The terrorist attacks on 9/11 had changed the world for James Talcott. He was suddenly awakened to the possibility of violence and death. Talcott had convinced himself that he was just getting everything set, being prepared. Really, McKinney thought, Talcott had been out in the woods that night taking potshots at his personal demons. He had committed suicide by fear.
McKinney ran his hand over his own recently shaved head, an act of family solidarity Angelina had suggested. They had been lucky. Catherine's mastectomy and the removal, for safety, of her nearest lymph nodes had gotten all the cancer. Now if she makes it past the five-year mark...
For a while he or Catherine would laugh a little too loud or a little too long whenever one of them told a joke. They'd try a little too hard to appear relaxed around Angelina, but she, of course, noticed. Eventually, their hair would grow back and they'd be able to talk about cancer without calling it “the C word.” Nothing would ever be the way it was before, though. They too had been touched by fear.
Copyright © 2009 Tim Chapman
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Fiction: COLORBLIND by Mike Wiecek
His H2 had been repo'd last week, so Charlie Norton walked. He'd kind of forgotten about life outside A/C. The midtown Atlanta avenues simmered in the humid morning, sidewalks mostly empty.
In the cars you couldn't tell. On the street, every face but Charlie's was black.
The conference had been scheduled last year, back when “Structural Bioinformatics: Applications to Synthetic Genomics” might have drawn a few dozen grad student attendees. Now, with every American an expert and the CDC down the street, overflow crowds spilled across the plaza. Media trucks sat nose-to-tail, hogging the parking lane down Fifth Street, dish antennas aimed at the sky.
When Charlie arrived, irritated by the sweat dampening his chalkstripe Brioni, a press availability was winding up outside. The gaggle shouted a last few questions, some muffled by surgical masks. The speaker, director of the CDC's Coordinating Office for Bioterrorism, had a heroic jaw and dark circles under his eyes.
Charlie heard and forgot the director's closing platitudes “—no adverse pathological effects ... changes strictly somatic ... efforts of the entire government—” and found a familiar face in the crowd.
"Hey, Charlie! Thanks for meeting me here.” Light hair and fair skin but, unlike many of the civilians, no mask, no Purell bottle on her belt, and no hesitation to shake his hand. A CDC badge was clipped to her plain white shirt. “Bankrupt anyone today?"
"Just widows and orphans. Hi, Sara.” They'd been pre-med classmates a decade earlier. But while Sara went on to graduate school and public service, Charlie made a U-turn onto Wall Street, eventually joining a hedge fund focused on the healthcare-industrial complex. “Tell you the truth, we've been taking losses lately."
"Really?"
"Volatility.” Charlie shrugged. He didn't feel like explaining that he'd gone twenty million short on some overhyped recombinant vaccines—right before the virus hit, and those companies saw their stock almost quintuple. Forget this year's bonus. Forget a regular paycheck, in fact. He was lucky the Freeboard Capital partners still let him come in to pick up his mail. “Any announcements?"
"From Bruce?” Sara watched the director, who was retreating into the building behind a harrying pack of Web-only stringers. “Of course not. Funny, though: He slipped and said ‘cure.’ The live-bloggers are probably all over it already."
"Most of them couldn't spell ‘palliation’ anyhow."
"Either way, it's not going to happen."
"Oh? You guys know something?"
"It's obvious. Pigmentation maybe, but who wants to give up a nice tan? The morphological changes are a one-way street."
"That's not what America is waiting to hear."
They drifted into the main hall. Ahead a dozen rent-a-cops blocked the flanks of the registration desk. One of the guards—Caucasian—had blotchy dark patches on his face, obvious early-stage symptoms of the virus, which could only work as fast as the epidermis cycled in new genetic coding. The man glowered at everyone.
Charlie frowned at the long queue. “Why don't we get a muffin somewhere?"
They found a coffee-and-pastry cart at the corner, where the Fifth Street Bridge crossed the I-75 gulch.
"Straight from the oven they come,” said the vendor, flourishing a long pair of tongs he used to withdraw Sara's bagel from the warming box. “Perfect, clean."
"Relax,” she said, handing over a few Sacajawea dollars. Bad science and worse reporting had convinced people that the virus could survive on moist paper currency, so now everyone carried heavy pocketfuls of change. “It's blood borne, you know? Unless you're having sex or sharing needles, you're fine."
"I know.” The vendor had a grizzled dignity. “But the customers..."
They sat on a concrete ledge, pigeons burbling on the sidewalk nearby. Sara complained about CDC politics.
"Every penny goes to the response teams, the bioterror guys. They get the press, but it's baseline epidemiology that lays the groundwork. Without us they'd be knocking on doors at random."
"I thought that's what they were doing anyway."
"Oh, I wouldn't say random. They've rounded up quite a few Arabic-speaking post-docs with visa problems."
Exhaust fumes drifted up from the highway.
"I have a proposal.” Sara came to the point.
"Yeah?"
"You want to make money. I want to save lives. This virus gives us a chance to do both."
"How so?” He unwrapped his croissant. “For one thing, it's not killing anyone. Your boss might think we need a cure for being black, but any tropical disease is magnitudes worse."
"I think,” Sara said, “you and me, we should go find whoever created the virus."
"Whoa.” Charlie hadn't been expecting that. “The most wanted terrorist group ever? The target of every police agency, army, and CSI enthusiast in the country? Sure, no problem. Let's grab Osama bin Laden while we're at it."
"If they were so effective, they'd have caught the guy already."
Charlie's croissant shed crumbs. He watched pigeons flock in.
"Anyway, there's no money in it,” he said.
"The virus itself. That's the pay dirt."
"It was completely sequenced months ago. Anyone can download it right off the web."
"It's a perfect vector.” Sara leaned forward. “Bruce, idiot though he may be, got it right back there—no side effects. None."
"Yes..."
"How many times have companies announced this or that genetic therapy—hundreds? And how many have actually worked? You can't putter around with the genome like it's a Home Depot fixerupper. Mostly you cause as many problems as you solve. But this one—no adverse implications at all. It hits the target and goes away. That's simply never been done before."
Charlie nodded slowly.
"Who made it?” Sara said.
"You're asking me?"
"Not bin Laden. You can't run DNA synthesis in a cave. Not the Russians, or the Chinese—they wouldn't go to all the trouble for what's basically a prank."
"So..."
"So, it's a hacker. Some guy in a garage."
The TV shows and newsblogs loved to talk about the gene hacking underground—like all those kids who'd spent the nineties tinkering with computer networks, now they were tinkering with DNA instead. Charlie had always been skeptical.
"This isn't the same as wardialing a 2400-baud modem,” he said. “Twelve-year-old misfits aren't setting up clean-room microbiology labs."
"The technology is simple enough. You can buy a lot of it right off the Internet.” Sara shrugged. “What's impressive is not the coding, but what he did with it. He's a genius."
A group of riot officers walked across the bridge, visors up and assault rifles slung out of the way. Whatever demonstration they'd been dispatched to forestall was apparently no longer expected. The pigeons scattered as they passed.
"You think we should hire him?"
"You're right about the code,” she said. “Not only is it public domain at this point, but there are a million companies working on targeted antivirals.” She paused. “To this one."
"You mean ... he did it once, he can do it again."
"Gene therapy that really works. Miracle cures. It's all about the vector, and this guy figured it out.” Sara finished her bagel. “He's spinning gold, Charlie."
"Hmm."
"This virus, the whole thing—it could be, like, proof of concept. A demo."
Charlie was getting interested. “Too risky, don't you think? I mean, Congress just legislated the death penalty for involuntary genetic modification. Not exactly a friendly regulatory environment."
"So he'll have to move offshore. Whatever."
"Maybe."
"It's a guy in a garage,” Sara repeated. “And all he needs is a really good business plan."
Charlie restlessly tossed the rest of his croissant to the pigeons.
"How much?” he said.
"What?"
"How much do you want?"
She surprised him by laughing. “A percent. Or less. Whatever, there's plenty for everyone. The important thing is—” and the smile disappeared “—we get credit. My division. Not so much as a footnote to Bruce and the bioterror flyboys."
"Got you.” Charlie couldn't help admiring the set of her jaw, and he thought to himself, Watch out. “Just one problem. If the concentrated efforts of every government in the industrialized world can't find him, what can you and I possibly do?"
"I know where to start.” Sara gathered their paper trash. “I met a guy once, a lab tech at Georgia Tech, where a friend of mine was doing a fellowship. Sharp, but a big chip on his shoulder, like a lot of those support staff who do all the work. He quit a few years ago."
"That's your big lead?” Charlie frowned. “A disgruntled bottle washer?"
"Come on, my car's up here.” She smiled. “You'll like him, I promise."
* * * *
"Get the hell out of here.” The man held a shotgun in one hand. His hair was dirty and shocked.
"Right.” Charlie started to back away. “Sorry to bother you, have a nice—"
"Is that registered?"
The man looked at Sara. “Of course. The sheriff's a friend of mine."
They were thirty-five miles from Atlanta, deep in housing-boom sprawl. for sale signs only just outnumbered foreclosure notices.
Sara tried again. “Come on, Frank, you remember me. Kaitlyn says hi."
It took a few minutes, but they ended up in the foyer. Frank laid the scattergun on a decorative mantelpiece.
"I don't do that stuff anymore,” he said. “And the FBI's been out here to make sure."
"What'd you think of the FBI agents?” Sara asked.
"Think of them?"
"Are they going to find the hacker?"
"Those morons? Ha!"
"Exactly."
A truck rattled past out front. Charlie noticed his pant cuffs had picked up a sheen of pale, dusty dirt.
"I'll show you something,” said Frank.
They descended the basement stairs and paused at the bottom before a metal fire door.
"No secrets here,” Frank said. “The FBI's seen it all.” And he pushed open the door.
After the dank murk of the stairwell, the room was brilliantly lit and wonderfully cool. Lab benches held glassware arrays; a stainless steel freezer hummed.
"I thought you said—” Sara shook her head. “Thermal cycling apparatus. Sterile hoods. Micro-fluidics. This isn't a model railroad layout, Frank."
He shrugged. “I do some contract work."
Charlie spoke for the first time. “Contract work? People outsource their PCR?"
Frank grunted but spoke to Sara. “That's an awfully nice suit for someone pretending to know what he's talking about."
"Ask him yourself."
Frank looked at him. “What do you do?"
"Lately?” Charlie sighed. “Lose millions and millions of dollars in lightly regulated derivatives markets."
"What I figured. Nice work if you can get it."
"The virus, Frank.” Sara sounded impatient.
"Yeah, yeah, the virus.” He was still eyeing Charlie. “See, it's like the common cold, only—"
"Oh, for Christ's sake,” Charlie said. “It's basically denatured HIV, the pathogenic code replaced by a payload of synthetic RNA. Ten thousand-odd base pairs, modifying fourteen genes. The first is SLC24A5, the alanine variant, which overwrites any extant threonine versions—a straightforward mod to darken the recipient's skin. The second—"
"All right, that's enough."
"What do you know, Frank?” Sara crossed her arms.
"Nothing that anyone else hasn't already thought of. Whoever assembled it, they did a real nice job. Plain old E. coli to transport the RNA into the virus, probably. But it doesn't use the HIV's native reverse transcriptase—the insertion is rigged with a zinc finger nuclease, custom built. Hardly any cytotoxicity at all. I tell you, I'm impressed."
"So who could have done it?"
"Technically, hell, anyone. But the design—"
"I know you're on the boards,” said Sara. “We've got teams online, squirreling their way onto IRC channels where the hackers are. I've seen transcripts."
"Yeah, I listen in sometimes.” Frank shrugged. “Script kiddies, boasting about testosterone inhibitors they're going to slip into their school's drinking fountains. Or East Europeans, trying out their scams—one day they're peddling enriched uranium, next they've got mosquito-borne nerve toxins. I never heard anyone who sounded like they knew what they were doing."
"Where do we go, Frank?” Sara pushed. “Where do we look?"
"Cui bono, honey."
"What?"
"Forget the science. Ask, who benefits?"
"Good point,” said Charlie. “We better start chasing down all the white rapper wannabes. Or how about affirmative action? This totally screws up the firefighter waiting lists."
Frank looked at Sara. “I was right the first time. He's an idiot."
They went back upstairs. Outside several rangy dogs loped past, snapping at each other.
"Have you looked at the sequencing?” Frank asked as Sara made to leave. “The entire strand of RNA in the virus?"
"Of course."
"The last seventy-two nucleotides—what do they do?"
"I don't remember."
"Go check.” He started to close the door.
"Hold on.” Charlie shoved his foot back into the jamb. “No one's sure. Those pairs aren't part of the chromosomal modifications; they're junk."
"Not junk."
"But they don't do anything."
"Wait.” Sara stared. “Son of a bitch. It's a signature, isn't it?"
"I think so,” Frank said.
"Signature?” Charlie had missed the storyline again.
"If you're a computer hacker and you want to boast, you can just comment out some text inside the source code. This is the same idea. Once you've laddered on a few thousand base pairs, what're a few more?"
"But you only have C and A and T and G to work with.” Charlie hesitated. “So let's see, you could sign your self CAT, or ... GAGA? ATT?"
"Goodbye, hotshot.” Frank removed Charlie's foot from the door. “You'll figure it out."
* * * *
Back on I-85 Sara kept the Civic at a steady sixty, passed by everyone. Charlie, accustomed to the imperial view from his lamented Hummer, found it hard to relax so close to the ground.
"That was fun,” he said. “What's next—visiting a meth lab?"
"Private-sector data. Someone running PCR in their kitchen, they're going to need specialized inputs. You can't possibly synthesize everything. So there's a purchase trail."
"I suppose."
"You saw the empty boxes in Frank's lab, under the table?"
Charlie nodded. “Polystyrene, and there were
gel ice packs discarded in the sink. Nothing unusual. That's how enzymes are usually shipped."
"All from Johnson Biologics. Let's assume they're the supplier of choice for do-it-yourselfers. Based on the virus itself, we can figure out what exactly our hacker would need—with a rough timeline, too, since we know when the first cases began to appear."
"That's a long chain of what-if's."
"It's all we have.” Sara signaled a lane change. “Look, if the government wants the records from Johnson, they have to get a subpoena."
"So?"
"It takes time, and some expertise to know what to ask for, and competence to evaluate the response. Freeboard Capital Partners, on the other hand—you can just call up and buy it, right?"
"In theory.” Charlie shifted in his seat. “But there must be thousands of customers. Johnson is a huge supplier of this stuff. They probably even sell to the CDC itself."
"We'll sieve out the likely ones.” Sara glanced over. “What's the problem?"
Charlie sighed. “FreeCap isn't happy with me at the moment."
"You mean you don't actually have access to your computer there?” Sara sounded annoyed. “Or anything?"
"I'm thinking of it as a sabbatical."
Sara grumbled all the way back into Atlanta. Traffic became heavy, and by the time they were close to the center, it was late afternoon.
"Where can I drop you?” she asked.
"What, you're not going to take me out to dinner?"
Sara looked at him. “You're really on the skids, aren't you?"
"Tell you what, buy me a beer and we'll call it even."
After a long pause at the corner, she laughed and turned left, toward downtown.
"Just like college,” she said.
* * * *
They chose a Brazilian barbeque in Little Five Points. The restaurant was crowded, unusually so given the national mood. But college students still seemed to think they were invulnerable. For whatever reason the seats were filled, the air smoky, the slabs of meat slow cooked and plentiful. When Charlie and Sara emerged, it was dark.
It only took a moment to realize something was wrong. Sirens sounded a few blocks away, and they could smell more smoke than the barbecue. Several jittery young men trotted past.
AHMM, October 2009 Page 13