The Proteus Cure (11 page)

“Yeah, but the tumors are still there.”

“Not for long. Stem cells multiply very quickly, even faster than malignant cells. The special stems strangle the tumor by commandeering its blood supply and crowding out its cells. And they go on doing this until every cancer cell in your body has been killed.”

“And then where do they go?”

“Well, once they undergo mitosis—that’s what we call it when a cell splits—”

Sean made a face. “I’m no bio major, but I know
that
.”

“Good. With mitosis they lose their viral guidance system and so become regular old stem cells.”

Sean mulled this for a few seconds, then frowned. “So why can’t VecGen do that for everyone?”

“I’m not sure. They keep certain aspects of the process under wraps—don’t want anyone stealing their secrets.” And as the bug in her office proved, someone was indeed after their secrets. “But I imagine it has to do with whether or not they can embed the vector virus. If your stem cells reject the virus, they won’t have a guidance system, and you’re out of luck.”

Sean smiled. “I’m a laid-back kinda guy. Gotta figure my stem cells are too. I’m guaranteed a cure, right?”

Sheila had to be honest.

“Rarely there’s an immune reaction to seven-twenty-three—the patient’s defense system doesn’t recognize the modified stems and attacks them as invaders. They never get to where they’re supposed to go. No cure.”

Sean’s smile lost some of its shine. “Let’s hope my immune system is laid back too.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Sheila turned to go.

“One more thing,” Sean said. “It’s named VG-seven-twenty-three, does that mean there were seven hundred and twenty-two failures before it?”

Sheila winced. “Gee, I hope not.” Then she smiled. “Seriously, VecGen spent years developing it, testing it first on rats and such, then moving to primates, and now, finally, humans.”

He held up a pair of crossed fingers. “It’ll work for me.”

Sheila laughed and headed for the door. “That’s the spirit.”

God, she loved this job.

•

Sheila rarely looked at her appointment schedule, so was surprised to see Paul Rosko waiting for her in examining room three.

“Paul? What are you doing here? Is something wrong? Is Coogan—?”

“Coog’s doing fine. I’m the one who’s a wreck.”

“Sick?”

She seated herself on the room’s wheeled stool, shifted into her physician mindset—not always easy when there’s a relationship outside the examining room—and looked up at him. He didn’t look sick.

“Physically I’m fine but this paternity thing—it’s driving me nuts.”

“Why?”

He seemed surprised by the question.

“How else can you react when the boy you’ve believed was your son, who you’ve raised as your son, turns out to be someone else’s. It’s … it’s devastating.”

“Who says he’s someone else’s?”

“The blood test! The doctor told me he’s O-negative. I’m A-positive. I couldn’t donate blood to him, and a father’s blood should be compatible with his son’s.”

“Not necessarily. Sometimes neither parent can donate. Did he have a bone marrow transplant?”

“It didn’t work but yes he had one. Before the KB26.”

“Well, even without a transplant, sometimes parents can’t donate blood.”

Paul’s brow wrinkled. “Yesterday you said you’d explain that. I
need
that explanation.”

“Okay. Here’s how it goes. Your blood type consists of two genetic components: one from your mother and one from your father. You could have A-positive from your father and O-neg from your mother. That’s your genotype. But since type O is non-reactive, your phenotype—how the genes are expressed—is A-positive. When it comes to you being a father, however, you can donate only one of those two alleles to your child. Which one he gets is up for grabs. Coog could have received your O-negative half. What was your wife’s—?”

“Ex-wife.”

“What was her blood type?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Okay, let’s say she was B-positive / O-neg. That would give Coog a chance of four configurations: A-O, B-O, A-B, and O-O. In the last case, Coog would be O-O-neg, known as the universal donor. But as a recipient he could be given only O-O-neg blood. Any other type would cause a transfusion reaction. He’d be ineligible to receive blood from either his A parent or his B parent. The same would hold if he’d turned out AB.”

Paul chewed on that, then looked her in the eye.

“Then I guess only a paternity test will settle it.”

“But I just explained—”

“Sheila, I love that kid and nothing will ever change that. But I want proof he’s mine.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t come to you so you could play Socrates, Sheila. I need help.”

Seeing anger flaring in his eyes, she raised her hands and said, “Paul, I want you to look at the big picture. The result of a paternity test, no matter which way it goes, won’t change Coog. He’ll be the same as he ever was, the same boy you say you love.”

“I don’t just
say
it—I
mean
it.”

“I’m sure you do. But think: Even though the test won’t change Coog, a negative-paternity result will alter a crucial part of his life.”

Paul looked down. “You mean the way I’ll look at him.”

“Exactly. And you don’t strike me as a man who’s adept at hiding his feelings. Coog is going to sense a change in you, sense something’s wrong. You’re the most important person in his life, Paul. If he senses rejection from you, what’s that going to do to him?”

“Since I’m already looking at him and wondering, I can’t see that a test will change much. It’s eating me up, Sheila. Eating me alive. I’ve got to know.”

She sighed. She could tell he was bound and determined.

“Okay. I’m advising against it, but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll take a swab of your cheek now and get one from Coogan later today. Painless and quick. Where can we get hold of your wi—ex-wife?”

“Rose? Why?”

“We need a sample of her DNA.”

Paul winced. “I haven’t a clue where she is.”

Sheila tried to hide her relief.

“Well, then, we’re up the creek. We need samples from Coog, you and your ex to get a definitive answer.”

Paul punched his thigh. “Damn!”

He looked so tortured. Her heart went out to him but she reined it back. Had to stay in doctor mode, had to keep professional distance.

“I’m sorry, Paul, but maybe it’s for the best.”

He sighed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I—” He stiffened and looked at her. “What about HLA and histocompatibility reports? Will they help?”

Where had he learned about that?

“Yes. I’m sure they would, but—”

“I’ve got those. Rose and I were screened when they were looking for a donor for Coog’s bone marrow transplant.” He frowned. “I wasn’t eligible, of course. Should have known then …”

“I told you, parents frequently don’t match.” But it was no use. He wouldn’t rest until he saw it in black and white. “You still have the reports?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m a pack rat. Never throw anything away. I know where they are. Just get Coog’s DNA. I’ll bring the reports.”

Oh, hell.

“Well, I guess if you bring them in …”

He hopped off the table. “I’ll have them to you tonight. Tomorrow latest.” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You’re a lifesaver, Sheila!”

She hoped he felt that way after the results came in.

Li Shen knelt on the living room carpet and played with his son’s foam blocks, carefully stacking one atop another as he built a spindly tower. Fai knelt on the far side, dark eyes wide as he watched, waiting for his moment. Only two years old but already bilingual. Often he would confuse his English and Mandarin, sometimes with hilarious results.

Finally, when the tower passed the two-foot level, Fai could wait no longer. He sprang forward, swinging his arms like a miniature Godzilla and demolishing the tower. Then he looked at his father and laughed.

“Do ’gain!”

Shen grinned at this little person he loved more than life itself and said, “But every time I do, you knock it down!”

That, of course, was the whole point.

“Do ’gain!”

“Okay, but this time don’t knock it down.”

Fai didn’t reply, simply sat back on his haunches and waited, readying to strike again.

“Let Daddy rest and let
Ma
try,” Jing said, dropping down beside them.

Jing was as beautiful and graceful as her name. Shen rubbed a thin arm and stroked the glossy black hair of the only person he loved more than Fai.

“That’s all right,” he said. “You get to play with him all day.”

“Then we’ll do it together.”

As she started on a new tower, the phone rang.

Shen rose before Jing could move. He wanted to get a beer from the refrigerator anyway. His gaze lingered on his wife and son, his heart swelling. But it sank when he saw the phone’s caller-ID screen. He hesitated, then picked up on the third ring.

“Shen,” said a too familiar voice. “I’m on my way to your place. Meet me out front in about five minutes.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He turned and gazed across his toy-strewn living room.

“I must meet with Doctor Gilchrist.”

“But you just got home,” Jing said in their native
Hanyu
. “Now you have to go back?”

“No. He is driving by.”

She shot to her feet. “He is coming here? But I have not prepared enough dinner! What will I—?”

“We will talk in his car.”

“In his car? Isn’t that strange?”

“He did not say why, but it is surely a security matter.”

“Could he not talk on the phone?”

Shen shrugged.

Jing pouted. “He should let you have your time with your family.”

“He is brother to
Jiù-zhù-zh
e
. And without
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
I would have no family.”

Jing bowed her head. “Yes. That is so.”

Indeed so, Shen thought.

He was Shen Li here—he still found it odd that Americans put their given name first—back home he had been Li Shen, second in command of elite security answering only to the Party’s Central Committee. He had been trained in a thousand ways to kill, and from time to time had been called upon to use those skills. Always he had obeyed without question.

Born during the Cultural Revolution, Shen had been raised to revere the CPC. He had demonstrated many times that the Party could always count on him, and had trusted that he would always be able to count on the Party.

How wrong.

When Jing fell sick, Shen learned his true value. The doctors removed her cancerous ovary but would do nothing more. Chemotherapy was reserved for a select few, and Shen was not in that number. He offered to pay, to give all he owned for his wonderful Jing, but the Party was deaf to his pleas.

Desperate, he converted everything to gold, stole a government boat, and set out with Jing for Taiwan. The Taiwanese Navy picked them up halfway across. To embarrass the PRC, the Taiwan government trumpeted Jing’s plight to the world, saying
they
would treat the poor woman. But privately they informed Shen that the delay since diagnosis had allowed the cancer to spread. Jing would die within the year.

Shen had sunk into despair. No one could offer Jing a shred of hope. Yes, she could start chemotherapy, but the chance of success was almost nil, so why make her spend her remaining time feeling sick and weak.

And then, from the United States … a call.

An American woman named Abra Gilchrist had read about Jing’s plight and offered an experimental therapy. She flew Shen and Jing here, to Tethys, where a miracle treatment cured her.

Cured!

Shen still could hardly believe it. His Jing, so pale and drawn and hollow-cheeked then, had returned to her former round and healthy self within a year. Her name meant “sparkling,” and indeed she sparkled again.

He met many times with the poor rich woman—rich in dollars but poor with her terrible body—who wanted only to heal. That was her dream, she had told Shen: To heal the world … one person at a time.

He came to call her
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
: Savior.

She had instructed her brother to help Shen find work. When Dr. Gilchrist learned of Shen’s past, he offered a job in the foundation’s security department. Shen worked hard on his shifts and studied English in his off hours. He advanced quickly, and when, years ago, Dr. Gilchrist had asked him to remove a problem, he’d hesitated. He had left that life behind. But it was for
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
, Dr. Gilchrist said. And it would only be just that once. For this deed, Shen was promoted to chief of security.

And then another miracle: Fai.

Not only had his beloved wife returned to him, but she had given him a son.

All because of
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
.

Shen would do anything—
anything
—for
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
.

Earlier this week her brother had called upon him once again. Shen hadn’t wanted to but, as with the last time,
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
’s dream depended on it. So he had done it. No death this time. Just a break in. No one hurt.

He hoped this meeting with Dr. Gilchrist would not involve an assassination. He was no longer the man who had worked for the Party. He was a father now, with a son to think of, and he wanted Fai to have the future Shen never could have dreamed of.

He shrugged into a black leather coat and stepped onto his front porch. At the curb he turned and looked at his house. A three-bedroom ranch, fourteen hundred feet of space. Small by American standards, but a palace compared to the cramped apartment he and Jing had shared back in Beijing. And he owned not one car, but two. His television provided hundreds of channels—hundreds!—and he could watch any he wished, even the ones that spoke against or made fun of the government. Unthinkable back home.

No. Not back home. China was forever in his past. This wondrous land was his home. His forever home.