by Ian Young
‘I don’t think we’ll have to,’ said Jim, peering closely at the screen. ‘This isn’t organic DNA.’
‘What other kind of DNA is there?’ said Howie, irritably.
‘Look at these strands.’ Jim used his pen to point at the monitor. ‘They’re way too short for organic DNA. You couldn’t code a redneck from strands that short.’
Howie was doing his old man stare again, gawping at the screen as though Fox were re-running The Simpsons instead of his favourite show.
‘So what is it?’
‘It’s synthetic DNA,’ said Jim. ‘My guess is DNA storage.’
‘Storage?’ I felt my face pulling into the same expression as Howie’s, so gave it a quick rub with both hands.
‘It’s a new idea. There are several institutes and companies out there racing to perfect the idea of using DNA as a long-term storage medium of all types of data.’
‘Define long-term,’ said Howie.
‘Millions of years. I’d say that someone’s perfected it right here in this little ball.’
I felt my own confirmation bias kicking in now because this sounded far more likely. ‘So what you’re saying is this is some kind of futuristic flash drive?’
‘With the emphasis on the futuristic. No one has advanced the technique sufficiently to encode this much DNA.’ Jim expanded the range of the microscope and waved his pen around. ‘Look at them, there must be billions of DNA strands in there.’
‘Shit.’ Howie lengthened the word as though he were actually sat on the toilet doing … well, never mind. ‘So how we going to decode it?’
‘I’ll make some calls. You need specialist kit to unravel data stored in DNA strands.’
It took only a few moments on Google to establish that the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology had pioneered an efficient way of decoding DNA binary strings. The phone call had been brief; the Zurich-based institute had priced itself way over our budget.
By now, Howie was fidgeting like a man with eczema. ‘Damn it,’ he said, pulling his lips into a thin split. ‘We must be able to sequence DNA right here in the university. I’ll call Seth Suter.’
We traipsed down to the Biology Department and spent the rest of the afternoon with a long-haired lab-rat from Wisconsin.
Seth Stuter took his glasses off and placed them on the desk before him. His face, more pasty than it had been when we first arrived three hours earlier, looked as though he was about to read the last will and testament to some bereaved relatives.
‘The problem with decoding DNA,’ he said, ‘is knowing how the DNA was coded in the first place.’
Howie looked puzzled. ‘It’s DNA, right?’
‘I guess.’ Seth shrugged as though he were involved in a different conversation.
‘So …’ Howie frowned at the lab guy. ‘So, we can decode it like any other strand of DNA.’
‘Yeah. And no,’ said Seth. ‘Data is encoded into the four bases of the DNA using a specific sequence, a bit like a Cold War cypher machine.’
‘What the hell, Jim?’ said Howie, stomping round the lab like a he was rowing with his wife. Did he row with her?
‘Maybe I can decode a short sequence, you know, look for patterns. It’s not wartime so maybe whoever coded it had nothing to hide.’
‘Right.’ Howie stopped pacing and approached Seth. ‘Give it go, how long do you need?’
‘I think you’ve got time for coffee.’
‘I’m gonna go, Howie,’ I said. ‘Seth’ll be hours and I really need to shower.’
‘Just stay with me a while, honey. We’re on the brink, here.’
‘I’ll be back, promise.’ That started out as a false promise, but the thought of Mason turning up at my door – me answering it wrapped in a towel, drying my hair – made my cheeks burn. Was going home now such a good idea?
‘You OK, honey?’
‘What? Sure. You know what? Let’s go get that coffee.’ Yes, that was a better idea.
It was early evening when we got back to the lab. As we strolled through the door, Seth held our gaze for two or three seconds.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked, conscious that we might have taken advantage of the poor guy.
‘What you got yourself here,’ he said mournfully, ‘is a record of civilisation.’
‘You’ve cracked it?’ said Howie, turning his stroll into a scamper.
‘Yeah, it was pretty simple. The coder wanted this to be discovered.’
Howie lifted himself up on his toes several times like a kid in a toy store. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Well,’ began Seth, putting his glasses back on and peering at his notes. ‘Take a look.’
Seth handed Howie a printout. ‘I fed the binary code of one sequence into the computer and this is what it came up with.’
Howie scanned through the pages. I leant into him and took a look too. There were pictures of animals, familiar animals, some extant, some that haven’t been around for thousands of years, and many I didn’t recognise.
‘What’s that?’ I said, pointing at something clearly prehistoric.
‘Some kind of dinosaur’s my guess,’ said Howie. His voice told everything. This wasn’t from outer space’ these were all our animals, and if proof was needed it came with the next page turn.
‘Shit!’ Howie threw down the file and stomped over to a chair. ‘What a crock of shit.’
I stared at the diagram of the Vitruvian Man, the famous image drawn by Leonardo da Vinci five hundred years ago, showing the proportions of the human form by depicting a man spread-eagled inside a circle. Maybe now we could get on with our lives. But then the thought of Mason arriving on my doorstop gave me a frisson in my belly. How would he take the news that our mysterious ball isn’t actually that mysterious? Interesting, he would say, no doubt.
‘Never mind, Howie,’ I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. ‘I did try to warn you.’
‘Sure, honey, sure.’ Howie held his head in his hand. I supposed he was unlikely to give ‘us’ some thought any time soon. Just as well, probably.
‘Do you mind telling me what you expected?’ asked Seth, looking bland and impassive.
‘I think Howie was hoping for something extraterrestrial,’ I said, still attempting to console my boss.
‘Well, I can’t say if it’s from ET but it’s still a mystery.’
‘It’s no mystery,’ said Howie, throwing himself back in the chair and swivelling around. ‘It’s a time capsule, full of pictures of all the species that ever lived. If there is a mystery, it’s how it came to be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.’
‘No,’ said Seth. ‘The mystery is how the images of man got to be in a DNA database that’s millions of years old.’
* * *
Prague Airport, 8 February
The Triumvirát hasn’t told the Kolegium precisely what the threat is. Unsworth has only a drawing of the specimen he is to capture – or arrange the capture of. He knows there will be occasions when his Christian values will be tested, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon.
It was a condition of joining the Kolegium that he was to put the word of God above everything else, something he feels comes easier to the other religions represented around the tripartite tables. Catholics are relaxed about their faith, famously turning the other cheek when insulted, but the guidance of Jesus Christ plays little part in the belief systems of Islam and Judaism. All that is important is the Word of God.
Unsworth has the number in his head, committed to memory at the meeting earlier in the day. It will be the number he calls whenever a threat falls into his hands. With luck and hard work, there will be no more assignments for this Catholic priest. On his way through the arrivals hall to departures, he looks around: people
hugging, kissing, smiling. An elderly woman cries when two young children run up to her and grab a leg each. Two teenagers walk past holding hands, barely able to take their eyes away from each other. It’s a joyous place, a place to come whenever you want to see the love in this world. It’s a far cry from the drug-fuelled violence of South America that occupied so much of his work in the Church. This is the humanity he will save when he makes the call. He makes it now, tapping out the number and waiting no more than three rings.
There is silence at the other end. Unsworth speaks quickly: name, location, description. The call ends abruptly and he is left holding the dead phone in his right hand until, like a child spooked by the dark, he slaps the handset back on the cradle. After a pause, he lifts the handset again and taps out another number committed to memory.
Unsworth glances around for the toilet signs then heads off in the direction they indicate. He makes it to a cubicle just in time. Pressing his coat against his chest, the priest bends at the waist and throws up into the toilet bowl.
Chapter 7
Los Angeles, two days earlier
Seth explained that Howie’s ball contained billions of strings of DNA, each containing more data than could be stored in the university’s mainframe. Analysing that much data could take years but Seth had seen enough so far to suggest that the ball was a record of Earth’s history.
‘How can it possibly be millions of years old?’ said Howie in a voice that suggested he really wanted to believe it. ‘I mean, how can you know that?’
‘Look at this.’ Seth went over to his microscope. ‘You see these?’
‘What about them?’
‘I found them in this sediment, encrusted on to the surface in the empty side. They’re short-chain cyanobacterial fossils.
‘Which means?’
‘The last time we discovered cyanobacteria fossils, they were dated as being up to three and a half billion years old.’
I was trying to make some connections that would get me involved in the conversation, but I was too tired. Howie looked at me and frowned. I guessed he was tired too.
‘So,’ continued Seth, ‘my guess is the cyanobacterial cells crept into your ball at some point in the past and became fossilised.’
Howie whistled softly. ‘Billions of years ago.’
‘Right.’
‘We gotta decode the rest of this database, how soon can you do that?’
‘Funny guy,’ said Seth. ‘I’m outta here – it’s been a long day.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, Seth, you get yourself home. We’ll take up again tomorrow.’
‘There’s a lab down in Santa Monica that may be able to do this thing,’ said Seth. ‘I can give them a call if you like, someone’ll still be there, they run twenty-four.’
‘Sure, I’ll run it down right away.’ Howie slumped in his chair and stared across the room. It seemed like all his systems were shutting down now he knew what the ball was. He hadn’t slept in days, what with the seasickness and the overnight flight from Guam.
‘Howie, why don’t you get some sleep? We can go down tomorrow, what’s the rush?’
‘Yeah, sleep, that’d be good right now.’
Seth made the call then gave me the address. They couldn’t see us tonight in any case. I put the ball into my bag and helped Howie up from his chair. Outside the university I gave him a brisk kiss on the cheek, like close colleagues might, and watched him set off by foot to his home. He didn’t live far from the campus; I was sure he could manage the short walk without me.
I’d called a cab before leaving the laboratory and I stood at the gates waiting. They were usually pretty good; I wouldn’t be here for long.
There was no sign of Mason lurking when I got home and, once showered, I settled down in bed hoping my insomnia wouldn’t hold nature up for too long.
The next morning, I woke like it had been only a second since I’d worried about falling asleep. 10 a.m. Wow! I hadn’t slept in that late since I moved here in my teens. I took another shower then slipped on some clean clothes. It felt like I’d been reborn. Typically, there was nothing in my fridge – I hadn’t been here for a week – so I headed out to the stores.
I strolled down Lincoln Boulevard and into Pico, passing Santa Monica High School. I could pop in and see about a teaching job. But, for some reason, I just carried on strolling by, and before I realised, I ended up on Ocean Front Walk. The water, grey and flat on this windless day, lapped at the shore with insipid intent. A few guys stood ankle-deep in the meagre surf, holding their boards like shields, perhaps wondering how such a terrifying body of water could be so pathetic. But all they saw was the surface. I shuddered at how the flat ocean had hidden a secret for millions of years, a secret that continues to be hidden because the world’s pre-eminent university hasn’t got the technology to decode it.
I wandered back along Bay Street and stopped for a coffee on Main Street. It was close enough to lunchtime to put some carbohydrates into me so I bought a panini of melted cheese and ham, and revelled in my first proper meal in a week. Howie was probably spending the day with his wife.
According to his name badge, my server – a guy I hadn’t seen before – was called Ángel. I was torn between chatting with a good-looking young guy, clearly from my own half of the American continent, and getting into an argument about religion. Would he have changed his name or adopted one of his other given names if he hadn’t followed his parent’s religion? In the end, I decided I didn’t want to get involved with anyone while I still had Howie. For better or worse.
Would Mason call first? I sat at home, gripping my bottle of aged tequila, watching the clock, wondering if it was too early (5 p.m.). Probably. Or would he just turn up? Oh, I hoped not. For some reason, getting an early warning seemed easier to deal with. I could shower and change for a start, not for his benefit obviously, but well, for mine. Actually, had I given him my number?
I opened the lid and took a sniff of the golden-coloured drink inside, but then screwed the lid back on and cradled the bottle in the crook of my arm. Howie had probably spent the day boring his wife about the ball. Who cared? Well, not her anyway.
Wondering if and when Mason would turn up was like waiting for the bogeyman. Perhaps if I tucked myself up in bed, covered completely by my duvet, I’d be safe. But then again, Mason was actually real and could actually turn up; being in bed was the last place I wanted to be.
Tequila time. I’d emptied most of the bottle by the time I gave in and went to bed. Tomorrow I’d meet Howie on campus then we’d arrange to go over to these guys Seth told us about. Whether it was the secret of Howie’s ball, or the fate of my relationship with him, one way or another, I felt tomorrow would define my future in LA.
Chapter 8
April 8, present day.
I’m sitting in the staff canteen nibbling on a bagel when Howie comes in. For the first time I want to jump up and embrace him at work, but something stops me – hell, the same issue of secrecy that has stopped me every other day, stops me. I don’t know why today should be any different. He’s still in his fawn jacket but, through the opening, I can see creases across the stripes on his shirt. For some reason I smile at that.
‘Hey, honey,’ says Howie, screeching a chair out from under the table.
Howie has never called me honey at work – well, not in front of the general staff, at least. Then I remembered our status was outed while on the Pacific Challenger, and perhaps Howie isn’t bothered, or doesn’t realise we’re back at work.
‘Hey,’ I say, smiling across the table.
‘Sleep well?’ Howie searches around as though a waitress might come and take his order. Not here, Prof.
‘Not nearly enough,’ I say, watching his face, wondering when he might look at me.
‘That a bagel?’ he says, jutti
ng his chin at the remains of my breakfast.
I nod, unable to catch his eye. Perhaps he realises that he just called me honey in front of a dozen colleagues and now feels he needs to mitigate his indiscretion. I wince as Howie screeches the chair again and wanders over to the counter.
‘You OK for coffee, Andi?’ he says rather formally.
‘Thanks.’ I only half turn to him, content with him appearing in my peripheral vision.
When he gets back to the table I smile at him, waiting for him to look at me. Howie makes a fuss of preparing his bagel, setting his coffee to the right of the plate, taking a sip, smacking his lips, nodding to himself, then takes a bite out of the bread. He closes his eyes and munches like it’s the finest food he’s had for … well, probably for a week, unless his wife cooked something special for him last night. Not if what he says about her is true, I tell myself.
‘Professor?’
Suddenly he looks at me and angles his head upwards, his mouth still full of bagel.
‘How was your day yesterday?’ I ask.
‘Oh, did two loads of washing, a bit of ironing then settled down to catch up on a couple of shows on Netflix.’
I’m sure my heart just skipped a beat. ‘Me too. So what’s the plan for today?’
‘I’ve got to have a meeting with the dean about … nothing important, just catching up, then we can head over to this lab just after lunch if you like.’
Howie’s eyes slide left and right then he turns his head to see further round. ‘We can get some lunch together, if you want.’
I too glance round. ‘Sure, that’d be nice.’
‘Jeez, this bagel is terrific. Remind me, Andi, not to go too far from campus ever again.’
‘Sure, Howie. I’ll see you later – about midday?’
‘You bet, honey.’