by Greg Bear
Kaye folded her hands on top of the table.
After the session was gaveled to a close, Augustine sipped a glass of water in the waiting room. Browning walked briskly by.
“Did you have anything to do with this, Mark?” she asked in an undertone, pouring herself a glass from the frosted pitcher. Three years ago, he had underestimated the fear and hatred of which Americans were capable. Rachel Browning had not. If the new director of Emergency Action trailed any rope, Augustine could not see it.
Many more years might pass before she hanged herself.
“No,” Augustine said. “Why would I?”
“Well, the news will get out soon enough.”
Browning turned away from the door to the waiting room as Kaye was ushered in by Laura Bloch, and slipped away with her counsel. Bloch quickly secured Kaye a cup of coffee. Augustine and Kaye stood less than a pace apart. Kaye lifted her cup. “Hello, Mark.”
“Good evening, Kaye. You did well.”
“I doubt that, but thank you,” Kaye said.
“I wanted to tell you I'm sorry,” Augustine said.
“For what?” Kaye asked. She did not know, of course, all that had happened on that day when Browning had called and told him about the possible acquisition of her family.
“Sorry you had to be their decoy,” he said.
“I'm used to it,” Kaye said. “It's the price I'm paying for being out of the loop for so long.”
Augustine tried for a sympathetic grin, but his stiff face produced only a mild grimace. “I hear you,” he said.
“Finally,” Kaye said primly, and turned to join Laura Bloch.
Augustine felt the rebuff, but he knew how to be patient. He knew how to work in the background, silently and with little credit.
He had long since learned how to emulate the lowly viruses.
9
NEW MEXICO
To enter the Pathogenics zoo, they had to pass through a room with bare concrete walls painted black and dip their shoes in shallow trays of sweet, cloying yellow fluid—a variation on Lysol, Turner explained.
Dicken awkwardly swirled his shoes in the fluid.
“We do it on the way out, too,” Presky said. “Rubber soles last longer.”
They scraped and dried their shoes on black nylon mats and slipped on combination cotton booties and leggings, cinched around the calf. Presky gave each a snood and fine mesh filter masks to cover their mouths, and instructed them to touch as little as possible.
The zoo would have made a small town proud. It filled four warehouses covering several acres, steel and concrete walls lined with enclosures containing loose facsimiles of natural environments. “Comfortable, low stress,” Turner pointed out. “We want all our ancient viruses calm and collected.”
“Dr. Blakemore is working with vervets and howler monkeys,” Jurie said. “Old World and New World. Their ERV profiles are vastly different, as I'm sure you know. We hope soon to have chimps, but perhaps we can just piggyback on Americol's chimp project.” He glanced at Dicken with speculative brown eyes. “Kaye Lang's work, no?”
Dicken nodded absently.
The five large primate cages had most of the amenities: tree limbs, swings and rings, floors covered with rubber matting, multiple levels for pacing and climbing, a wide selection of plastic toys. Dicken counted six howler monkeys segregated male and female in two cages, with perforated plastic sheeting between: They could see and smell each other, but not touch.
They walked on and paused before a long, narrow aquarium containing a happily swimming platypus and several small fish. Dicken loved platypuses. He smiled like a little boy at the foot-long juvenile as it breached and dove several times through the clear green water, silvery lines of bubbles streaming from its slick fur.
“Her name is Torrie,” Presky said. “She's pretty, no?”
“She's wonderful,” Dicken said.
“Anything with fur, scales, or feathers, has viral genes of interest,” Jurie said. “Torrie's rather a dud, at the moment, but we like her anyway. We've just finished sequencing and comparing the allogenomes of echidnas and, of course, platypuses.”
“We're taking a census of monotreme ERVs,” Turner explained. “ERVs are useful during viviparous development. They help us subdue our mothers' immune systems. Otherwise, her lymphocytes would kill the embryos, because in part they type for the father's tissue. However, like birds, monotremes lay eggs. They should not use ERVs so extensively during early development.”
“The Temin-Larsson-Villarreal hypothesis,” Dicken said.
“You're familiar with TLV?” Turner asked, pleased. TLV stood for a theory of virus-host interactions concocted from work done over decades, at different institutions, by Howard R. Temin, Eric Larsson, and Luis P. Villarreal. TLV had gained a lot of favor since SHEVA.
Dicken nodded. “So, do they?”
“Do who, what?” Presky asked.
“Do echidnas and birds express ERV particles to protect their embryos?”
“Ah,” Presky said, and smiled mysteriously, then wagged his finger. “Job security.” He faced Turner. Wherever his head moved, his body moved as well, like a clocktower figure. “Torrie will have a mate soon. That effects many changes intriguing to us.”
“Intriguing to Torrie, as well, presumably,” Jurie added, deadpan.
They moved on to a concrete enclosure with a convincing, though small grove of conifers. “No lions or tigers, but we have bears,” Presky said. “Two young males. Sometimes they're out sparring with each other. They are brothers, they like to play fight.”
“Bears, raccoons, badgers,” Turner added. “Peaceful enough critters, virally, at least. Apes, including us, seem to have the most active and numerous ERV.”
“Most plants and animals have their own capabilities in biological propaganda and warfare. War happens only if the populations are pressed hard,” Jurie said. “Shall we hear Dr. Turner's favorite example?”
Turner took them across to a large enclosure containing three rather mangy-looking European bison. Four large, shaggy animals, fur hanging in patches, regarded the human onlookers with ageless placidity. One shook its head, sending dust and straw flying. “Fresh in modern memory, for hamburger eaters anyway: Toxin gene transfer to E. coli bacteria in cattle,” Turner began. “Modern factory farming and slaughterhouse technique puts severe stress on the cattle, who send hormonal signals to their multiple tummies, their rumen. E. coli react to these signals by taking up phages—viruses for bacteria—that carry genes from another common gut bacteria, Shigella. Those genes just happen to code for Shiga toxin. The exchange does not hurt the cow, fascinating, no? But when a predator kills a cow-like critter in nature, and bites into the gut—which most do, eating half-digested grass and such, wild salad it's called—it swallows a load of E. coli packed with Shiga toxin. That can make the predators—and us—very sick. Sick or dead predators reduce the stress on cows. It's a clever relief valve. Now we sterilize our beef with radiation. All the beef.”
“Personally, I never eat rare meat,” Jurie said with a contemplative arch of his brows. “Too many loose genes floating around. Dr. Miller, our chief botanist, tells me I should be concerned about my greens, as well.”
Orlin Miller raised his hands in collegial defense. “Equal time for veggies.”
They entered Building Two, the combination aviary and herpetarium. Mounted on benches beside the large sliding warehouse door, glass boxes housed king snakes coiled beneath red heat lamps.
“We have evidence of a slow but constant lateral flow of genes between species,” Jurie said. “Dr. Foresmith is studying transfer of genes between exogenous and endogenous viruses in chickens and ducks, as well as in the Psittaciformes, parrots.”
Foresmith, an imposing, gray-haired fellow in his early fifties, formerly of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—Dicken knew him for his work on minimum genome bacteria—took up the topic. “Flu and other exogenous viruses can exchange genes and recombine within host or res
ervoir populations,” he said, his voice a bass rumble. “New strains of flu used to come rumbling out of Asia every year. Now, we know that exogenous and endogenous viruses—herpes, poxviruses, HIV, SHEVA—can recombine in us. What if these viruses make a mistake? Slip a gene into the wrong location in a cell's DNA . . . A cell starts to ignore its duties and grows out of control. Voilà, a malignant tumor. Or, a relatively mild virus acquires one crucial gene and flips from a persistent to an acute infection. One really big mistake, and pow,” he slapped his fist into his palm, “we suffer one hundred percent mortality.” His smile was at once admiring and nervous. “One of our paleo guys figures we can explain a lot of mass extinctions that way, in theory. If we could resurrect and reassemble the older, extremely degraded ERVs, maybe we would learn what actually happened to the dinosaurs.”
“Not so fast,” Dicken said, raising his hands in surrender. “I don't know anything about dinosaurs or stressed cows.”
“Let's hold off on the wilder theories for now,” Jurie admonished Foresmith, but his eyes gleamed. “Tom, you're next.”
Tom Wrigley was the youngest in the group, in his mid-twenties, tall, dark-haired, and homely, with a red nose and a perpetually pleasant expression. He smiled shyly and handed Dicken a coin, a quarter. “That's roughly what a birth control pill costs. My group is studying the effect of birth control on endogenous retrovirus expression in women between the ages of twenty and fifty.”
Dicken rolled the quarter in his hand. Tom held out his palm, lifting his eyebrows, and Dicken returned the coin.
“Tell them why, Tom,” Jurie prodded.
“Twenty years ago, some researchers found that HIV infected pregnant women at a higher rate. Some human endogenous retroviruses are closely related to HIV, which goes after our immune systems with a vengeance. The fetus within the mother expresses lots of HERV from its placenta, which some think helps subdue the mom's immune system in a beneficial way—just enough so that it won't attack the developing fetus. TLV, as you know, Dr. Dicken.”
“Howard Temin is a god in this place,” Dee Dee Blakemore said. “We've set up a little shrine in C wing. Prayers every Wednesday.”
“Birth control pills produce conditions in women similar to pregnancy,” Wrigley said. “We decided that women on birth control would make an excellent study group. We have twenty volunteers, five of them our own researchers.”
Blakemore raised her hand. “I'm one,” she said. “I'm feeling testy already.” She growled at Wrigley and bared her canines. Wrigley held up his hands in mock fright.
“Eventually, SHEVA females will be getting pregnant,” Wrigley said, “and some may even use birth control pills. We want to know how that will effect production of potential pathogens.”
“Sexual maturity and pregnancy in the new children is likely to be a time of great danger,” Jurie said. “Retroviruses released in the natural course of a second generation SHEVA pregnancy could transfer to humans. The result could be another HIV-like disease. In fact, Dr. Presky here, among others, believes something similar explains how HIV got into the human population.”
Presky weighed in. “A hunter in search of bush meat could have slaughtered a pregnant chimp.” He shrugged; the hypothesis was still speculation, as Dicken knew well. As a postdoc in the late 1980s, Dicken had spent two years in the Congo and Zaire tracking possible sources for HIV.
“And last but not least, our gardens. Dr. Miller?”
Orlin Miller pointed to flats of greenery and flower gardens spread out under skylights and artificial sun bulbs hanging in imposing phalanxes, like great glassy fruit, on the north side of the warehouse. “My group studies transfer of viral genes between plants and insects, funguses and bacteria. As Dr. Jurie hinted earlier, we're also studying human genes that may have originated in plants,” Miller added. “I can just see the Nobel hanging from that one.”
“Not that you'll ever go up on stage to collect,” Jurie warned.
“No, of course not,” Miller said, somewhat deflated.
“Enough. Just a taste,” Jurie said, stopping in front of a basin containing a thick growth of young corn. “Seven other division heads who could not be here tonight extend their congratulations—to me, for landing Dr. Dicken. Not necessarily do they congratulate Dr. Dicken.”
The others smiled.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” Jurie said, and waved bye-bye, as if to a group of school children. The directors said their farewells and filed out of the warehouse. Only Turner remained.
Jurie fixed Dicken with a gaze. “NIH tells me I can find a use for you at Pathogenics,” Jurie said. “NIH funds a substantial portion of my work here, through Emergency Action. Still, I'm curious. Why did you accept this appointment? Not because you love and respect me, Dr. Dicken.” Jurie loosely crossed his arms and his bony fingers engaged in a fit of searching, marching along toward the elbows, drawing the arms into a tighter hug.
“I go where the science is,” Dicken said. “I think you're primed to discover some interesting things. And I think I can help. Besides . . .” He paused. “They gave you a list. You picked me.”
Jurie lifted one hand dismissively. “Everything we do here is political. I'd be a fool not to recognize it,” he said. “But, frankly, I think we're winning. Our work is too important to stop, for whatever reason. And we might as well have the best people working with us, whatever their connections. You're a fine scientist, and that's the bottom line.” Jurie strolled before a plastic-wrapped greenhouse filled with banana trees, obscured by the translucent plastic. “If you think you're ready, I have a theoretical problem for you.”
“Ready as I'll ever be,” Dicken said.
“I'd like for you to start with something a little off the beaten path. Up for it?”
“I'm listening,” Dicken said.
“You can work with Dr. Wrigley's volunteers. Assemble a staff from our resident postdocs under Dee Dee's supervision, no more than two to begin with. They're analyzing ancient promoter regions associated with sexual characteristics, physiological changes in humans possibly induced by retroviral genes.” Jurie swallowed conspicuously. “Viruses have induced changes quite evident in our SHEVA children. Now, I'd like to study more mundane instances in humans. Can you think of the fold of tissue of which I'm suspicious?” Jurie asked.
“Not really,” Dicken said.
“It's like an alarm mounted on a gate kept closed until maturity. When the gate is breached, that announces a major accomplishment, a crucial change; announces it with a burst of pain and a whole cascade of hormonal events. The hormones generated by this experience appear to activate HERV and other mobile elements, preparing our bodies for a new phase of life. Reproduction is imminent, this breach tells the body. Time to prepare.”
“The female hymen,” Dicken guessed.
“The female hymen,” Jurie said. “Is there any other kind?” He was not being sarcastic. It was a straight question. “Are there other gates to be opened, other signals? . . . I don't know. I'd like to know.” Jurie studied Dicken, eyes glittering with enthusiasm once again. “I'm supposing that viruses have altered our phenotype to produce the hymen. Rupturing the hymen gives them warning that sex is taking place, so they can prepare to do all that they do. By altering expression of key genes, promoting or blocking them, the viruses may change our behavior as well. Let's find out how.” He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a small plastic case, and handed the case to Dicken. “My notes. If you find them useful, I'll be content.”
“Good,” Dicken said. He knew very little about hymens; he wondered what his other resources would be.
“SHEVA females don't have hymens, you know,” Jurie said. “No such membranes. Comparison should bring up fascinating divergences in hormonal pathways and viral activations. And viral activations are what concern me.”
Dicken found himself nodding. He was almost hypnotized by the audacity of the hypothesis. It was perverse; it was perversely brilliant. “You think menarche in SHEVA fema
les will switch on viral mutations?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Jurie said evenly, as if discussing the weather. “Interested?”
“I am,” Dicken said after a thoughtful pause.
“Good.” Jurie reached up and pulled his head to one side, making the bones in his neck pop. His eyes turned elsewhere, and he nodded once and walked away, leaving Turner and Dicken alone in the warehouse between the trailers and the gardens.
The interview was over.
Turner escorted Dicken back through the zoo, the foot baths, and the corridors to the steel door. They stopped off at the maintenance office to get the key to Dicken's dorm room.
“You've survived meeting the Old Man,” Turner said, then showed Dicken the way to the dorm wing for new residents. He held up a key, pinched the key's tag, turning it from blue to red, and dropped it into Dicken's palm. He stared at Dicken for a long, uncomfortable moment, then said, “Good luck.”
Turner walked back down the hall, shaking his head. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Jesus! Hymens. What next?”
Dicken closed the door to the room and switched on the overhead light. He sat on the narrow, tightly made-up bed, and rubbed his temples and jaw muscles with trembling fingers, dizzy from repressed emotion.
For the first time in his life, the prey Dicken was after was not microbial.
It was a disease, but it was entirely human.
10
ARIZONA
Stella awoke to the sound of an over-under songfest between barracks. The wake-up bell had not yet rung. She rolled between the crisp white sheets of the top bunk and stared up at the ceiling tiles. She was familiar with the routine: A few dozen boys and girls were hanging out of the windows of their barracks, singing to each other across the razor-wire fence. The over was loud and almost tuneless; the under was subtle and not very clear from where she lay. She had no doubt it carried a lot of early-morning gossip, however.
She closed her eyes for a moment and listened. The singers in the barracks tended to slip into harshly sweet and sky-shaking laments, pushing sounds around both sides of their ridged tongues, circulating breath through nose and throat simultaneously. The two streams of song began to play counterpoint, weaving in and out in a way designed to prevent any eavesdropping by the counselors.