Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  Agent Kirkson nodded, appearing mollified, then backed the car away from Agent Frazier’s tomb. He drove out to First Colonial Road, heading for the small retail building on Lynnhaven Parkway that served as their office. It would take a couple of hours to fabricate a second-skin glove for Travers that would give him Captain Ortega’s unique handprint, and he still had a transport to catch by six.

  6

  Xeno-DNA Transplantation—A Theoretical Approach

  Patricia Corning, Debbie Emerson, Freeman Moore, Yon Po, Victor Walls, Banski Yankovich

  It has been almost forty years since man last walked on the moon. During the period from 1969 to 1972, a total of six Apollo missions landed astronauts who walked the lunar surface. Every manned mission has brought back samples of soil and rock for NASA scientists to study, and while reports abound concerning the similarities between rock and soil found on the moon versus those found on the Earth, exciting every scientific community from microbiologists to geologists, astrophysicists to climatologists, there has never been a thorough investigation by geneticists or genealogists, despite the ever-expanding understanding of DNA and its role in defining all life on Earth, in determining the function of cells, the order of cellular operation, the color of a person’s hair. That was the initial assumption of this body when tasked with conceptualizing a theoretical model: what would happen if alien DNA were integrated with human DNA?

  Considering the presumption that no alien DNA was available with which to actually describe experimentation and that this was a purely intellectual exercise, the obvious answer is that it would depend upon the both the make-up of the DNA—does it utilize the same four basic proteins, adenine (A), thymine (T), cytosine (C), and guanine (G)—and does it have a similar construction, meaning is it constructed of base pairs A-T and C-G connected by hydrogen (H) bonds? If construction is similar, then integration, or mating, would be plausible.

  The true question then becomes one of chromosomal compatibility. How many chromosomes does the alien have in each cell? In the same vein that a human and an insect are not compatible because of the difference in chromosomes, despite having the same DNA-protein design, any variation in chromosome number would make compatibility highly unlikely. A third factor to consider is the make-up of each chromosome. The number of genes, total number of base pairs, and the percent of the total organism’s number of genes based in each chromosome would have tremendous impact. Finally, how would the natural defense mechanisms of a host perceive the foreign genetic material? Every time a cell reproduces with a fault, it is potentially cancerous. This happens regularly within the human body. The T-cells in the immune system are quite adept at identifying these malformations and removing them before further mutations, or duplications of the mutation, can occur.

  From this determination came a session of brainstormed ideas regarding how to implement such integrations, included in Appendix A. Most notable among the suggestions were the extremely simplistic idea of rendering such a substance into a solution and injecting it into an experimental subject, and the time-consuming method of fertilizing a human ova and attempting to grow an embryo, which then engendered a debate about whether implanting the embryo in a willing surrogate would lead to further corruption of the genetic material despite offering a greater viability versus allowing the embryo to grow in an artificial environment.

  Despite the productiveness of this research, it was by its very nature limited to hypothesis and conjecture. The collected genealogists and geneticists had undergone intense government security screening for what appeared to be a four day ‘what if?’. As the scientists and researchers began discussing this subject, new information was presented by a high-ranking intelligence agency official, whose name is not listed.

  On the last mission to the moon, in December 1972, Apollo 17 landed in a previously unexplored highland, under orders to explore an area that had experienced recent volcanic activity. During the three days the Commander and Module Pilot explored the surface, they collected multiple soil samples, which would be examined for composition and age and compared to the soil collected from Mare Imbrium, explored during a previous mission.

  On the third day, the Commander experienced an incident wherein one foot broke through the lunar crust, almost like punching through a thin sheet of ice over a lake, exposing a small cavity. Considering the greatly reduced weight astronauts deal with while on the moon, which has one-sixth the gravitational pull of the Earth, one can conceive how thinly-covered this cavity was. Inside the cavity were a collection of rocks darker than any previously discovered. They were extremely small, predominantly round, and clustered together like a bunch of grapes, or like a clutch of roe, about the color of sturgeon.

  The Commander expounded about this at length, claiming there were more than a thousand of the rocks in a recorded report which was immediately redacted upon his return to NASA. Unable to contain his excitement or curtail his imagination, undoubtedly fed by the zeitgeist of the era and its newfound fascination with science fiction, a comparison to eggs was made and became difficult to contain. Numerous minds at work within NASA were publicly censored following the return of Apollo 17, and the truth of this discovery never became public knowledge.

  At this point, a sample of one of these “moon rocks” was brought out for presentation, encased in shatter-proof plexiglass. The sample, we were informed, was not radioactive by any means of detection, and had been surface tested for any bacteria or viruses. It had then been scrubbed clean before being placed in its enclosure, which was more for its protection than ours. True to the initial story, the rock was roughly circular and about two and a half centimeters in diameter. Its outer surface appeared rock-like, though it had a dark violet luster. Considering the purpose of previous discussions, it became clear that, perhaps, alien-DNA had been discovered.

  Given a thick binder of collected data, the most relevant of which are reproduced in Appendix B, comparisons between DNA structures began in earnest. The rock had a coating only a millimeter thick, though that coating required a diamond-tipped micro-drill to pierce. The material of the coating was a complete unknown to geological science, and had not yet received an official name, as its existence had not yet been made known to the scientific community at large. Inside each rock were approximately two milliliters of a highly viscous substance, similar in consistency to toffee cooked to the hard crack stage before being allowed to cool. Its color mirrored the dark purple hue of the outer shell. It consisted of concentrated DNA strands suspended, preserved, in this substance, which seemed to provide protection and sustenance for its cargo. The DNA was nothing so sophisticated as an embryo, as one would see in a chicken or fish egg. Rather it appeared to be a collection of blueprints. This became more apparent as The Human Genome Project neared completion, and this advanced understanding of DNA, chromosomes and genes was applied to the mysterious material.

  Previous generations of scientists had categorized the material as a four element, two base-pair DNA structure made up of the same proteins as Earth-based life. Inroads had been made in identifying twenty-three diverse chromosomes, made up of almost twenty-five thousand genes, roughly four thousand more than a human, and containing close to three and a half million total base pairs, almost five hundred thousand more than a human.

  This became the crux of the research going forward. The need to identify and categorize these differences, while reveling in the similarities, led to thousands of refinements in genetic research techniques. All the while, the initial question which brought these scientists together remained as the over-arching goal. How would you integrate this alien genetic material into a human host?

  Lieutenant Barnes rubbed tired eyes. The combination of small print, poor copy quality, and the in-depth discussion of gene-splicing techniques started a pounding in his head. There were a hundred pages like this, giving painstaking detail into the exact differences in the number of genes for each chromosome and how they compared to a human being. There were ex
perimental designs listed and results of testing described in exhaustive detail, as those researchers tried to determine what a hundred more or less base pairs in Chromosome Fourteen would do when introduced to a human.

  Further in the report the names of the authors began to change, but he wasn’t sure what that implied. What became quite clear was the project moved to human testing, which brought Travis and Sherry into the equation, though whether they volunteered was never explained. Considering the effort expended in monitoring them, he doubted they were willing participants. There were web-links to audio and video files, which he might try to access later, that purported to show subject reactions to the introduction of the alien material. Some clearly resulted in the deaths of the participants, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see that.

  Closing the folder, Barnes tried to determine what this meant to him. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been secure in his plan to supplant Captain Ortega in the chain of command for the project. The captain’s last words had made it clear the proper course of action was to expose the project. Robert Barnes wasn’t so sure that was true. Maybe there was a third option and he just didn’t see it yet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said over the speaker system, “the Captain has turned on the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign as we approach Chicago, where the local time is twelve-thirty.”

  7

  Shortly after three p.m. on the East Coast, Agent Travers bustled into Norfolk International Airport. He flashed his agency credentials to bypass the bottleneck of college students returning to school, tourists returning home after a weekend beach vacation, and members of various military services heading home on leave who clogged the security screening stations. Carrying only a small bag, he moved purposefully through the large concourse, navigating the weekend press. When you were six-five and looked like a moving pile of black brick, people tended to get out of your way. He knew he left an impression, but he wasn’t worried about anonymity right then. He was under orders to get to Chicago, and he was about to do so in typical agency style, a private jet outside a gate locked so that only agency members could access it.

  Without his monitoring team in place, he had no way of knowing if Sherry had found a way to Chicago yet. He could pull resources from the D.C. headquarters, but he didn’t think he needed to. One way or another, this would all be over once he got Ortega’s handprint on the access panel inside the facility.

  At least I don’t have to worry about that punk Travis, he thought viciously. Even if the little shit survived the gunshot, he’d be holed up in a hospital somewhere. No one would be able to stop him getting to the facility and doing what needed to be done. For better or worse, Agent Travers thought with satisfaction, this steaming pile of a mission would be finished in a few short hours.

  Arriving at the gate, he found a single airport staffer manning the gangway door. The door was shut, but that was to be expected since he was almost an hour early for his flight. Still, he had hoped. Occasionally an agent could arrive early and find the bird ready to go.

  “Sir?” the attendant said politely, drawing Buck’s attention. She was pretty enough, he supposed, with big, blue eyes and straight brown hair to her shoulders. Too skinny for his tastes, though, all straight lines and sharp angles. He gave her a smile to show he’d heard her, then began to walk toward a chair to await the arrival of his plane.

  “Sir?” the attendant repeated. “Are you…um…Special Agent Travers?”

  Buck stopped, turning to look at the attendant. “Yes, that’s me,” he replied.

  “It’s my pleasure to inform you that your plane is fueled and ready. I’m sure the pilots won’t mind leaving early, if you’re ready to go.”

  At last, Agent Travers thought, things were starting to move smoothly again.

  Chapter 25

  Flight

  1

  The darkness gave way to dreams, as Travis’s mind struggled to provide meaning to the flashing bursts of healing energy surging through his body. Digging deep, it brought forth images from his past, mixed them with his current anxieties, and turned them into a nightmare, more horrifying because it was laced with the truth.

  Travis saw the faces of his parents, his dark-haired father, Brian, and his blond mother, Diane, as they’d appeared before he joined the military. He saw himself flying to Illinois from South Carolina, plagued by the certainty he was disappointing them, but determined to live his own life. Vague images of the eight weeks he suffered at the hands of a particularly cruel Company Commander flashed through his mind. The repetitive exercises, hours of marching, and days spent being injected with every vaccination ever invented blended with his current misery, giving a reason for the pain.

  Then came the terrible confusion as his memories turned inside out. His parents changed, losing height, gaining weight, yet with no diminishing of his love for them. There was a violent twisting in his self-consciousness, as some integral part was stolen away, warped viciously, then replaced. He wasn’t sure what about himself had been changed, but it had something to do with the images of an empty desert, a sterile hospital room, an operating table surrounded by gowned and masked forms, and a shrouded body lying motionless.

  Both he and Sherry had been violated so deeply and profoundly that it was completely hidden from their conscious memory. Now, as Travis dreamed, remembered bits of conversation with Sherry came back to him. If they had seen fit to give her a husband, to convince her that her mother was dead, what might they have changed about his life?

  Again, he was drawn to the covered form on the table, knowing what he would see, confident during this part of the dream for he’d already faced it and knew what was coming. As the doctors pulled back, the shrouded form rose to a sitting position. But this time, when the sheets fell back, it wasn’t Sherry’s beloved face that he beheld.

  It was his own.

  Gasping for breath, Travis struggled awake. Someone gasped and a weight lifted from his chest. Opening eyes that should never have opened again, Travis looked out on the bright sunlight bathing the parking lot of a drugstore. Beside him, looking as groggy as he felt, Sherry straightened herself in the driver’s seat of his Focus.

  “I…what…what happened?” Travis stammered, blinking in the light.

  “You’re awake!” Sherry shouted, and Travis turned to see her eyes widened with amazement, her arms ready to encircle him once again.

  He submitted to her embrace, feeling a deep throb of pain in his right shoulder. “I…ow!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “My shoulder,” Travis mumbled. He remembered being shot by one of the agents. He looked at his arm, wondering that the pain wasn’t as sharp as expected. It was more a dull ache, like an old injury on its way to being completely healed.

  “Oh…I’m sorry!” Sherry exclaimed, backing away from the embrace, but keeping a hand on Travis’s leg.

  “I…no…it’s all right,” Travis said. Carefully, he raised his right arm, watching as the hand obeyed his commands. The motion caused only a slight increase to the ache in his shoulder.

  He had a hard time coping with the contradicting facts presented by his senses and his memory. His eyes saw the blood covering his shirt, which had dried to a sticky film coating most of his chest and back and pooling around the waistband of his jeans. His mind told him his arm should be useless, and he should be in excruciating pain sitting still, much less moving it as he was. Yet his shoulder seemed inclined to argue, proving its capability by allowing him free motion, with only the mild ache. “I must be in shock,” he said softly, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the passenger seat.

  “No, you’re not,” Sherry said, gingerly reaching across to loosen the front of his Polo shirt. He winced as she peeled the shirt away from his chest.

  “Just the blood pulling hairs,” he said, not opening his eyes, afraid of what he’d see.

  Wide-eyed, Sherry pulled the shirt far enough away from the skin so she could see. Sh
e expected him to cry out in pain as the shirt pulled free of his wound; she expected blood to pour out of him as the wound was uncovered. Instead, she saw fresh, pink skin from collarbone down to his right pectoral, extending laterally to the shoulder joint. There was no evidence of a gunshot wound, except for the blood which matted the hairs of his chest into dark, red clots. Streaks of the liquid had dried to a dull brown all the way down to his stomach, yet there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with his skin. If she hadn’t known he was shot, the blood would be a complete mystery.

  “Your shoulder’s fine,” she whispered.

  “What?” Travis demanded, opening his eyes at the wonder in her voice.

  “See for yourself.”

  Slowly at first, wincing as his movements tore hairs from their sticky beds of blood, Travis pulled his shirt free. Honestly, it felt no worse than a muscle sprain. With Sherry’s help, he was able to remove the shirt completely, jerking it over his head and tossing it to the floor below the dashboard.

  “See?”

  With shaking fingers, Travis probed the area of his shoulder where the bullet exited, finding nothing but tender skin and dried blood. “Check my back!” he whispered urgently, turning in his seat.

  Sherry smiled as she looked over the point where the bullet entered, seeing nothing but more dried blood, though considerably less than in the front, and a slight darkening around his shoulder blade, what might have been the last fading remnant of a vivid bruise.

  “How bad is it?” Travis asked softly.

  Sherry laughed.

  “What? Is it that bad?” He turned in his seat to face her, grabbing her hands.

  “Just a bruise,” she said, forcing herself to stop laughing, knowing that Travis was confused and needed all the reassurance he could get.