Mutant (3 page)

Chapter 2

He felt no rising above his body, no hurtling toward a light, no encountering heavenly figures. Just white explosions inside his skull that, even in his clinically dead state with no pulse or respirations, his brain correctly interpreted as countershocks. And, of course, some idiot was pounding on his chest. Next would come the hose down his throat as they intubated him, he thought, and was right about that as well. What struck him most was how little he cared which way things went. The voices around him, far away yet familiar, all seemed so needlessly frantic.

“. . . get a blood gas . . .”

“. . . give him epi . . .”

“. . . stand clear . . .”

Why were they bothering?

Another white explosion seared through his head.

Then they left him alone.

Either they’d given up or he was successfully resuscitated. As he drifted off, he still didn’t mind which it was.

The next time he awoke, he felt far more a part of this world. He hurt everywhere, but especially in his head and chest. Even before he opened his eyes, his thinking became less scrambled and the doctor in him reflexively took inventory. The general aches, he knew, were from the kick the countershocks had delivered to every single muscle in his body, convulsing each of them through the equivalent of a full workout in a fraction of a second. The pain in his chest he attributed to the combined effect of the electrical discharges and external cardiac massage. A tentative exploration of his head with his fingers found bandages over what at the very least had to be a hematoma, or goose egg, if not an outright laceration.

The movement of his arms set off a cacophony of alarm bells and beeps, and only then did he feel the tug of the various intravenous lines that ran into his arms. He finally got his eyelids working enough to open them and, seeing an achingly familiar face, tried to speak. But his throat seized around the endotracheal tube that was still in his airway, and he convulsed in a paroxysm of choking.

“Daddy?” he heard his son cry, the voice rising in pitch the way it always did when he was frightened, even at the age of thirteen. Just how frightened Steele could tell from the teenager’s use of
Daddy
. The boy hadn’t called him that in years, not since declaring it “too babyish” when he’d turned ten. For an instant the physician was transported back to the happy time when they’d still been pals and had had no idea of the trial that lay ahead for them.

“I’m okay, Chet.” Steele automatically tried to reassure the young man who shared his mother’s features, but the noise that came out of him sounded like a moan sent through a pipe.

A nurse whisked into the curtained cubicle, issuing comforting phrases in his stead while scanning the many blinking readouts and fluorescent green squiggles on the screens amassed around him. The numbers must have met with her approval, because she saw no need to adjust any of their myriad dials and switches. She did, however, reduce the rate of the two IV solutions flowing into his arms. One would be nitroglycerin, the other heparin, Steele knew, recognizing that he now lay in the cardiac care unit.

“The angioplasty went well,” the nurse continued to tell his son. “That’s the passage of a catheter with a balloon on its end into the arteries of your father’s heart. We use this device after a heart attack, when possible, to immediately dilate the obstruction and reestablish a normal blood flow before much injury is done to the cardiac muscle itself. Your father needs rest, and time, but his outlook is good.”

How good? Steele immediately wanted to know, quickly discovering that he had a will to live after all, now that he’d visited death’s door. And which artery had been obstructed? How much of the heart wall damaged? Most important: What remained of its strength to pump? The thought of being subjected to the limits of permanent heart failure, if he even survived, filled him with panicky despair. A single number—the ejection fraction, or force in each heartbeat—would tell him his fate.

But the nurse spoke only to Chet and ignored Steele entirely, as if his being intubated and unable to speak rendered him not even there. He made more moaning noises into his airway and frowned ferociously to indicate his displeasure, but earned a mere pat on the head and a shot of Valium.

As he drifted off, he noticed Chet’s expression switch from alarm to the angry belligerence that had become all too common whenever the two of them were in the same room.

The nurse noticed the shift in the boy as well. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you not understand? I just told you that he had a good prognosis.”

“That’s what
he
used to say all the time about my mother,” his son answered accusingly just before Steele felt the sedation take full effect and catapult him into darkness.

That same evening a dozen reporters—and representatives from twice as many environmental groups—packed the boardroom at Agrenomics International, a research facility located north of White Plains, New York.

“And so to conclude, let us enter the millennium as partners,” said Bob Morgan, the chief executive officer. “I offer you this new facility as evidence of our profound desire to use genetic technology in a responsible and beneficial way.” He threw his arms wide as if to embrace those seated on each side of the table in a group hug. He heard a few groans but ignored them. Instead he gestured to a row of technicians standing behind him in lab coats with the Agrenomics insignia above their breast pockets. “After you’ve pried up the floorboards and stormed our Frankenstein lab—” He paused for the laughter. None came. Shrugging with a good-natured show of humility, he continued. “—I assure you the snacks we’ll be serving later will be better than my jokes.”

This time there were a few polite chuckles as people pushed back their chairs, gathering up their notepads or tape recorders, and shouldered their cameras.

Morgan, a man of medium build possessing a high clear brow and thriving waves of curly brown hair, had just begun to heave a sigh of relief over his having ducked a rough ride from his “guests” when the person in the room whom he most feared piped up, “Will our cookies and milk be genetically modified, Mr. Morgan?”

This got a loud round of laughter as Morgan bristled.

The handsome woman asking the question had close-cut auburn hair verging on gold, appeared to be in her late thirties, and, he knew, had done more to popularize genetics in books and on TV than anyone in her field. He would even have found the trace of an Irish lilt in her voice a delight to listen to, if it weren’t for his foreboding sense that she intended to rip him apart with her razor-sharp mind. He chose his words of reply carefully, all too aware that she had a nationwide following and that on matters of science, he couldn’t match her. “Really, Dr. Sullivan, we simply hired the best caterer we could find. I know I’m going to have some—”

“That’s hardly the point, Mr. Morgan. I’m sure we’d all like to ‘have some.’ I simply want to know if it’s genetically modified or not. Can you tell me that?”

“I couldn’t say, Dr. Sullivan, but I don’t see the point of you making an issue of the food we’re serving at a reception—”

“But this is exactly the point, Mr. Morgan. Not you or anyone else can tell whether the food we’re eating in America is genetically modified, because it’s not labeled.”

By now all the reporters in the room had their cameras and microphones pointed at the two of them.

Silently cursing her and feeling the sweat break out on his brow under the glare of the lights, as calmly as possible he slowly gave the answer he’d always resorted to in such confrontations. “There is no scientific evidence that eating genetically modified foods has ever harmed anyone.”

His adversary rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she were about to say
Pleeease!
Instead she flashed a disarmingly beautiful smile and said to the camera, “No evidence of harm is not evidence of no harm.”

He wanted to throttle her.

Sullivan gave him no time to reply. “And what will the guides on your tour be telling us about the infectious strands of naked DNA which you use to make vectors?” She turned to the people with the microphones and cameras. “Vectors are the carriers of genetic engineering,” she explained, “used to transport the genes from one species and incorporate them into the genetic structure of another.”

“
Infectious
is an awfully strong word, Doctor. There have been no proven dangers of naked DNA to date—”

“No, but there have been some alarming studies that raise very troubling questions,” interrupted Sullivan, reaching into her briefcase and pulling out a stack of printouts about an inch thick. Laying them on the table and fanning them out like a deck of cards, Sullivan turned again to the reporters who’d been lapping up the spat, their lips pulled back from their teeth the way sharks grin just before they attack. “Here is a collation of recent research which proposes questions you should be putting to the technicians and scientists whom you will meet in this facility. And keep in mind that genetic engineers make a key assumption as they put a gene from one species into the DNA of another—that once it’s inserted a particular gene will act in the way it always has in its natural host. Some recent work shows that this is not so. How a gene behaves depends on its context amongst other genes, and we are mixing genes that have never been together since the beginnings of life.” She then pulled a few individual articles from the pack, handing them to those nearest to her. “These cover the five most contentious issues to date. One outlines the impact of feeding genetically modified potatoes to lab rats—a subsequent weight loss and increased immune response. The scientist who published the report ended up being fired by the laboratory he worked for. Incredibly, despite even his critics calling for subsequent studies, no follow-up work has been done to date.” She held up a second article. “This offers evidence that when an organism is genetically modified by the DNA of another species, the viruses, bacteria, and parasites in that organism are modified as well. The findings raise the possibility that these hitchhiker bugs, now carrying the DNA of synthetic vectors designed to jump the species barrier, may acquire new virulence, even the capacity to invade new species. The consequence could be diseases peculiar to one species of plant or animal becoming prone to leap the existing barriers which normally keep those diseases from occurring in other species, such as man. When this jump has previously occurred in nature, the results are usually catastrophic. I remind you, the Spanish flu epidemic in 1918 that killed twenty-one million people may have arisen from a virus normally found in swine, and the origin of AIDS in man is a simian, or monkey virus which vaulted the species barrier, probably in the 1930s, killing fifteen million so far. More recently the ‘bird flu’ strain of influenza has appeared in humans—”

“Really, Dr. Sullivan, you’re being outrageous!” interrupted Morgan, his face flushed with anger. “You presume to hijack our attempt to show responsible behavior in our pursuit of bringing the benefits of genetics to humankind in a safe—”

“Oh, don’t you be telling me about the benefits of genetics,
Mr.
Morgan,” she protested in her full Irish brogue, flashing her thousand-watt smile once more at her audience and finessing her emphasis on the
Mr.
with a playful wink.

Laughter filled the room.

You bitch! he silently cursed, fuming at her snide way of reminding everyone that he couldn’t claim to be a doctor of anything.

“Dr. Sullivan,” called out one of the reporters. “You alleged that these naked DNA vectors are infectious. Could you elaborate on that, please?”

“Of course. It’s the third issue I’m coming to,” she continued, ignoring Morgan, who blustered helplessly at his end of the table, “and in my mind the most contentious of all—the ongoing effects of naked DNA vectors
after
they’ve been used in the process of gene insertion which I alluded to earlier.”

“Now wait a minute,” the flustered CEO managed to spit out. “I insist all of you remember that you are here as our guests, and as such should respect
our
agenda!”

No one in the room paid him the slightest attention, least of all Kathleen Sullivan. His employees, still all in a row behind him, looked nervously at him and at one another, appearing uncertain of what to do.

“When genetic engineers make a vector,” she continued, “they first combine the gene they wish to transfer with strands of DNA from viruses or bacteria adept at invading the targeted host, or intended recipient of the transfer.” She spoke quickly, obviously aware that her stay could be cut short. “They construct these carriers, or vectors, not only to assure invasion of the host organism and insertion of the gene into its DNA, but also to include bits of what we call promoter DNA, a segment which maximizes expression of the gene in its new host, thereby guaranteeing the appearance of whatever trait it carries.” She collected another group of papers from the table and began to deal them out. “This one suggests how naked strands of these man-made DNA vectors can subsequently escape intact from the host into the environment as the result of cell death, excretion, or secretion.” She passed out another article. “We all once thought that these discarded entities were inert unless they were within a living cell or virus and that they would quickly break down once exposed to the elements. Here is recent evidence to the contrary, showing that they can exist much longer in soil than previously expected.” She proffered a third batch of documents. “Other research indicates that they in themselves have the capacity to infect species other than their intended host and incorporate their DNA into the genes of accidental targets. Outlined in these pages is a single study which demonstrates that vectors have found their way from the gut of laboratory mice into their liver, spleen, and reproductive organs. I think you’ll find it a particularly disturbing read, and the obvious question—could the same thing happen in humans—has never been looked at.”