The Messiah Code (5 page)

Like eyes opening, the lights on the neck and the three white lights on the ovoid body came on. Then the hum shifted to a rumbling growl.

"Give me vision," she ordered.

"DAN, I'm here too," said Tom.

Suddenly the monitor lit up showing the GENIUS logo of a lightbulb encircled by the spiraling coils of DNA. Beneath it was the corporate motto: YOUR GENES. YOUR FUTURE. YOUR CHOICE.

"
Please select menu
," said DAN in a droning monotone,

its memory recognizing the voices of its creators. Jasmine had wanted to give DAN a beautifully modulated voice--the technology existed to give the machine any voice they liked. But Tom and Jack had both preferred the unnerving machine to speak in its robotic monotone. Perhaps it helped reassure them that despite the bio-computer's organic construction the powerful Genescope was still just that: a computer.

"Give me the results menu," said Tom. Jasmine could see his words appear as copy in the top part of the monitor, verifying that they were being received correctly.

"
What is the subject's name
?" requested the polite monotone.

"Holly Carter." Tom enunciated his daughter's name clearly.

"
Subject found. Please choose between the options highlighted
on the screen: Topline Findings. Analysis by Chromosome. Or
Detail Gene Search
."

"Topline findings, please."

"
Certainly, Tom
." The PACT menu appeared on the screen as DAN talked them both through it. "
You are now in the PACT
menu. The Profile selection offers you a general description of the
subject based on his or her DNA: color of hair, skin color, eyes,
height, etc. The Assets selection highlights top quartile strengths
versus standard genome. For example, immunities to disease, in
telligence. The Concerns selection shows bottom quartile liabilities
or susceptibilities to non-life-threatening diseases. Threats high
lights life-threatening defects and is protected against unauthorized
access. Please make your selection
."

Tom ignored the first three categories. "Give me Threats, DAN."

"
Personal password, please
?"

"Discovery."

"
Thank you, Tom. To release
Threats
results I need second au
thorized password, please
."

Jasmine sighed her reluctance before saying: "Tree of knowledge."

"
Thank you, Jasmine. Are you sure you want to go into
Threats?
Yes or No
?"

A pause.

Jasmine looked closely at her friend. Indecision was in his eyes and she could sense his urge to rush out of there and take Holly as far away as possible from the Genescope and its secrets.

"No!" She heard her own voice cut through the motionless air.

"What?" exclaimed Tom.

The lights on the Genescope blinked and the growl changed pitch for a moment.

Tom turned to her; he looked half angry and half relieved. "What the hell are you doing?"

"C'mon, Tom," she pleaded. "Stop this now. It's not too late."

"
Please confirm response
." said DAN, its deadpan delivery unfazed.

Another pause. The results just a syllable away. She saw Tom glance uncertainly at her, then back to DAN.

"Yes," said Tom eventually, his voice barely a whisper. "Show me Threats."

Jasmine shook her head and studied the image on the screen. DAN's grumble accelerated and then three numbers appeared on the monitor: 9, 10, and 17.

Something was wrong. The very fact that there were numbers on the screen told her that there were dangerous genetic defects in Holly's genome. Each number represented a chromosome on which errors lay.

"
Serious coding errors exist on chromosomes 9, 10, and 17
," said DAN.

Tom looked pale when he demanded, "Show me 17 first."

"
Certainly, Tom
." The screen changed again and what looked like a multicolored spiral ladder appeared. This was a graphic representation of the dyed double helix of DNA. The heading "Chromosome 17" topped the screen. Beside the spiral ladder were two blocks of letters formed into triples, one depicting a stretch of code from Holly's genetic sequence and the other the comparable stretch from the national "standard" healthy human genome. A cursor, like a spotlight, appeared next, moving across the screen before

zeroing in on a section of the rungs on the spiral ladder.

"
Defect evident in
p53
tumor suppressor gene on chromosome

17. Maternal copy corrupted and paternal copy prone to muta
tion
," informed DAN. The screen cursor followed its words, pointing at the mismatched base pairs on the rungs of the ladder, then highlighting the incorrect letters of code in the maternal copy of Holly's genome.

CAT-ACG-TAG-GAC, it read, the highlighted defects clearly visible.

"What does the
p53
gene do again?" asked Jasmine anxiously, more familiar with the workings of DAN than its results.

"It helps repair damaged DNA. A mutated
p53
gene is the major precursor of clonal evolution. The process that leads to cancer. But this gene alone doesn't necessarily mean Holly will get the disease. Plenty of genes are involved in this cancer; that's why it's so goddamned hard to cure. To get it definitely she has to have inherited a particular combination of defective genes on both her paternal and maternal chromosomes."

"So she could still be okay? Yeah?"

Before Tom could answer, the screen shifted to another section of the spiral ladder. This time the heading read: "Chromosome 9."

"
Cluster of genes vulnerable on chromosome 9. Paternal set
corrupted. Maternal set missing--cer6 and cer14 at risk--inf19
and inf27 contain reverse code defect
."

Jasmine didn't need to look at Tom's ashen face to know this was bad. But before she could consider the implications DAN shifted the screen image again. "Chromosome 10" was the new heading. The Genescope was remorseless in its diagnosis--no tact evident in its toneless revelations.

"
Four ras genes on chromosome 10 have gaps in sequence.
Mutation inevitable
," droned DAN as if forecasting the weather.

"Jeez!" said Jasmine under her breath.

Tom looked straight ahead and didn't speak for a moment. "It's worse than I thought," he said quietly. "One overall defect is usually harmless. Even aberrations in all three chromosomes can be managed if the individual in

herited a healthy set from her other parent. But Holly's got the worst combination of all. Every genetic accident that could have happened has happened."

Tom turned to Jasmine, his blue eyes more angry than sad.

She just shook her head, and put her hand on his shoulder. There was nothing she could say.

Tom looked back at the impassive black swan. "So, DAN, you goddamned bastard, what's your prognosis? What's going to happen to her?" She could see Tom was stoking his anger, no doubt preferring it to the alternative. Despair was so useless.

"
A ninety-nine percent probability exists that the combination
of genetic defects in genome of subject Holly Carter will eventually
lead to glioblastoma multiforme
."

The two words sounded so much less frightening than "cancer" or "tumor," more like the Latin name of an exotic rose. But Jasmine wasn't fooled. As Tom had told her, glioblastoma multiforme was the worst kind of astrocytoma. The most virulent form of brain cancer.

She thought of Holly walking so bravely from her mother's graveside, all dressed up in her scarlet coat and black furry hat, and she felt an irrational hatred for DAN then. As if it was somehow responsible for the terrible news.

She turned to Tom, who just sat there, his blue eyes blazing with Arctic fire.

"God, I'm sorry, Tom."

"It's not over yet," he said with his customary stubbornness. "There's still one more question to ask it."

Of course, she thought, the time horizon.

Despite his anger she could see Tom was almost paralyzed with fear. It took him some seconds to compose himself. Then she heard him demand in a strong voice: "DAN, you cold son of a bitch, assuming most optimistic environmental factors, and best available medical treatments, when will clonal evolution commence? And when will Holly's cancer reach its fourth and fatal stage?"

There was a momentary pause and the growl of the Genescope deepened for a few seconds.

When DAN gave its verdict Jasmine listened to its metallic words and shook her head. She was proud of her achievements. But at that moment, as she heard the fortune-teller predict her goddaughter's death, she felt almost ashamed of what she'd helped create.

"I
am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen..." Scrape went the blade across the scalp. "May my armor of righteousness be unblemished..." Scrape. "And may my shield of faith be strong." The cutthroat razor skimmed through the stubbly growth, parting white foam and leaving a swathe of smooth, hairless scalp in its wake. With every stroke Maria Benariac chanted a line from her three-line mantra:

"I am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen," she repeated as she continued her ritual.

When the skin on her scalp felt smooth once more she wiped the mist from the bathroom mirror to check her handiwork. Her striking, intense eyes--one blue and one brown--stared back at her. They were the only features the surgeon hadn't been able to alter. Turning her head, she noticed the tiny, decade-old scars behind her ears, the last traces from when she had made her once beautiful--too beautiful--face less remarkable.

Maria put the blade beside the sink, next to the tubs of theatrical makeup. Her fingers lingered on the razor for a second, tempted. But as she glanced down at the fresh scars that crisscrossed her right thigh she decided to wait for release.

Turning her naked body, she walked out of the small bathroom into the large single-room apartment that housed everything she owned. Enjoying the feel of the cool polished wood beneath her bare feet, she glanced out of the six-foot picture window. The Thames swirled gray and cold, a hundred feet below her. She walked to the far corner of the warehouse apartment and stood beneath the exercise rings hanging from the high exposed beams.

With a leap, she gripped her sinewy fingers around the rings. Well-muscled forearms tensed as they took up the weight of her body, lifting it high off the ground until the waist was level with the hands, and the elbows locked the arms rigid. Then she extended her legs straight out in front, forming a perfect right angle with her naked taut stomach.

"One...two...three..." she counted under her breath, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead of her. She didn't pause to rest for a second, as she performed her exercises.

"...Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen..."

With each grooved repetition the only visible signs of effort were the small rivulets of sweat that coursed down her sculptured back, and an almost imperceptible shake of the hands.

"...Forty-eight...forty-nine...fifty."

Eventually she allowed herself a smile of triumph, and released her grip on the rings. Bracing her legs for the drop, she landed catlike on the polished floor. Barely pausing, she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised the naked body in her view.

She studied her tall physique carefully: the shaved head, the uncommonly broad shoulders, the powerful arms, the minute waist, the boyish hips, and the long tapered legs. There was no vanity in her gaze, only objective evaluation, as if checking the condition of a valued instrument or weapon. This dawn inspection was no different from that carried out every morning, and today as with most days she was satisfied. At thirty-five years of age there was not an ounce of fat on her body and the muscles were as supple as they were powerful. The only blemishes were the scars:

the tiny ones behind her ears, the raised cross-shaped scar on the underside of her right forearm, a crosshatch of self-inflicted cuts on her right thigh, and the two anchor-shaped scars beneath each nipple. These marked where her once full breasts had been removed, leaving androgynous mounds that no longer hampered movement or drew un-welcome glances.

After evaluating her body, Maria Benariac turned and checked her aerie. The tall room on the top story of the old warehouse was a throwback to the late eighties, when young professionals from the City bought up converted properties in the once unfashionable East End because they were cheap and close to their work. But the room was anything but a yuppie pad. An interior designer might have called the space minimalist, but sparse was a better description.

She walked to the panel of four switches by the window.

Click-click. The first naked hundred-watt lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was turned off, then on again.

Click-click. The same with the second lightbulb.

Then the third and the fourth.

Once she was satisfied all were in full working order, she continued the next stage of her daily ritual. Walking around the perimeter of the room she turned on each of the six strategically placed spotlights. When all were lit she walked to the middle of the room and studied the angle of their beams, checking that not one corner of the room was in shadow. She adjusted two of the lamps, and when she was finally satisfied that all darkness had been banished she surveyed the rest of her apartment, reassuring herself that everything was in place.

Moving to the single bed in the corner opposite the exercise equipment, she straightened the crucifix on the wall above her, then genuflected in front of it. Given to her by the Father after he had taken her away from the Corsican orphanage, the wooden crucifix was the only decoration on the pristine white walls.