Calypso Directive

by Brian Andrews

  “Why did they do that? Sounds like suicide to me,” Will said.

  “In one sense, you’re right. For the people of Eyam it was a death sentence. But in another sense, the town leaders demonstrated both wisdom and compassion. By instituting the quarantine in Eyam, they prevented the plague from spreading to all the surrounding villages. The sacrifice of the few saved the lives of the many.”

  “Utilitarianism,” Will mumbled.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s one view. You could also call it altruism.”

  “I think it would be altruism if everyone in the town had been given a choice, and they all came to the same conclusion as the elders. A mandate like that is a different story in my book. Don’t get me wrong, I think what they did was noble, but at the end of the day, who really has the power to decide when some people’s lives should be sacrificed for the greater good, and when they should not?”

  “Philosophers have debated the question for a thousand years, and here we are still discussing it today.”

  “It hits pretty close to home for me, because some rich executive decided to put me in quarantine under the auspice of serving the greater good, and I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I definitely can relate to the people who lived in Eyam.”

  Johansen chuckled. “Maybe more than you know.” The professor slid the leather bound diary across the table to Will. “Be gentle with that. It’s almost four hundred years old.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “In a souvenir shop in Eyam. It was one of the most expensive items in the shop. I paid two hundred pounds for that over twenty years ago. Imagine what it would fetch today.”

  Will opened the cover and gingerly began turning the pages. “Whose diary was this?”

  “It belonged to the tailor’s daughter, Kathryn Vicars, who married and became Kathryn Foster. She lived in Eyam when the plague hit.”

  Will eyed the Professor with curiosity. “What happened to her?”

  “She became infected, and she died.”

  “And her family? Did they all die too?”

  “No, not all. Kathryn’s father, the tailor, was the first to die; but Kathryn eloped with her young lover, Paul Foster. Together, they avoided infection during the first outbreak in the fall of 1665. Months later, the couple returned to Eyam, only to find the town infested with plague. They decided to live at the Foster family farm. Kathryn became pregnant and birthed a son, George. Sadly, there was a resurgence of the plague that lasted almost all of 1666. Kathryn fell ill and died in August of that year. When the plague had finally run its course, only 20 percent of Eyam’s population remained. The story is all inside. The pages of the diary are laden with emotion. Pain, sorrow, suffering. Love, joy, new beginnings. I read it cover to cover. It could be made into a movie.”

  “And Paul Foster, he lived because he was immune?”

  “Yes, and so did the son, George Foster,” Johansen said. He grinned at Will. “Now, I suspect the answer to my quest may be sitting at this table. I tried to trace the Foster lineage to the present, but the line went cold in the mid-seventeen hundreds. Maybe that is because one of your ancestors sneaked across the pond and became a Yank without telling anyone.”

  “That would be incredible if it were true.”

  “I can propose one surefire way to find out,” Johansen said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Take a sample of my DNA?”

  “Yes.”

  Will looked at Julie, who was beaming. “Absolutely, do it, Will. This is what you were hoping for. Answers to what makes you special.”

  Will rubbed his chin and then said, “First let me ask you one more question. If you had to come up with a theory about why my immune system is impervious to disease, what would you say?”

  Johansen laughed, and then replied. “I can’t answer that question without conducting years of research. It’s the very question I’ve dedicated my professional career to. If I knew the answer, I would retire tomorrow.”

  “But if you had to guess? Let’s say the Nobel committee told you to forward your hypothesis today, or they would never listen to you again,” Will pressed.

  “That sounds like the Nobel committee all right,” Johansen laughed. “Since you are being very persistent, I will tell you my theory. Understand, however, I have no conclusive evidence to support this idea; it is only a theory.”

  “No problem.”

  “I speculate that you have a genetic mutation—passed down from Paul Foster via your paternal lineage—which is responsible for the unusual lymphocyte in your pictures. I have postulated for several years now that, theoretically, a skeleton key lymphocyte could exist.”

  “Skeleton key lymphocyte?” Julie questioned.

  “Let me explain: T cells and B cells are specific, meaning a single lymphocyte has receptors that can bind only to a particular antigen. Think of this as a lock and key system—a single key fits a single lock. Now, imagine a mutation where a lymphocyte could bind to a variety of antigens expressed by a variety of pathogens. Instead of being effective against only one specific type of pathogen, a skeleton key lymphocyte could mount a defense against many different pathogens—just as a skeleton key can work on many different locks. Such a mutation would bestow upon its owner an extremely efficient immune response.”

  “How can we determine if Will has this skeleton key mutation?”

  “I know only one way to do that my dear, and it’s the hard way. Research. Lots and lots of research,” Johansen laughed. “But let’s start with the DNA test to confirm Will’s ancestry first, shall we?”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I can draw the blood sample in the lab now, but the analysis will take some time. I should have a preliminary answer within a couple of days. I would also like to draw additional vials of blood to begin an analysis on that mystery lymphocyte of yours. Are you opposed to that?” Johansen asked.

  Will looked at Julie.

  “Were going to need some assurances from you and the university before we tread down that path,” she said.

  “Of course,” Professor Johansen replied. Then he took Will’s hand between both of his and squeezed, while looking Will in the eyes. “Please understand, I might be a man of science, but I am also a man of conscience. I’m morally opposed to the patenting of genes. I maintain the belief that your genome is your property. I have no more right to patent it for my own personal gain than I do the right to pilfer the contents of your wallet. Vyrogen tried to exploit you, make you the Henrietta Lacks of our time, but I assure you that will never happen here. I sign a written contract with every research subject in my genealogy study, waiving any and all patent rights to genes discovered while conducting my research. The university doesn’t always like it, but I’ve made it a condition of my employment.”

  Gene patents? Henrietta Lacks? He turned to Julie again. “What is he talking about, Julie?”

  “Medical practitioners and medical researchers have always been joined at the hip, but with the advent of modern genetics, we’ve become strange bedfellows,” Julie said. “It all started in early 1950s with an American woman named Henrietta Lacks. She was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cervical cancer. She was treated at Johns Hopkins. For diagnostic purposes, her doctor ordered a tissue biopsy of her cervix. A scientist in the culture lab by the name of George Gey noticed that Lacks’ cancer cells did not die off in the culture dish like normal cells did. Instead, they survived and multiplied unfettered. He dubbed these resilient cells HeLa cells, borrowing the first two letters from Henrietta and Lacks. As a scientist, Gey realized that these immortal cells would be invaluable to the field of medical research, so he cultured a HeLa cell line for this express purpose. This did nothing of course to help cure poor Henrietta of her cancer, but it did lay the foundation for sixty years of ground-breaking research based on her cells.”

  “How do you know all this?” Will asked.

  “I’m an oncology researcher, Will. I’ve been using HeLa cel
ls my entire career. Every man, woman and child on this planet owes Henrietta Lacks a debt of gratitude. Without HeLa cells, modern medicine would not be where it is today. Vaccine creation, cancer research, pharmaceutical drug development, our understanding of infectious diseases like HIV and influenza . . . all these things rely on the use of HeLa cells,” she said. Then, exhaling slowly, she added, “But there’s more to it than that. In recent years, Henrietta Lacks has become the poster child for biomedical exploitation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the HeLa cell line was cultured, patented, and commercialized without her knowledge or consent. Moreover, her family was kept in the dark and never financially compensated or paid a royalty from the subsequent profits. I think the point Professor Johansen was making is that if your mutation turns out to be the miraculous discovery we all think it is, then you and Henrietta Lacks would be kindred spirits—genetically exceptional and thus exploited for both patent and profit.”

  Will narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying that Vyrogen could patent my genes and make millions of dollars from my immunity mutation simply because they happened to stumble across it first?”

  “Billions of dollars,” Johansen said, beating Julie to the punch. “And yes, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office has been granting patents on genes since the Supreme Court case of Diamond v. Chakrabarty in 1980. A recent study estimated that approximately 20 percent of the human genome has already been patented. It is disgusting. Patent holders are granted a virtual monopoly on applications associated with their patented genes, a practice that not only undermines scientific freedom and the collegial exchange of information, but also jeopardizes each and every person’s right to have free access to and use of the information encoded in their own DNA.”

  “So Vyrogen has already won,” Will said, his eyes cast down. “Once they patent my mutation, they control everything.”

  “Not necessarily,” Johansen replied. Then with a sly grin he added, “I would never presume to tell you what to do in a scenario as extraordinary as yours. I can, however, tell you what I would do if our stations were reversed.”

  “And what would you do?”

  “I would publish my genome on the Internet, for the entire world to see. It would be my gift to humanity,” said Johansen.

  “And, it would make life hell for Vyrogen,” Julie added. “If Dr. Johansen can identify the genes responsible for your mutation and make a public disclosure before Vyrogen, then you win and Vyrogen loses.”

  Johansen nodded. “The irony of trying to sell something which is priceless is that one should never try to sell it to begin with.”

  Will nodded, contemplating his words. “Thank you, Professor, for everything.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Were just starting this race,” said Johansen, shaking Will’s hand.

  “You’ve done plenty already. You’ve given me hope.”

  Johansen smiled and looked down, almost embarrassed. He liked Will Foster. It took great courage to do what he was doing, especially considering the ordeal he had been through with Vyrogen, and great courage was hard to find in people these days.

  “This,” Johansen said, taking the diary off the table and handing it to Will, “should belong to you. I think you will find the story to be inspirational.”

  “I couldn’t,” Will stammered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The words on these pages are no more mine to possess than the information encoded in your DNA. I’m just along for the ride. Please, take it. Meet Kathryn Foster. Meet her husband, Paul, and their son, George. Know what it was like to be a Foster in 1665.”

  Will nodded and took the diary in his hands. He gently opened the worn leather cover and paged to where a black silk ribbon page divider rested and read a short entry.

  May 27, 1666

  Dearest Diary,

  At length the day has come on which I am a mother. My tears flow as I write at the idea, for I am both full of joy and wrought with fear at the prospect. My dearest Paul and Mother Alice have been steadfast at my bedside since the labour, and they chasten me for talking nonsense whenever I speak of my fears.

  Little George is so fair, but Alice says he is of nice colour. To my eyes, his likeness is that of Paul, but Paul of course says the opposite, that he is wholly a reflection of me. It is no matter, because all in the family agree that nary have they seen a child so handsome, pleasant, and hungry as George. I have placed a cutting of his hair inside the crease of this page so that I might never forget how soft and fair he was on this, the day of his birth.

  As I look upon my son, asleep at my bosom, I think that there is nary a child in the world—perhaps one in one hundred generations—as perfect as he. I pray that the plague never finds him, and that God grants me the good fortune to be able to love him for a thousand thousand to-morrows.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Boston, Massachusetts

  HE GAZED UPON the length of her long, arched naked back. Her skin was the color of crème and smelled of lavender and honey. Caramel freckles accented her shoulders, and together with her rich auburn locks, dutifully honored her Irish lineage. Starting at the nape of her neck, like a running bead of water, he ran his fingertip over her trapezius muscle, and then along the arc of her protruding, angular shoulder blade. Inward next, his touch danced across the plane of her latissimus dorsi, toward the middle of her back. Then downward, he surfed along her spine, and through a herringbone stream of delicate white-blonde peach fuzz that covered the small of her back. She purred, almost inaudibly, with delight. His caress terminated, finally, at a tiny indentation at the junction of her tail-bone and bare, exposed buttocks. In this spot, he deposited a single, gentle kiss, before retracing the same path upward, to its origin, with more kisses.

  “You paint me with your touch. This must be how the stones of the Sistine Chapel felt beneath Michelangelo’s brush,” Meredith mused.

  “Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor, first and foremost. Painting was conscription labor, for the Pope. Forget about the brush. If you were made of stone, which we can debate later, you would be my David. But hewn as Michelangelo should have hewn it. As a woman,” Nicolora replied, his voice baritone and seductive.

  Meredith rolled to her side, and inched toward him. He drifted onto his back, propping himself up slightly, and then extended his arm outward to cradle her. She nuzzled close, pressing her right breast softly against his bare chest, and depositing her cheek in the comfortable depression between his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

  “You’ve been a naughty boy, Robért,” she whispered. “Very naughty.”

  “And you’ve been a naughty girl, Meredith. Especially about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Don’t be cheeky, you know what I’m talking about,” she mewed.

  After a pause he said, “If you’re referring to Countess Carlysle, then you should consider the discussion tabled, because I have nothing to say on the matter.”

  “I’m not talking about another woman, you stupid lout; I’m talking about you sending your minions to spy on me.” Then, punctuating each word with a bite she moved her mouth across the span of his chest, and said, “I . . . don’t . . . appreciate . . . that.”

  “I’m sure . . .” he said, devoting considerable effort not to flinch with each new and painful nibble, “that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Meredith sat up abruptly, facing him. Chest puffing, face flushed, nipples erect.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Robért Nicolora! I know it was you.”

  He did not answer, nor did he look her in the eyes, but rather let his gaze linger on her nakedness.

  “Oh, you men are so pathetic,” she huffed, as she turned abruptly to exit the bed.

  He caught her by her trailing arm before she was completely off the mattress and pulled her forcefully on top of him. “Now wait a minute, Meredith. Don’t do that,” he implored. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “Let go of me, you wretch. I never shoul
d have come to you.” She squirmed to free herself from his iron grip. “And I never should have trusted you.”

  He held her tight. After a halfhearted struggle, she collapsed onto him.

  “The team is making steady progress on locating Foster. But this is not an ordinary assignment. You’ve handed me a hornet’s nest, Meredith, and I’m trying to manage it without getting stung,” he said, his eastern European accent emerging, charged by the emotion she had ignited in him.

  “I know. It’s just that I’m anxious, Robért. We have to find Foster soon, before more innocent people get hurt by him,” she mumbled, her face pressed tight against his chest.

  “I know we do.” They laid together in silence for several minutes and then he said. “I have concerns, Meredith.”

  “Like what?”

  “First, why did you keep Foster in-house? Why didn’t you hand him over to the CDC or a proper hospital for quarantine and treatment? It seems a tremendous liability for you, and for your company, to accept for the sake of one man in a vaccine trial.”

  Meredith grinned unfettered, knowing her face was hidden, buried against his chest. It had required one of her best theatrical performances, but she had finally managed to win the upper hand.

  “Do you think I’m heartless, Robért? Those bureaucrats would have argued over treatment protocols, insurance coverage, public safety, and God knows what other red tape for weeks. Meanwhile, poor Will would have been dying inside a giant inflatable Ziploc bag. Someone had to act. Someone had to do the responsible thing. I felt had a duty to try to help him, using any and all means at my disposal.”