“Your mother,” Feld said. “Kills two hundred million people, wrecks an entire field of science—and with it my life’s work—then fakes her own death just for another chance to step back up to the plate and swing even harder.” He sighed, gathering himself. “So this upgrade works?”
“It works on some.”
“How did she achieve this?”
“No idea, but if I had to guess? She ran her Story of You biodata through an exascale processor.”
“Yes, of course.” His eyes lit up, and I caught a glimpse of the scientist behind the criminal. “She had the data set. Probably built an algorithm to reverse-engineer DNA code from the physical attributes of her customers. Wow. She really did it. Actually built a program to extrapolate genotype from phenotype.” I watched him thinking it through. “People can lie on a questionnaire. She probably designed spiders to scrape public records and compare death certificates. Social media. Hack a few insurance companies and compare her data to their medical records. Get a reasonable confidence ratio.” There was jealousy behind his glee.
“My sister is going to release my mother’s upgrade.”
“How?”
“A transmissible, asymptomatic virus.”
“What’s the R-naught?”
“Almost nine.”
Feld shook his head, impressed. “Interesting times ahead.”
“I need a lab.”
He shrugged. “Think stopping her is really worth the trouble?” For a fraction of a second, I saw the bottomless well of grief in his eyes. “We’re going down, Logan. It’s too late to bail water. Not that we ever really tried. And there are no lifeboats. Live like the world is ending, because it is.” He stared at me for a moment. “I didn’t change your mind, did I?”
“No.”
“Well,” he said, looking down at the dead men. “I guess mi casa, su casa.”
* * *
—
The primary lab took up several thousand square feet in the corner of the old Walmart—the walls lined with servers and an array of DNA printing machines.
Feld showed me to a 3D interface gene station, logged me into their system, and left me to play.
Using the follicle I’d pulled from Kara’s hairbrush, my custom program had completed a comparative functional analysis between my genome and hers. She had targeted select genes in her DNA, further modifying their expression far beyond the thresholds set by our mother’s initial upgrade—primarily those gene network systems that controlled concentration, pattern recognition, and general cognition.
I uploaded Kara’s new genome analysis to Feld’s AI interface, which quickly collated a hit list of modifications and the corresponding target organs and gene systems.
If I wanted a chance at stopping Kara, I would have to ramp up my abilities to, or beyond, her level. She could’ve gently made the modifications, one by one, over a period of months. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time. Whatever I came up with would have to be fast and dirty.
But I had an idea, because everything I had ever read or learned about genetic engineering was now at my fingertips.
For most of our genes and regulatory sequences, we have two copies. My mother’s primary upgrade had kept to nature’s plan, modifying only one copy of the gene. But modifying both, also known as increasing gene dosage, was a proven brute-force method for upping phenotypical expression—albeit a risky one. For instance, a 50 percent increase in gene dosage on chromosome 21q altered the timing, pattern, and extent of development, creating the genetic disorder known as Down syndrome.
To match what Kara had done, and quickly, I would double down on many of my already modified genes by also activating the silent copy for maximal expression—a very coarse kick to a delicately balanced system.
I caught a few hours of sleep in the Sprinter when I could. Occasionally, Feld’s cell biologists and virologists would wander over to see what I was up to, but I kept my head down, engaging as little as possible.
Using DNA forges, I ordered up a half dozen different DNA minicircles, each one a self-contained, self-replicating delivery vector for a specific set of genes and instructions.
On day three, I uploaded the raw genetic sequences and put Feld’s DNA forges and assembly array to work creating DNA to order in precise amounts and purity, with everything I needed rendered fully chemically synthesized.
But I still needed a delivery method, something that would integrate into my system much faster than the viral vector that our mother had used to deliver the first upgrade and that Kara had used for her second one. I needed something that would take my mixture of DNA sequences and minigenes and blast the new DNA into my poor, overstretched cells.
I’d been working nonstop for twenty-two hours.
Leaving the workstation, I took a stroll down the pillaged aisles of what had been the sporting goods section.
An article came to mind. I’d read it fifteen years ago on a supersonic flight from D.C. to Los Angeles, only half comprehending it at the time. Now it was perfectly preserved in my mind.
The article examined the benefits and drawbacks of various gene-delivery methods, one of which was via hydrodynamic force—a technique that used pressurized injection of a large volume of DNA to essentially blast a gene package through cell walls via osmatic shock, and permeate the body with great efficiency. Hydrodynamic force wasn’t easy on the recipient, but for a quick and dirty delivery method of the systemic changes I needed, it was hard to beat.
In addition to injecting myself, I’d also need a specialized delivery system to cross the blood-brain barrier and effect the changes to my brain. Something fast and delicate. For that, I’d fabricate nanoparticles to house my gene packages, which would go straight to my brain via inhaler.
When I told Feld what I was doing, he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“There are more fun ways to kill yourself than catastrophic organ failure.”
“You got a better idea for fast delivery?” I asked.
He didn’t.
* * *
—
Six days after my arrival, I shook Feld’s hand at the edge of the loading bay and thanked him for his hospitality, for which I had given him no choice.
“You’re toast if you do this. You know that, right? The human body cannot withstand what you’re about to put it through.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“I’m still going to wish you luck. Remember that I helped you.”
“After you tried to have me killed. Twice.”
“Yeah. Only twice.” As he smiled, I hopped down from the loading bay and started across the sunbaked pavement toward my Sprinter.
* * *
—
I was running out of time to find Kara, so for the first time since establishing my new identity, I decided to fly.
Twelve minutes after takeoff from Harry Reid International, we leveled off at 95,000 feet. It was an eighty-seater Boeing, and though the ramjets propelled us at a mile per second, there was no sense of movement until I looked down and saw the old-school supersonic jets seven miles below, and the older-school subsonic jets another four miles below them. They all seemed to be racing backward.
I watched the curvature of the Earth—the fragile blue mist of atmosphere transitioning into the black void of space.