She clung to the blood-splattered locker, her breaths coming hard and fast, every muscle taut with frustration. With despair.
“Then we have to approach this from another angle,” said Jack.
“Emma, stay with me on this! I need you to help me think.” She released a sharp breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why would hormones work? What’s the mechanism? We know they’re chemical signals—an internal communication system at the cellular level. They work by activating or repressing gene expression. By changing the cell’s programming…” He was rambling now, letting his stream of consciousness lead him toward solution. “In order for a hormone to work, it has to bind to a specific receptor on the target cell. It’s like a key, in search the right lock in which to fit. Maybe if we studied the data from SeaScience—if we could find out what other DNA Dr. Koenig grafted onto this organism’s genome—we might know how to shut off Chimera’s reproduction.”
“What do you know about Dr. Koenig? What other research has she worked on? That might be a clue.”
“We have her curriculum vitae. We’ve seen her published papers on Archaeons. Other than that, she’s something of a mystery to us. So is SeaScience. We’re still trying to dig up information.” That will take precious time, she thought. I don’t have much of it left.
Her hands ached from gripping Diana’s locker. She relaxed her hold and drifted away, as though swept along on a tide of despair.
Loose items from Diana’s locker floated around her in the air, evidence of Diana’s sweet tooth. Chocolate bars. M&M’s. A cellophane package of crystallized ginger candy. It was that last that Emma suddenly focused on. Crystallized ginger.
Crystals.
“Jack,” she said. “I have an idea.” Her heart was racing as she swam out of the Russian service module and headed back into the U.S. Lab. There she turned on payload computer. The monitor glowed an eerie amber in the darkened module. She called up the operations data files and clicked on “ESA.” European Space Agency. Here were all the procedures and reference materials required to operate the ESA payload experiments.
“What are you thinking, Emma?” came Jack’s voice over her comm unit.
“Diana was working on protein crystal growth, remember? Pharmaceutical research.”
“Which proteins?” he shot back, and she knew he understood exactly what she was thinking.
“I’m scrolling down the list now. There are dozens…” The protein names raced up the screen in a blur. The cursor halted on the entry she’d been searching for, “Human chorionic gonadotropin.”
“Jack,” she said softly. “I think I’ve just bought myself some time.”
“What’ve you got?”
“HCG. Diana was growing the crystals. I’d have to do an IVA to get to it. They’re in the ESA module, and that’s at vacuum. If I start depress now, I could get to those crystals in four or five hours.”
“How much HCG is on board?”
“I’m checking.” She opened the experiment file and quickly scanned the mass measurement data.
“Emma?”
“Hold on, hold on! I’ve got the most recent mass here. I’m looking up normal HCG levels in pregnancy.”
“I can get those for you.”
“No, I’ve found it. Okay. Okay, if I dilute this crystal mass in normal saline … plug in my body weight as forty-five kilograms…” She typed in the numbers. She was making wild assumptions here. She didn’t know how quickly HCG was metabolized, or what its half-life would be.
The answer at last onscreen.
“How many doses?” said Jack.
She closed her eyes. It’s not going to last long enough. It’s not going to save me.
“Emma?” She released a deep breath. It came out as a sob. “Three days.”
It was 1:45 A.M. and Jack’s vision was blurred from fatigue, words on the computer screen fading in and out of focus.
“There must be more,” he said. “Keep searching.”
Gretchen Liu, seated at the keyboard, glanced up at Jack and Gordon in frustration. She had been sound asleep when they called her to come in, and she’d arrived without her usual camera-ready makeup and contact lenses. They had never seen their normally elegant public affairs officer looking so unglamorous. Or wearing glasses, for that matter—thick horn-rim glasses that magnified pinched eyes. “I’m telling you guys, this is all I can find on Lexisnexis search. Almost nothing on Helen Koenig. On SeaScience, there’s only the usual corporate news releases. And as for the Palmer Gabriel, well, you can see for yourself he doesn’t court publicity. In the last five years, the only place his name turns up in media is on the financial pages of The Wall Street Journal articles about SeaScience and its products. There’s no data. There’s not even a photo of the man.”
Jack slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The three of them had spent the last two hours in the Public Affairs Office, combing every article about Helen Koenig and SeaScience they could find on Lexis-Nexis. They had turned up numerous hits for SeaScience, dozens of articles in which its products had been mentioned, from shampoos to pharmaceuticals to fertilizers. But almost nothing had turned up on Koenig or Gabriel.
“Try the name Koenig again,” said Jack.
“We’ve done every possible spelling variation on her name,” said Gretchen. “There’s nothing.”
“Then type in the word Archaeons.” Sighing, Gretchen typed in Archaeons and clicked on “Search.” A numbingly long string of article citations filled the screen.
“Alien Earth Creatures. Scientists Hail Discovery of New Branch of Life.” (Washington Post)
“Archaeons to Be Subject of International Conference.” (Miami Herald)
“Deep Sea Organisms Offer Clues to Life’s Origins.” (Philadelphia Inquirer)
“Guys, this is hopeless,” said Gretchen. “It’ll take us all night to read every article on this list. Why don’t we just call it a night get some sleep?”
“Wait!” Gordon said. “Scroll down to this one.” He pointed to a citation at the bottom of the screen,” Scientist Dies in Galapagos Diving Accident (New York Times).”
“The Galapagos,” said Jack. “That’s where Dr. Koenig discovered the Archaeon strain. In the Galapagos Rift.” Gretchen clicked on the article and the text appeared. The story was two years old.
COPYRIGHT, The New York Times.
SECTION, International News.
HEADLINE, “Scientist Dies in Deep Sea Diving Accident.”
BYLINE, Julio Perez, NYT Correspondent.
BODY, An American scientist studying Archaeon marine organisms was killed yesterday when his one-man submersible became wedged in an undersea canyon of the Galapagos Rift. The body of Dr. Stephen D. Ahearn was not recovered until this morning, when cables from the research vessel Gabriella were able to haul the minisub to the surface.
“We knew he was still alive down there, but there was nothing we could do,” said a fellow scientist aboard Gabriella. “He was trapped at nineteen thousand feet. It took us hours to free his submersible and haul it back to the surface.” Dr. Ahearn was a professor of geology at the University of California, San Diego. He resided in La Jolla, California.
Jack said, “The ship’s name was Gabriella.” He and Gordon looked at each other, both of them struck by the same startling thought, Gabriella.
Palmer Gabriel.
“I’ll bet you this was a SeaScience vessel,” said Jack, “and Helen Koenig was aboard.” Gordon’s gaze shifted back to the screen. “Now this is interesting. What do you make of the fact Ahearn was a geologist?
“So what?” said Gretchen, yawning.
“What was a geologist doing aboard a marine research vessel?”
“Checking out the rocks on the sea floor?”
“Let’s do a search on his name.”
Gretchen sighed. “You guys owe me a night’s worth of beauty sleep.” She typed in the name Stephen D. Ahearn and clicked on “Search.” A list appeared, seven articles in all. Six of them were about undersea death in the Galapagos.
One article was from the year prior to his death, “UCSD Professor to Present Latest Findings on Tektite Research. Will Be Keynote Speaker at International Geological Conference in Madrid.” (San Diego Union)
Both men stared at the screen, too stunned for a moment to utter a word.
Then Gordon said softly, “This is it, Jack. This is what they’ve been trying to hide from us.” Jack’s hands had gone numb, his throat dry. He focused on a single word, the word that told them everything.
Tektite.
JSC director Ken Blankenship’s house was one of the anonymous tract homes in the suburb of Clear Lake, where so many JSC officials lived. It was a large house for a bachelor, and Jack saw that the front yard was immaculately groomed, every hedge clipped into submission. That yard, so well lit at three A.M. , was exactly what one would expect of Blankenship, who was notorious for his perfectionism as well as his almost paranoid obsession with security. There’s probably a surveillance camera trained on us right this moment, thought Jack as he and Obie waited for Blankenship to answer the front door. It took several rings of the doorbell before they saw lights come on inside.
Then Blankenship appeared, a squat little Napoleon dressed in a bathrobe.
“It’s three in the morning,” said Blankenship. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We need to talk,” said Gordon.
“Is there something wrong with my phone? You couldn’t have called first?”
“We can’t use the phone. Not about this.” They all stepped into the house. Only after the front door swung shut did Jack say, “We know what the White House is trying to hide. We know where Chimera comes from.” Blankenship stared at him, his irritation over a disturbed night’s sleep instantly forgotten. Then he looked at Gordon, seeking confirmation of Jack’s statement.
“It explains everything,” said Gordon. “USAMRIID’s secrecy. The White House’s paranoia. And the fact that this organism behaves unlike anything our doctors have ever encountered.”
“What did you find out?” Jack answered the question. “We know Chimera has human, mouse, and amphibian DNA. But USAMRIID won’t tell us what other DNA is on the genome. They won’t tell us what Chimera really is, or where it comes from.”
“You told me last night the bug was sent up in a SeaScience payload. A culture of Archaeons.”
“That’s what we thought. But Archaeons are not dangerous organisms. They’re incapable of causing disease in humans—that’s why the experiment was accepted by NASA. Something about this particular Archaeon is different. Something SeaScience didn’t tell us.”
“What do you mean, different?”
“Where it came from. The Galapagos Rift.” Blankenship shook his head. “I don’t see the significance.”
“This culture was discovered by scientists aboard the vessel Gabriella, a ship belonging to SeaScience. One of those was a Dr. Stephen Ahearn, who was flown out to Gabriella, apparently as a last-minute consultant. Within a week, he was dead. His minisub became trapped at the bottom of the rift, and he suffocated.” Blankenship said nothing, but his gaze remained focused on Jack’s.
“Dr. Ahearn was known for his research on tektites,” said Jack. “Those are glassy fragments produced whenever a meteor collides with the earth. That was Dr. Ahearn’s field of expertise. The geology of meteors and asteroids.” Still Blankenship said nothing. Why isn’t he reacting?
Jack wondered. Doesn’t he understand what this means?
“SeaScience flew Ahearn to the Galapagos because they needed a geologist’s opinion,” said Jack. “They needed confirmation of what they’d found on the sea floor. An asteroid.” Blankenship’s face had gone rigid. He turned and walked toward the kitchen.
Jack and Gordon followed him. “That’s why the White House is so scared of Chimera!” said Jack. “They know where it comes from. They know what it is.” Blankenship picked up the telephone and dialed. A moment later, he said, “This is JSC director Kenneth Blankenship. I speak to Jared Profitt. Yes, I know what time it is. This is an emergency, so if you could connect me to his home…” There was a moment’s silence. Then he said into the phone, “They know. No, did not tell them. They found out on their own.” A pause. “Jack McCallum and Gordon Obie. Yes, sir, they’re standing right here in my kitchen.” He handed the receiver to Jack. “He wants to speak to you.”
Jack took the phone. “This is McCallum.”
“How many people know?” was the first thing Jared Profitt asked him.
That question instantly told Jack how sensitive this information was. He said, “Our medical people know. And a few people in Life Sciences.” That was all he’d say, he knew better than to name names.
“Can you all keep it quiet?” asked Profitt.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether your people cooperate with us. Share information with us.”
“What do you want, Dr. McCallum?”
“Full disclosure. Everything you’ve learned about Chimera. The autopsy results. The data from your clinical trials.”
“And if we don’t share? What happens?”
“My colleagues at NASA start faxing every news agency in the country.”
“Telling them what, exactly?”
“The truth. That this organism is not terrestrial.” There was a long silence. Jack could hear his own heartbeat thudding in the receiver.
Have we guessed right? Have we really uncovered the truth?
Profitt said, “I’ll authorize Dr. Roman to tell you everything. He’ll be expecting you at White Sands.” The phone went dead.
Jack hung up and looked at Blankenship. “How long have you known?” Blankenship’s silence only fueled Jack’s anger. He took a threatening step forward, and Blankenship backed up against the wall. “How long have you known?”
“Only—only a few days. I was sworn to secrecy!”
“Those were our people dying up there!”
“I had no choice! This has got everyone terrified! The White House. Defense.” Blankenship took a deep breath and looked Jack straight in the eye. “You’ll understand what I’m talking about. When you get to White Sands.”
With one end gripped in her teeth, Emma yanked the tourniquet tight, and the veins of her left arm plumped up like blue worms beneath the pale skin. She gave her antecubital vein a quick swipe with alcohol and winced at the prick of the needle. Like a junkie desperate for a fix, she injected the entire contents of the syringe, releasing the tourniquet halfway through. When she was finished, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift as she imagined the HCG molecules, like tiny stars of hope, coursing up her veins, into her heart and lungs. streaming out into arteries and capillaries. She imagined she could already feel its effect, the headache melting away, the hot flames of her fever smothered to a dying glow. Three doses left, she thought. Three more days.
She imagined herself drifting out of her own body, and she saw herself, as though from a distance, curled up like a mottled a coffin. A bubble of mucus spilling out of her mouth, breaking into bright squirming threads like maggots.
Abruptly she opened her eyes and realized that she had been sleeping.
Dreaming. Her shirt was saturated with sweat. It was a good sign. It meant that her fever had eased off.
She massaged her temples, trying to force out the images from her dream, but she could not, reality and nightmares had merged into one.
She stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt and put on a clean one from Diana’s locker. Despite the bad dreams, that brief nap had refreshed her, and she was alert again, ready to search for new solutions. She floated into the U.S. Lab and pulled up all the files on the computer.
It was an extraterrestrial organism, Todd Cutler had informed her, and everything NASA now knew about the life-form had been transmitted to her onboard computers. She reviewed the files, hoping to find some new inspiration, some approach that no one else had thought of. Everything she read was dismally familiar.
She opened the genome file. A nucleotide sequence spilled across the monitor in an unending stream of As, Cs, Ts, and Gs.
Here was Chimera’s genetic code—parts of it, anyway. The parts USAMRIID had chosen to share with NASA. She stared, hypnotized, as the lines of code marched down the screen. This was the essence of the alien life-form now growing inside her. It was the key to the enemy. If only she knew how to use it.
The key.
She suddenly thought of what Jack had said earlier, about hormones. In order for a hormone to work, it has to bind to a receptor on the target cell. It’s like a key in search of just the lock in which to fit.
Why would a mammalian hormone like HCG suppress the reproduction of an alien life-form? she wondered. Why would an extraterrestrial organism, so foreign to anything on earth, properly fitting locks to our keys?
On the computer, the nucleotide sequence had finished scrolling to the end. She stared at the blinking cursor and of the earth-born species whose DNA had been raided by Chimera.
By acquiring those new genes, this alien life-form had become part human. Part mouse. Part amphibian.
She got on the comm with Houston. “I need to speak to somebody in Life Sciences,” she said.
“Any one in particular?” asked Capcom.
“An amphibian expert.”
“Stand by, Watson.” Ten minutes later, a Dr. Wang from NASA Life Sciences came on the loop. “You had a question about amphibians?” he asked.
“Yes, about Rana pipiens, the northern leopard frog.”
“What can I tell you about it?”
“What happens if you expose the leopard frog to human hormones?”
“Any hormone in particular?”
“Estrogen, for instance. Or HCG.” Dr. Wang answered without hesitation.
“Amphibians in general are adversely affected by environmental estrogens. It’s been quite a bit, actually. A number of experts think the worldwide decline in frog populations is due to estrogenlike substances polluting streams and ponds.”
“What estrogenlike substances?”
“Certain pesticides, for instance, can mimic estrogens. They disrupt the frogs’ endocrine systems, making it impossible for them to reproduce or thrive.”
“So it doesn’t actually kill them.”
“No, it just disrupts reproduction.”
“Are frogs in particular sensitive to this?”
“Oh, yes. Far more than mammals. Plus, frogs have permeable skin, so they’re susceptible to toxins in general. That’s sort of their, well, Achilles’ heel.” Achilles’ heel. She fell silent for a moment, thinking about that.
“Dr. Watson?” said Wang. “You have any other questions?”
“Yes. Is there any disease or toxin that would kill a frog, but not harm a mammal?”
“That’s an interesting question. When it comes to toxins, it would depend on the dose. You give a little arsenic to a frog, you’d kill it. But arsenic would kill a man as well, if he’s given a larger dose. Then again, there are microbial diseases, certain bacteria viruses, that only kill frogs. I’m not a physician, so I’m not absolutely certain they’re harmless to humans, but—”
“Viruses?” she cut in. “Which ones?”
“Well, Ranaviruses, for instance.”
“I’ve never heard of those.”
“Only amphibian experts are familiar with them. They’re DNA viruses. Part of the Iridovirus family. We think they’re the cause of the tadpole edema syndrome. The tadpoles swell up and hemorrhage.”
“And that’s fatal to them?”
“Very much so.”
“Does this virus kill people as well?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does. I do know Ranaviruses have killed off whole populations of frogs around the world.” The Achilles’ heel, she thought. I’ve found it.
By adding the leopard frog’s DNA to its own genome, Chimera had become part amphibian. It had also acquired an amphibian’s vulnerabilities .
She said, “Is there any way to obtain live samples of one of these Ranaviruses? To test against Chimera?”
There was a long silence. “I get it,” said Dr. Wang. “No one’s tried that yet. No one’s even considered—”
“Can you get the virus?” she cut in.
“Yes. I know two amphibian research labs in California who are working with live Ranaviruses.”
“Then do it. And get hold of Jack McCallum. He needs to know about this.”
“He and Gordon Obie just left for White Sands. I’ll reach them there.”
Tumbleweeds skittered across the road, swept along in a stinging cloud of sand. The men drove past the guardhouse, past the electrified fence, and into the barren Army compound. Jack and Gordon stepped out of the vehicle and squinted up at the sky. The sky was a dusky orange, obscured by windblown dust. The color of sunset, not high noon. They had managed to catch only a few hours of sleep before they’d taken off from Ellington, and it hurt Jack’s eyes just to see the light of day.
“This way, gentlemen,” the driver said.
They followed the soldier into the building.
It was a different reception from the last time Jack had visited.
This time the Army escort was polite and respectful. This time Dr. Isaac Roman was waiting at the front desk, although he did not look particularly happy about their arrival.
“Only you are allowed to come with me, Dr. McCallum,” he said. “Mr. Obie will have to wait here. That was the agreement.
“I made no such agreement,” said Jack.
“Mr. Profitt did, on your behalf. He’s the only reason you’re being allowed in this building. I haven’t a great deal of time, let’s get this over with.” He turned and walked to the elevators.
“Now, there’s your standard Army-issue asshole,” said Gordon.
“Go on. I’ll wait here.”
Jack followed Roman into the elevator.
“First stop is subbasement level two,” said Roman, “where we house our animal trials.” The elevator door opened, and they confronted a wall of glass. It was a viewing window.
Jack approached the window and stared at the laboratory beyond. Inside were a dozen workers wearing biocontamination suits. Cages held spider monkeys and dogs. Right beside the window were glass-enclosed rat cages.
Roman pointed to the rats.
“You’ll notice each cage is labeled with the date and time they were infected. I can think of no better way to illustrate Chimera’s nature.”
In the Day 1 cage, the six rats appeared healthy, vigorously spinning their exercise wheels.
In the cage labeled “Day 2,” the first signs of illness appeared.
Two of the six rats were shivering, their eyes a bright blood-red.
The other four were huddled in a lethargic heap.
“The first two days,” said Dr. Roman, “is Chimera’s reproductive phase. You understand, this is completely opposite to what we see on earth. Usually a life-form must reach maturity before it begins to reproduce. Chimera reproduces first, and then begins to mature. It divides at a rapid rate, producing up to a hundred of itself by forty-eight hours. They start out microscopic in size—not visible to the naked eye. Small enough so that you could breathe them in, or absorb them through your mucous membranes, and not even know you’ve been exposed.”
“So they’re infectious at this early stage in their life cycle?”
“They’re infectious at any stage of their life cycle. They only have to be released into the air. Usually it happens around the time of the victim’s death, or when the corpse bursts open several days post mortem. Once Chimera’s infected you, once it’s multiplied inside your body, each individual copy begins to grow. Begins to develop into…” He paused. “We don’t really know what to them. Egg sacs, I suppose. Because they contain a larval life-form inside them.” Jack’s gaze moved on, to the Day 3 enclosure. All the mice were twitching, limbs thrashing as though repeatedly jolted by electric shocks.
“By the third day,” said Roman, “the larvae are growing rapidly. Displacing the victim’s brain matter by sheer mass effect. Wreaking havoc with the host’s neurologic functions. And by day four…”
They looked at the fourth enclosure. All but one were dead.
The corpses had not been removed, they lay stiff-legged, mouths gaping open. There were still three cages to go, the process of decomposition had been allowed to continue.
By day five, the corpses were beginning to bloat.
On day six, the bellies had grown even larger, the skin stretched drum-taut. viscous fluid seeped from the open eyes and glistened on the nostrils.
And on day seven … Jack halted beside the window, staring into the seventh enclosure.
Ruptured corpses littered the bottom like deflated balloons, the skin torn open to reveal a black stew of dissolved organs. And adhering to one rat’s face was a gelatinous mass of opaque globes.
They were quivering.
“The egg sacs,” said Roman. “By this stage, the corpse’s body cavities are packed with them. They grow at an astonishing rate, feeding on host tissues. Digesting muscles and organs.” He looked at Jack. “Are you familiar with the life cycle of parasitic wasps?
Jack shook his head.
“The adult wasp injects its eggs into a living caterpillar. The larvae grow, ingesting their host’s hemolymph fluid. All this time, caterpillar is alive. Incubating a foreign life-form that’s eating from the inside, until the larvae finally burst out of their dying host.” Roman looked at the dead rats. “These larvae, too, and develop inside a living victim. And that’s what finally kills host. All those larvae, packing into the cranium. Nibbling away the surface of the gray matter. Damaging capillaries, causing intracranial bleeding. The pressure builds. Vessels in the eyes engorge, burst. The host experiences blinding headaches, confusion. He stumbles around as though drunk. In three or four days, he is dead. And still the life-form continues to feed on the corpse. Raiding its DNA. Using that DNA to speed its own evolution.”
“Into what?” Roman looked at Jack. “We don’t know the end point. With every generation, Chimera acquires DNA from its host. The Chimera we’re working with now is not the same one we started out with. Its genome has become more complex. The life-form more advanced.” More and more human, thought Jack.
“This is the reason for absolute secrecy,” said Roman. “Any terrorist, any hostile country, could mine the Galapagos Rift for of these things. This organism, in the wrong hands…” His trailed off.
“So nothing about this thing is manmade.” Roman shook his head. “It was found by chance in the rift. Brought up to the surface by Gabriella. At first Dr. Koenig thought she’d discovered a new species of Archaeons. Instead, what she found was this.” He looked at the wriggling mass of eggs. “A thousand years, they’ve been trapped in the remains of that asteroid. At a depth of nineteen thousand feet. That’s what has kept it in check this time. The fact it came to rest in the deep sea, and not on land.”
“Now I understand why you tested the hyperbaric chamber.”
“All this time Chimera has existed benignly in the rift. We thought, if we reproduced those pressures, we could make it benign again.”
“And can you?”
Roman shook his head. “Only temporarily. This life-form has been permanently altered by exposure to microgravity. Somehow, when it was brought to ISS, its reproductive switch was turned on. It’s as if it was preprogrammed to be lethal. But it needed the absence of gravity to start that program running again.”
“How temporary is hyperbaric treatment?”
“Infected mice stay healthy as long as they’re in the chamber. We’ve kept them alive ten days now. But as soon as we take any of them out, the disease continues its progression.”
“What about Ranavirus?” Only an hour ago, Dr. Wang from NASA Life Sciences had briefed Jack by phone. At that very moment, a supply of the amphibian virus was winging its way by Air Force jet to Dr. Roman’s lab. “Our scientists believe it could work.”
“Theoretically. But it’s too early to launch a rescue shuttle. We have to prove Ranavirus works, or you’d risk the lives of another shuttle crew. We need time to test the virus. Several weeks, at least.” Emma doesn’t have weeks, thought Jack. She has only three days’ worth of HCG. In silence he gazed down at the cage of rat corpses. At the eggs, glistening in their nest of slime.
Time. A thought suddenly occurred to him. The memory of something Roman had just said.
“You said the hyperbaric chamber has kept mice alive for ten days so far.”