Durand stood in shock at the doorway.
Frey recovered his senses first. “Where do you get the source DNA?”
“We have an extensive collection network and keep up with popular tastes by monitoring social media. If there is a public figure you desire, we most likely have their DNA in our database.”
Durand did a double take at a young Brad Pitt wearing a leather jacket and leaning on the edge of a baby grand piano. The real Brad Pitt was in his eighties. Next to the young Pitt stood a line of Pitt variations—a Latino version, an African, an Indian, and then an Asian Brad Pitt. There were a few flavors of Denzel Washington nearby, too, all chatting amiably.
“We can accommodate different tastes for different markets. Anyone you control can be customized to suit your tastes.”
Robed sheiks and the military dictator seemed to be eating up the “own your own celebrity” pitch.
Durand felt numb. Did people want to look like movie stars? Perhaps some people did. Did the celebrities have any idea their DNA had been stolen? He guessed not.
Looking around the room at the faux celebrities, he wondered who these people were born to be. Would their own mothers ever recognize them again? How did parents react to having their genetic legacy discarded like a coat?
Durand felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked to see Frey motioning him onward. Durand followed, down the main hallway and away from the third-party lounge.
Frey walked alongside Thomas. “How long do those types of revisions take?”
“It varies greatly. The celebrity transformations you see here were quite significant—two years or more to safely effect the required DNA edits. Some will be going to clients soon. But as with any genetic procedure, there is a minor risk. Toxic shock. Hemorrhaging. Mutation. Mutations can be corrected in most cases. We have strict quality control.”
The broker brought them into a room where 3D computer models of the nude bodies of young men and women spun in place, while much older clients pointed at various features. A technician made adjustments, and the image changed—either pleasing or displeasing them.
“It is a common complaint of our clients that their servants do not match their preferences. These servants can now be customized like any other prized possession.”
Durand looked on as a technician modified the computer model of a young Southeast Asian woman like clay.
“As you can see, gentlemen, we model the edits using our proprietary bioinformatics systems, and then prepare the reagent to your precise specifications. You’ll learn more about the process during your own consultation.”
Frey nodded vigorously. “Yes. As you can imagine, I am eager to make some revisions.”
“Very good. Our genetic engineers have worked such wonders before. Please follow me.” He brought them through double doors and into a richly adorned corridor. The doors closed behind them as they walked.
“You gentlemen may not be aware that certain legal aspects of the international genetic market are changing.”
Durand cast a suspicious look at the man’s back. “Changing? How so?”
“Our partners—large biotech consortiums—have for years been gathering genetic data from billions of human beings. This has been the Trefoil Labs mission. Other partners have been gathering and storing genetic data on untold numbers of flora and fauna.” He looked back at them. “You should invest now. I would invest more if I could. You are fortunate to be men of means.”
“Invest. In biotech?”
“No. In genomic sequences.”
Durand and Frey looked at each other.
“I would immediately purchase my own genomic sequence at the very least.” He glanced back again. “Before someone else does. Personally, I’d rather own a slightly inferior genetic sequence than lease a more desirable one.”
Durand narrowed his eyes. “What in hell’s name are you talking about? The Treaty on Genetic Modification is—”
“Is a relic. Live editing will render germ line editing moot. Genetic edits can be reversed—even in mature organisms. The TGM is a dead letter—and quite soon.”
Frey interceded as he apparently noticed Durand was getting agitated. “Humor me, here. What exactly are you saying?”
“The international legal groundwork is being laid, copyrighting and patenting genomic sequences for proprietary algae, bacteria, and yeast organisms—the factories of the fourth industrial revolution.”
“What does that have to do with human beings?”
“DNA is DNA. Merely information. Which means that human beings are merely information. And there is a long-established legal precedent that information can be owned.”
It took everything in him to keep his tattoos from appearing. Durand felt them rising along with his rage. He stepped to the side, turning against the wall.
“Are you okay, sir?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
Frey was right at his elbow, casting a dark expression his way.
“Just the travel. It upsets my stomach.” Durand calmed himself and stood straight.
“That weakness can be fixed.” Thomas pushed open a heavy wooden door. “Smart people will make certain to own and copyright their bloodline: 51 percent ownership in a certain sequence of DNA would be a controlling interest. There are all sorts of fractional ownership scenarios.”
Durand said, “Slavery 2.0.”
The broker turned to him. “Ah, except that it requires no reference to species—merely sequences. One merely owns information. If that happens to define a human being, then that human being was not very smart not to own himself.”
Durand realized that the theft of his own identity was almost minor compared to what was occurring here.
Chapter 41
They arrived in a beautiful lab with tropical hardwood cabinets and marble floors and countertops. A middle-age Eastern European woman in a white lab coat smiled as they entered.
“Here we are. Our personal revision department.” Thomas put a hand on Frey’s shoulder. “May I introduce you to your genetic counselor, Ms. Rita. She will bring you through the transformation process.”
Rita smiled again. “Good evening, sir.”
Frey looked a bit overwhelmed and smiled wanly.
Thomas turned to Durand. “Unfortunately your counselor is still with a client; however, he will be available quite soon. In the meantime, may I—”
Frey grabbed Durand’s sleeve. “Good! I mean, don’t leave just yet. I’d like you here with me.”
Durand spoke to Thomas. “I’ll wait here.”
Thomas spread his hands. “As you wish, gentlemen. I will return shortly.”
Durand and Frey ignored his departure.
The genetic counselor extended her hand to both of them in turn. “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure.” She examined Frey. “We are preparing edits for you today?”
“Yes. I’m going to let you guess what type.”
She moved her hand. Glims in the ceiling and countertops beamed AR images of human forms and double helices of DNA into their retinas. “This is where we develop an editing plan to effect your desired revisions.”
Frey looked around at the floating virtual objects. “How long does it take you to calculate the edits and their sequence?”
“It depends, of course, on the complexity of the revisions, but our photonic clusters can usually return complete edit solutions within an hour.”
Frey looked shocked. “An hour? My god. I used to have to wait days for edits to proteins.”
She laughed. “Now you’re dating yourself. So you were in the trade?”
Frey shrugged. “I dabbled. But I never had a setup like this.”
She smiled, looking around. “It is quite something.” She took hold of his hand gently. “I’d like you to see something.” She extended his index finger and guided it over to
a device resembling a fingerprint reader.
Frey winced at a slight sting and withdrew his finger.
“Just a little blood, and . . .”
Suddenly a rough 3D computer model of Frey’s body appeared. It had no surface color, but was a gray graphical primitive—anatomically correct as it was.
“Well, that’s rather personal.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” She adjusted controls on invisible displays, moving her hands in midair. “Let’s give you some lifelike colorization.” Moments later Frey appeared, nude and in living color, on-screen.
“Now it’s even more personal.”
“Will we be addressing your achondroplasia first?”
“You were able to distinguish my condition from—”
“Our systems recognized the precise genetic error immediately.” She turned. “Would you like to see what you’d look like with it corrected? To see the man you were meant to be?”
Frey’s face flushed. “You can model that—right now? Here and now?”
She smiled and tapped a virtual button.
The floating AR model of Frey fluttered for several moments, and then a photographically detailed model of a handsome, well-proportioned man floated in space before them.
Frey’s hands began to tremble. And then tears flowed from his eyes. “That’s me.”
She checked invisible readings. “Six feet, two inches.” She looked up. “My, you’re a handsome fellow. With just a few genetic edits, too. Most of our clients aren’t so lucky.”
Durand could not help but be affected as Frey reached out toward his ideal self.
Frey wiped his tears away. He tried to regain a professional air. “How many edits?”
She studied an unseen screen. “Achondroplasia is a more interconnected malady than geneticists suspected. It took a lot of experimentation to follow the—”
“How many?”
“Eighty-six unique edits.”
Frey nodded eagerly. “And that would cost how much?”
“Five million six hundred and thirty-three thousand US dollars.”
Frey stared at the image.
Durand remained silent.
The genetic counselor said, “You have more than enough in your account. We could explore additional improvements.”
Frey simply stared, mesmerized.
Thomas suddenly returned. He tapped Durand on the shoulder. “Hanif is ready for you now, sir.”
Frey could barely take his eyes off the model.
“I need to take care of this, Bryan. I’ll be back.”
Frey still stared as Rita made small revisions.
“Bryan.”
Frey looked up. “Yes. Yes, I will be here.”
Reluctantly Durand followed Thomas.
Chapter 42
I am most pleased to meet you. My name is Hanif.” The slim, middle-age Indonesian man in a white lab coat studied Kenneth Durand’s muscular frame. “My goodness, you look as though you have already had some refinements. Is this not so?”
Durand didn’t know what to do with this question, so he shook his head. “I have very specific requirements. I want this . . .” He passed Hanif the data chip Frey had given him.
“What is this?”
“It’s a complete genomic sequence.”
The man examined the chip. “You’ve brought a genomic sequence, sir?”
“Yes. That contains the letters of the person I need to be revised to.”
Hanif looked skeptical. “Is it a complete genomic sequence or merely sequences you wish to edit?”
“It should be a complete genomic sequence.”
“This could be dangerous. We need to be certain there are no neurological—”
“Just load it.”
The genetic counselor sighed, and after manipulating some unseen screens, he slid the chip into a slot on the edge of the countertop. He waited for several moments. “Let’s see what we have here.” He glanced up, and a gray graphical primitive of a human form appeared before Durand.
Even though it was similar to modeling clay, Durand could immediately recognize it as his old self. His heart raced as he watched it slowly revolve. “Make it lifelike.”
Hanif was studying his screens. “What’s that, sir?”
“I said, give it a lifelike skin tone. Make it photorealistic.”
“Very well.” He clicked around, and finally a virtual Kenneth Durand stood before him. Durand lowered his head. He was so close. He had come so far. He looked up and saw himself staring back for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
Hanif looked up from his virtual screens and jumped as if he suddenly had a Siberian tiger sitting before him. “My god. I deeply apologize, sir. I . . .”
Durand gazed down at his hands and immediately realized his error. He looked at his reflection in the glass-fronted cabinets. His Huli jing tattoos were all on display.
Hanif was flustered. “Please forgive me, sir. If this is a test, I assure you, I am most loyal. I would never—”
Durand held up his hand. “Calm down.”
“But I do most humbly apologize, sir. If there is any doubt as to my loyalty.”
Durand pointed at the image of himself rotating before them both. “Do you see this?”
“Yes. I do see, sir.”
“Synthesize this into a change agent, and do it immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. I do very much, sir.” The man got busy. “Of course, I will need you to place your finger in the receptacle, sir.”
Durand looked over to see an indentation in the counter with a green light flashing from it. He inserted his index finger and felt the barest pinch. Moments later he saw an image of his current self—Marcus Wyckes—floating right alongside Kenneth Durand. It was his internal struggle made visible.
“There is some interesting overlap here . . .”
“Never mind the overlap. Just make me into that first one.”
“Yes, sir. I will prepare a change agent.”
“How long will it take?”
“To compute the edit plan or to synthesize the reagent?”
“Both. Tell me the time for both.”
Hanif interacted with unseen UIs. “It looks as though we have previous computations on file for this sequence . . .” He glanced up at Durand. “Of course. You must have transferred the other way. I see. This will save us a tremendous amount of time. We can merely reverse the previous edit plan. I should be able to synthesize the reagent in a couple hours. But then we would need to schedule the procedure, discuss a recuperation—”
“I want the change agent put into an autoinjector.”
“Into an ampoule, sir?” Hanif gazed at the records. “Ah. Like before?”
Durand turned away from the image of his old self to stare at Hanif. He nodded. “Yes. Like before.”
As Durand walked around staring at the virtual images of Kenneth Durand and Marcus Wyckes, he heard a beep and a security door behind him slid open.
Durand turned to face it and noticed a corridor leading through a laboratory space. He glanced back and noticed that Hanif was focused on a virtual interface—clearly aiming to impress. Walking forward to the edge of the open door, Durand could see a green light on the door security pad. He glanced down at the tattoos on the back of his hand and remembered what the elder monk had said about his tattoos being a three-dimensional key—in ultraviolet frequencies. Visible through his clothing, then.
Hanif spoke behind him. “I would not recommend such an aggressive pace of revision, sir.” He read a virtual display. “Oh, my. How on earth did you survive this?” He looked back at the tattooed Huli jing before him. “I do not mean to offend. And please forgive me—but I would suggest reducing the pace by at least two-thirds.”
Durand n
odded. “Fine. Just prepare the autoinjector.”
Hanif moved his hands over unseen screens. “I humbly beg your forbearance . . . but an admin code. Without it, the system will charge—”
Durand held up his wrist and pointed to the carbon fiber band. “Apply it to this account.”
“This is most—”
Durand pounded the counter. “Do it!”
The man’s hands moved swiftly. “This is eleven million—”
“Do it!”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
“I’ll return.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
As he moved toward the security door, Durand removed the Vantablack glove from his jacket pocket and pulled it on over his tracking bracelet. He then moved through the security door, tattoos still prominent, and walked down the service corridor beyond.
It apparently joined all the client consultation rooms to a central processing lab.
Technicians and robots here worked in glass-walled labs to either side. Robotic arms moved ampoules in and out of refrigerated units filled with rows of thousands more. As Durand passed each lab door, the red light on its security pad would turn green.
He had complete access.
Durand pushed into a glass-walled storage room occupied by only a robotic arm busy retrieving ampoules from storage. The door chirped as he did so, and the robotic arm immediately ceased activity, pulling away into a corner.
As he walked along the glass refrigerator doors, a glim in the ceiling found his retinas and began beaming AR information to him. Durand gazed at thousands of sealed glass ampoules in racks, each filled with perhaps half an ounce of honey-colored liquid.
Who were they meant for?
The lights on the refrigerator doors also flipped from green to red as Durand passed. He finally stopped before one marked with the AR label “Involuntary Third-Party Revisions.” The racks here contained ampoules with autoinjectors.
Change Agent Page 37