case, climbed up, and smoothly stepped across, declining the young woman's hand. He turned back, calling, “It's easy.”
“What if I miss?” Sid replied.
“The water's only a thousand feet deep here. You'll have lots of time to think about it on the way to the bottom. And once you're there, it'll be so dark you won't be able to see just how bad your situation really is.”
“Asshole!”
Lymon climbed the steps, his case in hand, and glanced back just in time to see Sid scurry from the launch's deck to the platform.
The corridor that Lymon entered might have been a hallway at the Four Seasons. Sheela was waiting beside a uniformed crewman—a smiling young man this time. He wore a neat blue jacket with brass buttons, white pressed pants, and held his hands clasped before him. His name tag read PETER.
The young man was saying, “Everything is ready, Ms. Weaver. As soon as you wish, we can proceed to your quarters and get you settled in.”
“The luggage?” Lymon asked.
“That will be delivered by our staff. Would you like me to take that case for you, sir?”
“Thanks, but this is my responsibility.” He gave Peter a
You know how it is
smile.
“Thank God! This thing doesn't move.” Sid came barging in, muttering under his breath and looking green. Lymon noticed that perspiration was beading on his forehead.
“He's the last of our party,” Sheela said in her irritated Jennifer tone. “We can go now.”
Lymon took up station behind and to Sheela's right. Sid, not knowing the drill—or too close to puking—just followed along behind. Lymon could hear him sucking great gulps of air. Sometimes even that helped.
Despite the opulent nature of the corridor they followed, Lymon noted that small security cameras had been tastefully incorporated into the decor. Which got him to thinking: What if they had to get out of here in a hurry? A knot was pulling tight in his gut.
“You going to be any good if we land in the shit?” Lymon muttered over his shoulder.
“Point me in the right direction,” Sid mumbled, “and I'll throw up all over them.”
They entered a wood-paneled lift trimmed in polished brass. Sheela was fidgeting around in her purse, muttering, “My compact. God, I didn't forget my compact!”
“We have a well-stocked commissary,” the steward told her. “And the launch makes several round trips each day. Feel free to contact me if you need anything at all.” He gave them a professional smile. “Some of our clients have been known to charter a helicopter just to go to dinner ashore.”
Lymon kept his face straight as Sheela stopped her rooting and glanced up. “What? You don't have food?” she asked.
“Oh, we have a gourmet chef and a full kitchen. Your people even approved a menu for your stay. Once you're settled, we can go over it. If there are any changes you would like to make, we'll be happy to accommodate them.”
The lift opened and Lymon stepped out, checking the corridor. He made way for Sheela, glaring at Sid, who was still sentient enough to realize Lymon was trying to tell him something. With a hand signal Lymon put him into position as they started down an even fancier hallway, the wood here looking like teak. The polish was so deep he could see his reflection.
“This will be your quarters for the next week,” the steward said as he stopped before a door on the left and opened it. Lymon followed Sheela inside and promptly stepped around her, surveying the room. This was the only advance he was going to get.
The place was large, airy, perhaps twenty by thirty feet with a ten-foot ceiling paneled in skylights framed by thick black timbers. The furniture looked Victorian, with polished wood and expensive fabric. Concessions to the twenty-first century included a big-screen home theater unit as sophisticated as Sheela's own dominating one wall. A computer desk stood in one corner with a monitor, keyboard, and fax/printer looking like they'd just been lifted out of a corporate office. A cordless phone sat in its cradle. Where the floor was exposed beyond the thick red carpet, it was waxed
wood. Two large picture windows filled the opposite wall, and a weather door let out onto a spacious balcony. Lymon checked the door, leaving it for later. He walked across the suite, noting the ornate wet bar in the corner, and opened the corner door that accessed the bedroom. Behind him the steward began explaining the bar's capabilities and demonstrating the refrigerator and microwave to Sheela.
Lymon found a king-sized bed atop a boxed frame. Another phone rested on the nightstand along with a TV remote for the plasma screen on the far wall. An alcove to the right was fitted out with a settee that allowed its occupant to stare out over the ocean through a huge glass window. In the bedroom, Lymon quickly went through the built-in dresser drawers, checked the nightstands, and stepped into the spacious bathroom. He found white marble tiling and counters, golden faucets, a whirlpool tub, and a glassed-in shower. A gleaming toilet stood next to the bidet. The towels were clean and perfectly folded, and the toilet paper was full in the gold-plated holder.
A quick look over the place showed nothing amiss. But, as Anaya would have said, his whiskers were vibrating. It looked like any of the luxury suites Sheela had occupied around the world. Why then, did he have this uneasy feeling of hidden threat?
He walked back through to the main room and found the steward involved in teaching Sheela the intricacies of the TV remote control.
Sid was out on the balcony. Lymon stepped out, looking around. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” Sid had leaned on the rounded steel of the railing. “Funny, looking at the ocean doesn't bother me from up here.”
“Glad you're recovering. You're not acting up to snuff for the security business.” He looked around, taking in the deck chairs and tables. Looking over the side, he found a straight drop down to the ocean, what, eighty feet below? Leaning out, he could see that another balcony was below, while a deck railing appeared to be just above.
“Nice digs.” Sid stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around.
“Come on. You're going to learn the security business.”
Lymon led the way back in and managed to catch the steward's attention. “Excuse me, Peter, could we have a quick word with you?”
“Sure.” The steward stepped over while Sheela was stabbing at the remote. Headline News was playing.
Lymon gave the man his best smile. “Could you contact your head of security and set up an appointment as soon as possible? We'd also like a map of the ship, something detailing the various decks and corridors, with escape routes, directions to the dining room, and other venues highlighted. We need to know the location of the closest lifeboats, personal flotation devices, medical facilities, fire extinguishers, and first aid kits. I'd also like a list of shipboard contacts for emergencies, phone numbers for medical personnel, security, your equivalent of a concierge, and room service. We would like a schedule of Ms. Weaver's planned activities and a schematic of where they are to take place. If you could provide us with a list of other guests aboard, and their security personnel, I would be happy to meet—”
“Whoa!” The steward threw his hands up. “I'll have Neal Gray, our head of security, contact you as soon as he can”
“Thanks.” Lymon backed off, slipping the steward a fifty-dollar bill.
Sid had taken that in, wide-eyed. He followed Lymon over to the wet bar in the corner. As Lymon began sorting through the stock of drinks, snacks, and accessories, Sid whispered, “A fifty? Are you nuts?”
Lymon gave him a subtle grin as he continued his inspection, making sure the packaging hadn't been tampered with and that the bottles still had their factory seals. “It's cheap at twice the price. If I have to ask this guy for a box of Cracker Jack, he's going to move mountains to find it for me.”
“He'd have probably done it for ten.”
“Maybe.” Lymon shrugged. “If we were lodging on D Deck downstairs. But up here on B Deck we might just end up needing more than Cracker Jack before we're out of here. You get my drift?”
“Uh, maybe.”
“What if She … Ms. Weaver decides at three in the
morning that she wants to blow this berg? How much cooperation am I going to get from Pete?”
“Right. You get what you pay for. I'm starting to catch on. So, what's next?”
“I want you to go over this room carefully. See what's here. Memorize this suite and then we'll take a walk and learn our way around. You need to be familiar enough with the ship that you can find your way around in an emergency without floundering.”
Pete had taken Sheela on a tour of the bedroom.
“Our job,” Lymon continued, “is to be ready for any contingency. Normally we figure this out in advance, meeting the people, touring the facilities, and learning the picky little details. The rule here is that we hurry a little harder since we're behind.” He dropped his voice. “And you defer to any of
Ms. Weaver's
demands.”
“Right,” Sid said, catching on. He still didn't look fit, but at least his mind was working again. “What's your initial take, boss?”
“Look around. Something's not right about this place.”
“Yeah, I'm starting to think that, too.”
“Good. Think of it as a crime scene, Sid. Look this place over with the same care you would use at the scene of a triple homicide.”
“Got it. I just hope you're not being prophetic.”
U
sing Nancy Hartlee's nanotechnology always delighted Gregor McEwan. He'd tried to score with the lady in the first couple of months after she'd been brought to Yemen. Back in those days, before the
ZoeGen,
they'd been a small, tightly bound nucleus of brainpower stuck on the edge of the Arabian desert. A camaraderie had built among them, and despite the reality of their incarceration, it had
been a period of incredible cross-fertilization of ideas, theories, and conceptual applications.
He and Nancy had hit it off, at least until she began to grasp just how brilliant he really was. Perhaps if she'd stuck with him instead of walking out, she'd be sharing in the glory. Instead, Nancy Hartlee was dead and buried, while no less than fifteen of her little clones were spread here and there around the world. Several had been placed in scientific-oriented families to see if her doppelgangers developed the same keen brain. That was one of the fascinating things: seeing how the duplicates developed. Talk about a laboratory for behavioral genetics!
Gregor concentrated on the image projected on the screen. His fingers turned the knobs that manipulated the nanoscalpel, the cellular dam, and pipette. In the pale green image, the cell appeared something like a translucent jellyfish. The oocyte's organelles were defined by diffracted infrared light to minimize cellular photosensitivity. The photons in turn were intensified and converted into the screen image.
The nanoscalpel methodically slit the structures of the cellular wall, and Gregor turned the knob that directed the nanodam into place. Another of Nancy's inventions, it kept the cytoplasm from sagging and losing its integrity. To date, he was the only person who insisted on calling it a speculum. Well, it was an egg, wasn't it?
Using the nanodam he eased the cytoplasm aside and made another incision through the layers of the endoplasmic reticulum. In many ways, this was the trickiest part. The ER, as they called it, had the same qualities as corrugated paper, and was just about as delicate. If too much pressure was applied, it could fold up on itself, destroying its integrity and damaging the cell's ability to function. The ER had to be eased open to expose the nuclear membrane before inserting the nanodam. Doing so was more of an art than a science, and over the years, Gregor had developed a feel for the equipment that remained unmatched, although Ibrahim was getting close.
Finally, he had the nucleus exposed. On the screen, he used a grease pencil to mark location of the nucleolus in relation to the centrioles, the poles to which the chromosomes attached for meiotic division. Only then did he insert the micropipette to the nuclear wall. Applying light suction, he turned the nucleus, watching it move in relation to the centrioles. Reaching out on the control board, Gregor changed the image perspective to the rear. With a dial he inserted a nanopipette to the backside of the nuclear membrane. Then, as he began retraction of the nucleus through the incision, he slowly pumped purified, anaerobic, neutral pH water into the space created by the retreating nucleus.
Having successfully extracted the nucleus, he retracted it and spun the controls that brought the replacement into position. This he eased forward into the incision and, encountering the water-filled nuclear cavity, reversed suction, allowing vacuum to pull the new nucleus into the cavity. All that remained was to spin the nucleus so that its orientation with the centrioles was as close to the original's as the new nuclear morphology would allow.
Gregor smiled with a delighted sense of satisfaction when he withdrew the pipettes and nanodam. Changing the angle on the screen, he compared the images. The organelles near the incision had a three percent variation from their original location.
Gregor rolled his chair back from the control panel and jotted his observations and procedures into the master notebook. Under the bottom, he wrote the word SUCCESSFUL! and underlined it twice. All the oocyte needed now was a dash of PLCs and a nutrient-rich uterine wall to stick to.
“Sir?” Ibrahim said, leaning into the room. “Something has come up that we think you should see.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, sir.” Ibrahim was in his late twenties, darker than the rest of the Sheik's kin, with a profound brain. He was the most adept of the trainees, and Gregor's personal favorite. “It is either a most remarkable coincidence, or someone has done something very wrong.”
 
 
BBC World News was playing on the lounge television. Christal sat on one of the couches, her right leg pulled up, a magazine in her hands. Had she been asked, she couldn't have said what had been on the news, nor could she have even named the magazine in her slim brown fingers. Instead, she stared absently across the empty room, running the events of the morning through her mind.
Movement at the corner of her eye caused her to stir. Brian Everly had leaned his head in. “There you are! Missed you in the cafeteria. Hungry?”
She smiled, and felt it slip away. “No. But I probably ought to eat.”
He had stepped into the room. “What? New clothes? Don't tell me you made a trip to the QVC in Sydney for a little shopping while I wasn't looking?”
She closed the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her. “No. I had a little adventure this morning. Copperhead came to take me upstairs—allegedly for a meeting, but I'm not so sure anymore.”
“Copperhead?”
“April Hayes.”
“Ah?” He stepped around the coffee table and seated himself at the far end of the couch. “How much did they offer, and for what?”
“Two hundred thousand to drop any charges and keep my mouth shut.”
He wove his fingers together. “You going to take it?”
“How the hell do I know?” The worry that had been churning in her gut rose to the surface. “What are my options, Brian? If I say no, do you think they're going to let me spend the rest of my life down here eating their food, taking up space, and being a security risk?”
“Then take it and be glad.” He stared down at his hands. “But if you do, Christal, don't ever ever say a word. Not to anyone. Not ever.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “You think they'd really do it? Pay me and let me go?”
He gave her a weary smile. “For whatever reason, they'd rather have you outside and mum, rather than dead.”
“Copperhead said that they'd rather pay now than later. I can understand that. People will begin asking questions when I don't reappear. I left them some information, you see. And I'd had run-ins with Copperhead that involved the police. That's a lot of loose ends.”
“Take it, Christal.”
She turned suspicious eyes on him. “Why, Brian? You part of this?”
The weary smile deepened. “I'd expect smarter questions from a woman as bright as you, Christal Anaya, but no, not in the way you think.”
“How, then?” Why hadn't she noticed what a handsome man he was? She liked the gentle concern in his odd pale eyes, the easy way that he sat. Something about him made her feel comfortable when she was in his presence.
“Because I'd rather have you safe.”
It was the tone in his voice, the way he managed to shyly avoid her eyes.
“Gallantry?”
The faintest of shrugs lifted his shoulders. Then he laughed at himself and sat forward to rub his hands together. They were muscular hands, eminently male, veined, with strong tendons.
“I might even go with you.”
“What?” She tried to see past the careful expression on his face.
“I've never had a reason to join them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I've been here for five years.” He turned sad eyes on her. “They took me out of my car and stole me away from my life. They locked me up here and put me to work, making sure I knew that I either produced, or they would destroy me. I watched colleagues wither and die in this place. Here, and at the lab in Yemen, we rewrote the rules. We changed the bloody world as it hasn't been changed
since the first atomic bomb detonated in your New Mexico.”
He gestured toward the BBC anchorwoman who talked so thoughtfully into the camera. “They don't understand. Nothing's the same. Within thirty years, people will be ordering their children like they do motor cars.”
“Come on.”
Ironic humor tugged at his lips. “Color is one of the easier options: white, brown, or black? We also mix and match for any shade in-between. We have a special on eyes this month. Personally, I like yours. Oh, right! Then we have strength. Do you want fast or slow muscle?”
“Huh?”
“By programming for a preponderance of slow myosin—that's one of the contractive muscle proteins—we can make your child a world-class weightlifter. If you want a sprinter, we can change the DNA to produce fast Two-a and Two-x myosins. You, incidentally, have a preponderance of slow myosin. You're better at endurance over the long run. I'd like the chance to test that out one of these days.”
“That's a joke, right? About the muscles, I mean.”
“Sorry. Fact is, it's one of the simple qualities we can tailor into your child. Other things, like resistance to a communicable disease, get a bit more dicey. Something that people don't understand is that in nature, everything becomes a trade-off. If we tinker with the immunogenetics to build a resistance to certain gram-negative streptococcal bacteria on one hand, we increase susceptibility to infectious bacilli on the other. What is taken in one place, must be given back somewhere else.”
“Good God, you're not joking.”
“You, my dear Christal, have a susceptibility to multiple sclerosis. I'm not saying that you're going to get it—odds are that you won't—but with the right preconditions, the proper viral vector, and a stressed immune system, you could. It's because of a protein inconsistency in the myelin sheath in your nerves. It's easily fixable so that your descendants won't have it.”
She shifted, tensing. “You found that in that sample of mine you've been working on?”
He glanced away again. “We fixed your disposition to osteoarthritis, too. It was a simple base-pair substitution that will add elasticity to the hyaline cartilage. On the other hand, I did nothing to change your sebaceous and maxillary glands.”
“Huh?”
“I like the way you smell, Anaya.”
“¡Madre de Dios!”
“Sorry, I guess I shouldn't have said that”
She reached out, laying a slim hand on his arm. “I'm a little stunned is all. Talk about Alice through the looking glass! One minute I'm running an investigation in LA and the next I'm talking to the Cheshire cat.” She shook her head. “I don't understand. These things you're doing? Stealing DNA, changing it? Curing diseases and selling babies? My God, how come no one is screaming their head off? Where's the Church? What's the Pope say? Where's the righteous indignation of the president, the senators, and Congress?
Why
doesn't anybody care?”
“Easy, Anaya.” He reached, out and caught the balled fist she was clenching.
She stared angrily into his eyes. “Well?”
He gave a paternal smile that soothed some of the ruffle in her feathers. “You know Senator Baber? The one on the Senate ethics committee?”
“Tennessee, right?”
“I think so. He was herelast year.”
“hush?”
“We cloned a new prostate for him. His old one was enlarged and precancerous. The story I heard was that he'd rather have a new one than lose his sexual potency.”
“Cloned a new prostate? Wait a minute! Nobody transplants prostates!”
“At Genesis Athena we do. He had to fly to Yemen for the procedure.”
“Sexual potency? He's sixty!”
“The young lady accompanying him—I think he called her a ‘staffer'—wasn't nearly that old.” His smile widened. “If you'll recall, Baber's wife died of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. You would know that better as Lou Gehrig's disease. It's
not a pretty way to go, and it tore Baber apart So, at the same time we implanted his new prostate, we did a simple gene scan on his daughter, Marissa. On her twenty-first chromosome we found a missense mutation at the q22.1 location—a SOD1 condition for the autosomal dominant trait”
“That's not English,” Christal objected.
“Oh, yes, right. Sorry. It means she got the ALS gene from her mother and it would override its allele. That's the functioning gene from her father's chromosome. In short, she was perhaps five years from the onset of the disease, so we ran a gene therapy, using a tailored viral vector to replace the malfunctioning gene. As time passes, the inserted gene will produce enough enzymes to break down the toxins that cause ALS. Baber won't have to watch his daughter die in agony the way his wife did.”

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