Identity X (2 page)

“We did it Dad.  We did it.”  He sat the
photograph back down on the desk, clearing away a selection of papers to place
it centrally, and where tomorrow he would see it again.  He picked up the
telephone and tapped out his home number.  Hannah answered, and the annoyance
in her voice regarding his recurrent lateness was tangible in her short
staccato sentences.

“Yeah, I’ll be late.  I’m finishing up at
the lab.”  He paused briefly to listen.  “Just waiting for the machines and the
final run.  I’ll be home by ten thirty.  Yes, you too.  See you later.”   He
hung up the telephone and grabbed his briefcase.  He glanced at the piles of
handwritten notes on his desk and considered taking the latest of them with
him.  Instead he agreed with himself that he deserved at least one night off
and so left them undisturbed.  He made for the door and turned off the lights,
and as the air conditioning units slowed to a halt he could hear the rain
louder as it pattered down onto the roof.  He was close to the underground
station but doubted he would make it without getting soaked through.  He
rummaged around in the coat
stand for a
would-be luckily left umbrella, but it proved a futile search.  Instead he
grabbed his raincoat from the hook and threw it across his shoulders, wriggling
his arms into the sleeves.   He pressed the button and the entrance door slid
open as a quick shot of air squeezed out from the pneumatic mechanism and he
made his way downstairs towards the chill of the early spring rain.

He was right about the
weather.   The rain was falling as a
deluge of giant droplets, the biggest that he had seen since the great floods
twenty or so years ago, when the river in his home town had burst its banks in
the early hours one morning, and the water had raced towards the southern end
of the town which sat in a basin like hollow.  The combination of old Victorian
and Georgian homes that lined up proudly alongside each other became swamped
under the rush of water, the cellars swallowing up the cascading tide forming
unwanted indoor pools in a matter of minutes.  The following morning was total
chaos when the townsfolk awoke to find that the water had silently crept its
way into their homes as they slept.  Tonight seemed no different.  A barrage of
water submerged the streets, and the edge of the road where it met the pavement
was flowing fast and purposefully like a swollen river, the car tyres the only
audible sound above the falling rain as they dissected their way through the
surface water.  Through the glare of the headlights from the cars Ben eyed up
the entrance to the underground station.  After making a mental calculation as
to the best route of passage, the variables of distance and pooled surface
water weighed against each other, he pulled his rain coat above his head and
darted out from underneath the shelter of his office entrance door, dashing
across
the road
. 

The
entrance of the underground was packed with commuters, people refusing outright
to attempt the final leg of their journey and therefore choosing to shelter
themselves in the tight entrance.  Ben pushed his way past the line of bodies. 
The humidity hung uncomfortably low in the air, courtesy of all the warm damp
clothes as the people huddled together.  Shaking his legs and his jacket behind
him, and after apologising to the innocent bystander who had been showered by
water as it sprayed from his jacket, he inspected the soaked cuffs of his
trousers
,
clinging
like
plastic wrapping to the bare skin of his legs.  Swearing to himself at the
likelihood that his expensive leather shoes were ruined, he reached into his
inside coat pocket and pulled out his identity card.  He opened up the small
plastic holder and swiped it against the screen that controlled the movement of
the entrance doors.  The red light immediately changed to green, and underneath
it in small green lettering the words ‘Good evening Mr. Stone’ flashed up to
greet him.  He had never managed to become accustomed to this level of what he
perceived as ridiculousness.  He knew of people that would say how they quite
liked the personal greeting at times like this: getting on the train, paying
for food at the supermarket, when you put petrol in your car.  Some of these
devices, such as this one
,
would even talk to you and
ask if you had had a nice day.  Ben could easily see through the facade of
propriety, and saw that it was just a way for tracking people’s movements.  He
couldn’t understand why society had accepted it so readily.  He cursed the
androgynous voice under his breath, stowed his identity card back in his pocket
securely, and made his way through the tunnels where the oncoming breeze
delivered an unwelcome chill, but which to its credit also began to dry those
of his hairs which had not escaped the torrential rain. 

By
the time the twenty minute journey across the city was complete his hair was
almost dry.  Ben usually swept it back into a semi-straightened style with a
slick of the sweet smelling paste that promised more in its advertising than
the offer of a good hairstyle, but after their soaking his blond curls had
worked their way loose.  Under his raincoat he was wearing a crisp white shirt
and black tie, loosened progressively throughout the day into its current
casual position.  Combined with his raincoat he looked more like a city lawyer
or banker than a scientist.  Most of the people he worked with came to work in
jeans and at this time of year thick jumpers that looked as if they had been
pulled out from the bottom draw every winter since the day of their
graduation.   Ben had been wearing suits since he first graduated.  He knew he
was a handsome man, and he enjoyed the attention it brought with it.  At school
he had been voted the most likely to go on to become a male model, and rather
than be embarrassed by it, or see it as some sort of attenuation of his
intelligence, he was damn well flattered.   He saw no reason that being smart
meant that he shouldn’t care what he looked like.  As he made his way towards
the exit of the station he could hear that the rain had subsided, and there was
a steady stream of people on their way out.  The corridor was quiet, and as he
approached the exit gate he could see that there was a man having trouble with
his identity card.  It wouldn’t permit him access into the station and there
was a pulsating mass of people behind him that appeared to be growing
progressively angrier at the delay.  All it would take was an unpaid bill, a
trivial criminal misdemeanour, even an unfounded complaint against you could be
enough to get your identity card deactivated.   There was only one way of
getting it reactivated and that was to go in person to the Central Government
Offices and deal with whatever problem had caused the deactivation, and nobody
wanted to have to do that.

Ben
flashed his identity card in front of the screen and the door slid open.  He
cursed the courteous computerised greeting once again and watched as the guards
made their way over to the troubled man, who had already started to protest his
innocence.  It was no use.  He already knew the guards wouldn’t listen to any
of his reasoning, no matter how logical he made it seem.  They would never
oblige by opening the doors at the hint of a convincing explanation.  If your
identity card failed you, you were out of the station on your heels. 

The
streets were quieter with the passing of the rain, and the syrupy sweet smell
that it left behind permeated the clear air.  It was early April, and as much
as people expected the bad weather, the first proper downpour always caught the
world unawares.  There were people walking home in rain soaked suits, their
expensive shoes soaked through to the sole, and that simply would never feel
the same again.  Aside from his own problems, including his own rain soaked
shoes which he knew he would discard, Ben enjoyed the purity and cleanliness of
such an atmosphere and inhaled it deeply as he walked through the streets.  As
he approached the bar, the glow of the lights from inside in comparison to the
slick oily streets was to him as inviting as a wing backed chair and a roaring
log fire.  Shaking off the last drops of rain from his coat Ben stepped into
Simpson’s and could see Mark standing at the side of the bar.  Ami was stood to
the side of him and waved over for Ben to join them.  Ben shuffled his way
through the crowd, walking sideways and dodging the hoards of wayward elbows. 
Mark was the first to speak.  He was Ben’s oldest friend, his boy, his wing
man, and the first person he called when the first positive results had come
back earlier on that day. 

“Hey
buddy.  So, congratulations are in order.  You did it.”  They greeted each
other with open arms and embraced, ending with a simultaneous slap of each
other’s back.  It was a stereotypical male embrace, but genuine nevertheless. 

“No,
that’s not right.  We did it,” Ben said, breaking away from Mark and playing to
the crowd.  Ben turned to look at his colleagues, eager to include them in the
success after their effort in turning up at a bar which they surely would not
frequent if given the choice.  In comparison to the rest of the clientele, his
crowd of colleagues looked suitably out of place in their jeans and threadbare
jumpers, and he imagined that it must feel like the end of school ball all over
again, knowing that they were invited but yet how somehow still didn’t belong. 
Ami was the only one who looked like she might have come to this bar of her own
accord.  The others looked like they might be part of an organised group
outing, rounded up and dragged into somewhere they would neither
choose
or wish to be. 

“Yeah
but they’re not going to get to go to Dubai are they?”  Mark was laughing as he
said it, and looking at everyone except for Ben, playing to a tough crowd.  A
few of Ben’s geeky looking colleagues raised a smile, but Ben could also hear
the rumblings of discontent as they considered that indeed there would be no
foreign trips for any of them.  He wanted to give Mark a good dig in the ribs
for mentioning Dubai, but also found himself wondering if Ami had heard. 
Surely
she would like a trip there? 

“Take
this, and raise your glass.”  Everybody was already holding another glass of
champagne, only this time the bottle cost six times that of the first and
people were holding up crystal flutes rather than paper cups.  Ben took the
glass from Mark and raised his hand as instructed.  “Ben, very soon people will
know your name.  You will present in London and then Dubai, and the world will
learn what you have done and it will be a better place for it. Here’s to my
man, Ben.”

“To
Ben,” they all cheered, and as Ben glanced around, they all smiled back,
obviously affected by the intake of another alcoholic drink when most hadn’t
eaten since lunchtime.  Ben was a good boss and they all knew it.  They had
spent their whole lives playing second fiddle to the cooler kids in class,
either the football captain or class clown.   At least this time they were
inferior to one of their own; a fellow scientist who somehow had achieved the
impossible by remaining steadfastly studious and envied by his peers
simultaneously.  As he scanned the crowd of faces he caught Ami’s eye, and she
tipped her glass and head in unison towards him in recognition of his success
and a vision of white sands and blue waters flashed through his mind once
more.  They all sipped their drinks and began their own private conversations. 
Mark motioned to Ben to sit at the two empty spaces at the bar.  They pulled
out the leather stools and set their champagne flutes onto the glass topped
bar.  Mark raised his fingers and the barman poured two Whiskey shot’s over
brilliantly transparent ice into immaculately clear glasses.  There was not a
mark on them.  Not even a fingerprint, such was the pristine nature of
everything around them.  It was as sterile as the laboratory.  Ben shuffled off
his raincoat and loosened his tie a little further as they both sat down on the
stools, their legs turned to face each other and their elbows rested onto the
surface of the bar.  Ben picked up the Whiskey shot and prompted Mark to do the
same.  They tapped their glasses together, and without a single unnecessary
word knocked back the shots.

“So
how many of these guys,” Mark nodded his head towards the rest of the crowd who
were just out of earshot above the humdrum of the background soul music, “do
you think are currently saying that had it not been for them you still wouldn’t
have succeeded?”

Ben
laughed as he sat back in his stool stretching out his legs.  “At least fifty
per cent of them.  The others are just waiting their turn,” he grinned.  He
raised his hand to the barman and motioned to the empty glasses, and he duly
set down another two perfectly poured shots.

“So
what now?  Is that it?” Mark asked.

“No. 
I have to prove that we can succeed across a whole spectrum of disorders.  I
think we will be well on our way though by the conference next month.”

“I
still don’t understand exactly how you have done it.”  Mark leaned in a little
closer to encourage him to continue.

“You
have to remember the past research Mark.  You remember, when you were still a
good scientist and not just making money as a manager.”  They both smiled
before Ben carried on with his explanation.  “Remember what Yamanaka did.  It
was brilliant in theory to make stem cells from skin.  He reprogrammed genes to
create a pluripotent stem cell
,
a cell capable of becoming any type of
cell in the body.  The problem was, when they remodelled the cells by inserting
new genes, they delivered them to the host via a virus, and the new genes just
got inserted in an arbitrary position.  If this happens to be in the middle of
an original gene, it gets disrupted.”  Ben stopped to take a sip of his
whiskey, and Mark did the same.  “If that gene modifies cell division for
example...”

“You
cause cancer,” Mark finished on his behalf.

“Exactly,”
Ben smiled, a half smile that said
so you remember some stuff
.  It was
their usual banter and they had slipped into their usual roles, Ben the genius
and Mark the sell-out who had traded a workbench for a desk and so by any
reasonable standard invited such ridicule.  At least by any reasonable
standards that Ben set.  “So adding in new genes was problematic.  They did a
lot of development, and the oligonucleotides went a long way to help, but the
real magic lies in correcting what is already there, not trying to cleave out
mistakes and replace faulty bits.  Instead, repair the fault.  That’s what
NEMREC does.”

“Replace
one DNA base with another?” 

“No,
not replace.  If we know what a normal genome looks like, one without any
genetic mutation, then we can model NEMREC to hunt down the faults in the code
and repair the fault.  Nothing is inserted, nothing is removed.  Just repaired.
”

“Wow,”
Mark said as he shifted in his seat, as if the weight of such a discovery had
made him physically uncomfortable.  “It is quite something you have created
here, Ben.”  Mark sat recumbent on his bar stool swirling the ice around in his
glass before knocking back the remaining liquor.  “It could be very valuable.”