Mutant Read online

  “Of course, Dr. Sullivan. He’s all yours. I was about to leave anyway.” She got up from her chair. “Good evening to you both. I’ll see you at the sessions tomorrow.”

  Steele jumped to his feet, but before he could think of anything to interject, Sandra nodded, turned, and walked toward the door.

  “Good night, Dr. Arness,” Sullivan called cheerfully after her, then took the chair where she’d been sitting. “Dr. Steele, I want you on the panel with me for the plenary session on the dangers of naked DNA. We’ll be focusing on the case of bird influenza that jumped the species barrier here eighteen months ago, to illustrate the kind of event that these vectors can enhance. . . .”

  As Steele retook his seat opposite her and listened, he watched Sandra Arness disappear out the door. Well, thanks a heap, Kathleen Sullivan, he thought sarcastically. You certainly managed to keep me safe from what might have been my own encounter with a little DNA tonight, naked or otherwise.

  “How did this bird flu learn to kill humans?” demanded Dr. Julie Carr the next morning, standing beside a massive screen on which she’d projected a black-and-white electron micrograph of an influenza virus.

  Nobody answered, everyone in the packed auditorium recognizing a rhetorical question when they heard one.

  “The answer lies in these bristles,” she continued, indicating with a laser pointer the spiked surface on the ovoid. “They’re made of glycoproteins. Some are rich in hemagglutinin, a three-pronged molecule that recognizes and locks on to a specific receptor site at the cellular surface of its host, thereby determining which species the virus can and cannot invade. Others contain neuraminidase, a molecule able to cleave these bonds, setting the virus free to spread elsewhere if infection at a particular cell doesn’t occur for some reason. Together they also form the molecular template against which a host mounts its immune response. Even slight variations in either of these two structures will allow the virus to evade antibodies acquired during the host’s previous exposure to old strains, and will result in increased infectivity. Now this guy here should only have spikes which fit with the molecules of chicken mucosa. . . .”

  She clicked to her next slide, again of an influenza virus, but with parts of its prickly projections colored brilliant green.

  “What you’re looking at is a color-modified computer image to show where these specific protein keys picked up the ELISA reagent for H5N1, the bird strain, on this particular influenza bug. But when I added ELISA for the H2N3, or human strain, I got this . . .”

  An image of an influenza virus brightly spotted with a mosaic of both red and green areas flashed onto the screen.

  “. . . a virologist’s worst nightmare—the true hybrid, its protein coat containing two sets of structural keys, giving it access to both bird and human cell membranes. It could only have acquired this dual identity through what we call a recombinant event—the exchange of genetic material between two organisms—in this case the incorporation of genes from the bird strain into the human influenza’s own genetic code.” She paused, took a sip of water, and then continued, “We figure it happened inside the boy’s nostrils, where he already had human influenza incubating. He probably got droppings laden with bird flu on his hand when he held one of the sick hens, then rubbed his nose, and bingo, the two strains were side by side. Thankfully history suggests that recombination between H5N1 and H2N3 seems to be a rare event—the known cases of humans contracting H5N1 being limited to this one and an occurrence in Taiwan three years ago. I say thankfully, because the virulence of bird flu in humans on a large scale is unimaginable. We have no immunity to it—after all, the virus has been safely off in birds for millions of years. If the hybrid which occurred here had gotten a foothold and spread, we’d have been in the same situation as say, the original Hawaiians were when they first encountered measles carried by European explorers during the eighteenth century. Having never been exposed to this children’s disease, well over twenty percent of the local population who got infected died. The fact that we avoided a similar fate eighteen months ago had to be nothing short of a miracle, even with the prompt actions of the Public Health Department and our extraordinary luck that the boy lived in a relatively isolated area where he hadn’t had much contact with other children. Thank you for your attention.”

  Dynamic speaker, thought Steele, adding to the enthusiastic applause that accompanied the petite virologist as she returned to her seat. She was three chairs down from Steele, part of the panel of a dozen experts Sullivan had assembled on stage.

  “Thank you, Julie,” said the geneticist, hopping up to the microphone. “As you’ve seen, Dr. Carr is a world innovator in devising imaginative staining techniques for electron microscopy. Back in New York, those blowups of hers would look right at home alongside a Salvador Dalí in the Museum of Modern Art.” She paused, allowing a response of mild laughter to peter out. Then she grinned slyly and added, “You could get a lot more for them there, Julie, than what most of us get paid as scientists.” That brought on a thunderous round of agreement.

  “Right! On with the show. Now we’ve seen how a disease can jump the species barrier and what a catastrophe that can be. Thankfully, as Dr. Carr pointed out—nature keeps the event rare. But would it remain an uncommon occurrence if genetic vectors accidentally became part of the scenario? My fear is that these man-made concoctions will make such events more and more likely—think of them as the equivalent of worms if you like, infectious DNA worms which might invade, break open, and insert themselves irrevocably into the strands of genes in other species, including, possibly, our own.” She paused, surveying her absolutely rapt audience.

  “Picture this,” she continued. “Suppose a farmer has genetically modified crops in his fields. Broken bits of plant or seeds—all carrying the DNA of whatever genetic vector had mutated them—could easily get carried from the field to the area where the chickens roam. Let’s also suppose the cells of that vegetation died, spilling their naked DNA, including that of the vectors, into the soil. Hens hunt and peck. If one already infected with H5N1, or bird flu, foraged around with its beak, it could stir up dust and inhale a dose of particles containing that naked DNA into its respiratory tract—DNA that’s turbocharged with gene regulators—the transposons, enhancers, and promoters which genetic engineers routinely slip into a vector to make it promiscuous and therefore more likely to get into the genes of its target organism.”

  Her choice of words produced a ripple of laughter.

  “But being uncloaked naked DNA, this randy little bugger doesn’t need a special ‘key’ to invade anything, unlike, as Dr. Carr demonstrated, ordinary viruses do. Instead it can directly penetrate whatever cell it comes in contact with, including those lining the chicken’s respiratory tract where the H5N1 bird flu has already taken up residence. Once this vector penetrates these cells, it floats right alongside the RNA genes of the invading H5N1 virus, and the bird’s own genetic machinery starts replicating both into copies of messenger RNA, the first step in expressing them genetically. The possible result is a bird flu strain of influenza turbocharged with strands of transposons, enhancers, and promoters from the vector. Place this little baby which is really ready to party alongside the human H2N3 variety, say in the nostrils of an infected farmworker, and who’s to guarantee that all the natural barriers which have kept recombination between the two strains a rare event over millions of years won’t suddenly be breached? In other words, if the DNA of the two strains do freely mingle, we’ll once more end up with a hybrid influenza to which humankind has no immunity—one that’s likely to be widespread this time.”

  A murmur of whispers weaved through the crowd, reminding Steele of the dry rustle a nest of snakes makes when they’re disturbed under a blanket of leaves. He leaned over to a stone-faced Steve Patton sitting beside him and commented, “She’s certainly got their attention.”

  “Yes, hasn’t she,” he replied politely, his expression growing worried as the audience became increa
singly noisy. “Except sometimes it’s not too wise, getting people so stirred up like this with speculation alone. I keep warning her that it’s better to provoke the biotech industry only with what she can readily prove, for the sake of credibility on our side of the argument. But she’s adamant about broadcasting the hypothetical dangers.” He paused to catch his breath, having spoken in the rushed manner of a man who’s kept what he has to say bottled up for too long. “Not that her concerns about lethal influenza strains aren’t well founded or those hypotheses soundly based in science,” he added, continuing to speak rapidly, “but they’ll only get her in trouble because as of yet she’s no hard evidence to substantiate them. Don’t take me wrong, she’s a great gal with brilliant instincts in the lab—her ability to project herself into the interior workings of a cell and grasp what’s happening in there on a molecular level is uncanny—” He cut off his diatribe, glancing over to where Sullivan vainly kept requesting that the audience settle down, her eyebrows gathering together like ridges on a storm front. “Excuse me,” he said, quickly getting out of his chair, “but I’m the next speaker, and I think she needs help.”

  Sounds like he’s frustrated in dealing with her, Steele thought, watching him stride over, put a hand on her shoulder, and whisper something in her ear.

  At first she seemed to accept his touch; then her neck stiffened. Turning, she walked to the other side of the podium, beyond his reach. Placing a covering hand over the microphone, she said something back to him through a fixed smile, her eyes becoming fierce and her lips pulling ever so slightly away from her teeth. From the barely concealed sparks, Steele figured there had to be more between them than a difference of opinion over tactics for their cause. Divorced maybe, he concluded, noticing how practiced she seemed at quietly giving the older man hell.

  “Dr. Sullivan,” interrupted a loud voice over the PA system accompanied by an ear-piercing screech of feedback. “Who do you think you are, using your position as chairperson to push such unscientific, unfounded crap onto the agenda of this assembly?” Everyone’s attention immediately swung to the microphones in the aisles where people from the audience were lining up to have their say, and the room fell quiet.

  The person who’d just spoken, a bald, middle-aged giant of a man, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a pro-wrestling event. “My name is Sydney Aimes,” he continued, his flush of anger suffusing even his gleaming scalp, “and I’m the chief negotiator of the U.S. trade delegation for this conference. I go on record here and now that this country’s right to trade freely in genetically modified organisms will be determined by evidence-based science, not through unsubstantiated slander. In other words, watch what you say, lady, or in some states you could find yourself being cited for damages.”

  A collective gasp, followed by boos and hisses came from some parts of the crowd while applause broke out in the rest. Kathleen Sullivan’s own jaw dropped so low she looked as if she’d just popped by for a dental exam.

  Shaking his head, Patton took the microphone from her hand, gave her an I told you so glance, and signaled the audience to settle down. She pivoted away from him and strode back to join the panel, her face crimson and her eyes glowing a molten green. She took the only seat available, the one Patton had vacated.

  Boy, she’s doubly pissed with him now, thought Steele, feeling her seethe beside him, probably because he’d been right. Clearly she’d underestimated the impact of her disturbing scenario.

  Patton waited for the audience to grow quiet again, introduced himself, then added, “For those of you who aren’t aware, what Mr. Aimes referred to a second ago is the fact that legislators in some states have passed what we call veggie libel laws, intended to squash the kind of open discussion we’re having here today.” A smattering of laughter went through the room. “But don’t worry. The wise politicians of Hawaii have resisted such madness, and here we can still speak freely.” A few more chuckles erupted. “After all, while some would call a discussion among scientists about what could result from genetically modified organisms ‘slander,’ Dr. Sullivan and I call it responsible.”

  Again isolated boos and cheers broke out, but most of the assembly accepted his declaration with quiet.

  He gestured to where Aimes stood waiting by the microphone and, looking straight at him, added, “It’s precisely that type of discussion which leads to good investigative studies and the hard scientific evidence that you say you want, Sydney. That we all want. But as Dr. Sullivan repeatedly states in her publications and the Internet’s Environment Watch page recently posted, accidental contamination of plant life by genetic vectors cannot be properly assessed without the investigators knowing what to test for and which primers to use—”

  “Yes, yes, Steve, we’ve listened to all this hypothetical fearmongering before,” said Aimes, rolling his eyes at the ceiling to better telegraph his exasperation. “And as usual, you’ve nothing new! Move into the realm of real science and admit there’s no proof that genetically modified foods are positively harmful to human health.”

  From the familiarity between the two men, Steele quickly sensed that they were engaged in their latest installment of a long-standing public quarrel. Such ongoing fights in his own world of medicine were legion, and he’d witnessed enough of them to know the signs— combatants well known to one another, each side’s position rigidly staked out, and both parties shamefully willing to grandstand as they trotted out their same old arguments in any forum they could find. Posturing and speaking in emphatic declarations, not content, were the common currency of such set-tos.

  “But we do have something new, Sydney,” Patton declared, clicking a handheld controller wired to the podium and filling the screen behind him with a dozen brilliantly colored vertical lines. Aimes seemed caught by the unexpected diagram the way an animal can be mesmerized by the lights of an oncoming truck.

  “The Blue Planet Society managed to find geneticists from various commercial laboratories situated in a variety of countries who shared our concerns about the risks of naked DNA,” continued Patton. “They secretly provided us with samples of their vectors along with cuttings of plants, grasses, and trees from the grounds of their facilities.”

  Murmurs of excitement swept the room.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m proud to present our findings, now that we have finally been able to carry out an accurate screening for the unintentional uptake of genetic contaminants.” He directed his laser pointer to indicate the height of the bar graphs. “Each line represents the percentage of positive results in a single facility. As you can see, in every case we found the vectors to be present in high concentrations.”

  An explosion of voices erupted, and this time it was Aimes’s turn to drop his jaw. “It’s a bunch of lies,” he recovered enough to say. “And how do we know you didn’t plant the evidence?” Others joined in, hurtling similar accusations.

  Patton ignored them all, continuing to flick slides of graphs up on the screen and proclaim their meaning, his voice rising like an evangelist’s, overriding the chorus of denials and disbelief that greeted each revelation. “Here we show significant concentrations in leaves, but not roots, suggesting airborne contamination.”

  A new symphony of mutterings joined the fray.

  “Oh, my God, no.”

  “This’ll kill sales.”

  “I gotta call my broker.”

  Reporters lounging in the back of the room started drifting toward the stage, bathing everyone on it in the glare of floodlights as they turned on their video cameras.

  “Yet on this slide, we can see where the high values in the roots and lesser amounts in the foliage indicate that naked DNA can be taken up from the soil as well.”

  Steele found himself intrigued by the flashes of information racing by up on the screen. It seemed he’d barely time to begin thinking through the impact of it all when he heard, “That’s the last slide, folks, and now I’d like to call upon our health expert, Dr. Richard Steele, t
o share with us his medical impressions regarding any threats such contamination might pose to humans.”

  Steele started, flabbergasted to be singled out for an opinion so soon. He felt even more on the spot as the audience which had been so unruly during Patton’s performance suddenly grew silent, and every lens in the room zoomed in to record his response. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Patton,” he began, as one of the panel members slid a tabletop microphone his way and switched it on for him. He stared at the red light in its base, desperately trying to collect his thoughts, then glanced sideways to Sullivan, hoping to get a clue from her about what to say.

  “Stress the need to test the workers at the labs,” she whispered helpfully, her face having returned to its normal color and her eyes coolly professional.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, pulling the live mouthpiece nearer to him. “Obviously these extraordinary findings warrant serious follow-up studies,” he began, “ones that include human subjects, such as the people employed at the laboratories.” He paused, sensing he was not doing badly, and added, “Perhaps a call for precautions in how these vectors are handled or disposed of would also be in order, until we can assess their impact.”

  Sounds of approval swelled throughout the room.

  “Would you like to make that an official motion?” asked Patton.

  “Of course,” agreed Steele, thinking, Why not? In for an ounce, in for a pound.

  “Wait a minute!” boomed Aimes’s voice over the PA.

  The ring of lights surrounding Steele turned back toward the floor microphones where the man once more hulked over a podium that was too short for him. “I’d like to ask Mr. Patton if any of his spies reported that the trees, plants, and grasses surrounding these workplaces were any the worse for wear.”