VIABLE (3 page)

She paused before responding, wary. If he had read her research he already knew her views on that subject. Was he trying to provoke an argument? They were alone; there was no one else around. She looked over, for the first time noticing what looked like a religious medal on a thin silver chain around his neck. Just ahead was the culvert, the confluence of the south and north forks of the creek that flowed through the university and beyond that the Monterey pines and native oaks of Grinnell, marking the center of the wilderness that sat at the heart of the campus. She wished now she had taken the shorter route through Dwinelle, with its brightly lit walkways and bustling student center. She glanced over her shoulder. She could just make out the lights of the Life Sciences building’s lobby but they were too far for Ryan to see her. She forced herself to remain calm. She was being silly. The young man didn’t appear threatening.

‘I can certainly understand sensitivity to the use of human DNA. But cybrids created using cells from a patient with a genetic disorder, like Alzheimer’s for instance, carry the genes responsible for that disorder. That makes them invaluable in studying the development of the disease. Besides, cybrids really shouldn’t be viewed as controversial.  Even though they’re created from animal eggs, all the DNA in the cell nucleus is human. Animal DNA is found only in the mitochondria, but mitochondrial DNA plays no part in either cellular division or in reproduction.’

‘So you think we should go further then?’

They crossed a wooden footbridge, following the south fork of the creek. The old planks creaked underfoot, the waters beneath reduced to a trickle after a long, hot summer and a dry fall. The flagstone path leading to the road and civilization beyond were still some way ahead. Again she hesitated, studying the young man’s face for any sign that might tell of an impending confrontation. His manner was certainly direct. But there was nothing, at least nothing she could detect, in either his expression or the tone of his voice that indicated she might be in danger.

‘Well, things do get a little more complicated when you start to consider mixing cells from different organisms, either human or animal. That said, there’s nothing particularly new with the concept. A person with a replacement heart valve from a pig is a chimera. But then, strictly speaking, so is anyone who has undergone a blood transfusion. With such simple procedures concerns are typically limited to clinical effectiveness and safety, the prevention of cross-species infections, that sort of thing. At some point it’s hoped we’ll be able to produce patient-specific tissues that are safe for transplantation into humans. That would be really useful in limiting the instances of organ rejection.’

‘What about introducing animal genetic material directly into a human embryo?’

She stopped, turning to face him.

‘You mean hybrids, transgenics?’

This time he stared back at her, those green eyes searching her face for an answer.

Yes
.

There were some naturally-occurring examples of true hybrids – the mule, the liger – but Alison knew the use of human-animal hybrids in medical research would never be condoned, whatever the justification. However, transgenics – animals that had genes from other animals, plants or even humans, deliberately inserted into their genomes –
had
already been created. Ordinary mice couldn’t be infected with polio, as they lacked the cell-surface molecule that, in humans, served as the receptor for the virus. Transgenic mice had therefore been engineered to express the human gene for the polio virus receptor, allowing them to serve as an inexpensive, easily-manipulated model for studying the disease. The real risk lay in the possibility of inadvertently creating an animal with human characteristics. Introducing human genetic material into the nervous system of animals, particularly higher order primates, was a particular concern. But nothing that aggressive had ever been attempted, or was ever likely to be.

‘Well, it’s a difficult area. Given the limits on federal involvement, privately funded research into human embryonic stem cells has to date largely been carried out under a patchwork of existing regulations, many of which were not designed with that research specifically in mind. Now, if...’

‘Doctor Stone, I’m not really interested in the regulatory implications. I want to know what you think.’

Alison was momentarily taken aback. She wasn’t used to being interrupted by her students, most of whom were content to listen intently to whatever she might have to say.

‘Look, I’m not sure where this is going. It might help me to answer your question if I understood your particular area of interest. Is it the use of transgenic animals as disease models, as candidates for xenotransplantation, as bioreactors for pharmaceuticals? Or something else?’

The young man paused before he answered. It seemed to her like he knew what he wanted to ask, but was unsure whether he should trust her. Perhaps he was afraid of being ridiculed. But somehow she didn’t think that was it either.

‘I’m interested in the possibilities for enhancing regenerative capacity in humans.’

So that was it. Stem cell research was the latest great hope for a cure for many of the terrible conditions that still afflicted mankind. But, like radioactivity had been during the middle of the last century, it was also the ‘go to’ science solution for movie producers and scriptwriters who needed to justify some ridiculous sci-fi plot. He wasn’t a religious nut after all, just some film studies undergrad with an idea for a screenplay. It would explain why she hadn’t seen him in her classes. She felt a little foolish for having worried. This young man cared about superheroes, not the salvation of her eternal soul. She checked her watch, anxious now to get to the cafeteria before it closed.

‘Well, can you be more specific? Are you talking about growing back limbs, or just above average ability to self heal?’

He hesitated again, as if considering how to respond.

‘I suppose I mean recovering from injuries in a way that wouldn’t otherwise seem possible. Or physical development after reaching adulthood. Improvements in eyesight, hearing, that sort of thing.’

It certainly sounded like science fiction. She checked her watch. Sather Gate, the original south campus entrance, was just up ahead, and beyond it Sproul Plaza. She could still make it before the cafeteria closed. She started walking again.

‘Well, there are plenty of examples of what you’re describing in the animal kingdom. Most people know that crabs and lobsters can re-grow claws. Members of the salamander species such as newts and axolotls have also exhibited remarkable regenerative powers. It’s not really attracted a lot of attention from the research community but there are a few papers that argue for the axolotl as a model genetic organism.’

‘Yes, I’ve read Gardiner and Bryant. But what about in humans?’

She was surprised. Gardiner and Bryant weren’t on any of the reading lists she handed out to her undergrads. She’d studied their research but she doubted anyone else in the department had, let alone a film studies major. She forced herself to keep an open mind. She was always reminding her students that the history of stem cell research was short; that they shouldn’t be afraid to question even what might seem like the most fundamental of assumptions. At least he’d bothered to do some reading on the subject. 

‘Well, as you probably know then, regenerative capacity is inversely related to complexity. The more complex an animal the less regeneration it is typically capable of. Mammals are just too complicated; the necessary regression of a developed adult cell to a stem cell state simply couldn’t occur. There are a couple of very limited exceptions. The human liver is known to have particularly strong regenerative capabilities and we have a lot to learn about the kidney’s ability to re-grow. There are also a few documented cases of fingertips growing back in young children, but that’s about it. The abilities I think you’re describing unfortunately just don’t exist for us. It might make for an interesting story, though.’

For a moment she thought he was about to argue with her but then he simply nodded, and thanked her for her time. He seemed disappointed, and Alison couldn’t help but think that for some reason it was she who had let him down. As he walked away she realized she’d never even asked his name. She considered calling after him. But ahead she could see the cafeteria already beginning to close its doors.

If she hurried she might be able to grab a sandwich to take back to the lab.

3

Fallon, Nevada - December 2014

THE
PORTION
OF U.S. Route 50 that ran through the center of Nevada was one of the things he loved most about the state; after almost ten years he had never tired of it. It had been named The Loneliest Road in America by
Life
magazine in 1986 and the name had stuck. Officials from White Pine County had in the end decided to make the best of the publicity, convincing the Nevada Department of Transportation to adopt the slogan in official highway logs and to place custom milemarkers along the route, hoping to attract those who might be drawn to the area’s stark, almost alien, landscape, to the prospect of travelling for miles without sign of civilization, through terrain seemingly untouched by man.

From Lake Tahoe on the western border the road followed the Carson River past Carson City, then east towards the Lahontan Valley where it merged with the California Trail, the route followed by pioneers during the Gold Rush. The deadliest part of the trail had been the Forty Mile Desert, a barren stretch of scorching wilderness within whose bounds no water could be found. It was the section of Route 50 that began in the desert he favored. To the west the highway was mostly four-lane blacktop, serving the commuter towns of Dayton and Silver Springs. But heading east from Fallon the scenery changed, occasional mountain ridges breaking up the otherwise flat landscape, the summits starting out small but steadily increasing in altitude, eventually becoming snow-capped goliaths. If he were to take it as far as the Great Basin National Park he would see everything the state had to offer, from the barren floor of the desert valleys to the hairpin turns and impossible gradients of the mountain passes that cut through the high alpine forests.

There wouldn’t be time for that today though. He would have liked to have made it all the way out through the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest as far as Ruth, an abandoned mining town almost on the border with Utah. He had some important decisions to make and the isolation, the stunning wilderness, would help. But it was well past noon and the next selection course was beginning the following morning. The candidates would already be en route to the base and he needed to spend a couple of hours that evening reviewing their files. Never mind, he could still cover some ground. He would stop at Middlegate and gas up the bike. He could decide then whether he had time to push on further.

The winter sun was low in the sky, moving around behind him as he left the base. It was cold, and he let the bike warm up slowly as he headed north towards Route 118. This time of year moisture-laden air moving inland from the Pacific was forced upwards as it met the Sierra Nevada and the Cascades, causing heavy rainfall on the western slopes of those mountains. But by the time the weather system had reached Fallon it was often spent, with only a wind shift and temperature fall to tell of its existence.

A single jet, even at this distance unmistakable as an F-14 Tomcat, was banking around from the north, hugging the mountain ridge as it turned towards the base, vortices forming behind the angled metal of the twin tail fins, the variable geometry wings swept fully forward in preparation for landing. He almost didn’t notice the lone individual wrapped in a thick down jacket standing at the chain-link perimeter fence, a pair of binoculars around his neck. He thought he had seen the man before, recently, and there was something about his stance that made him think that he was, or at least had been, military. Not that there was anything unusual about his presence. With the exception of a number of the radar installations in the valleys most of the area outside the base was open to the public. Fallon had been the home of the Navy Fighter Weapons School since it had relocated from Miramar a decade before, merging the now famous TOPGUN academy with Strike U, the Naval Strike Warfare Center, and TOPDOME, the Carrier Airborne Early Warning Weapons School. With its network of surrounding valleys checkered with bombing ranges, radar installations and simulated air defense networks the base was the Navy’s primary location for aerial combat training. The Tomcats were a big draw for the area’s plane spotting community.

He watched as the pilot brought the fighter in, using the flat part of the fuselage between the engine nacelles as an airfoil to slow the landing speed. He had seen countless F-14s practicing carrier landings at the airfield but it never ceased to amaze him how little space they needed to put their planes on the deck. It had been years since he had flown a fast jet and yet he found he was jealous of the skill.  He didn’t miss the combat, the first sickening rush of adrenaline as he would call out the enemy, the frantic rush to close before they picked up a firing solution or escaped to altitude, or even the moment when, after his adversary had done everything he could to out-think or out-fly him he had nevertheless closed his finger around the trigger, ending the fight. But stationed here, the base’s hangars housing a selection of F-14s and the F/A-18 Hornets that would shortly replace them, he often longed to climb into one of those cockpits, to feel the rush of acceleration as the plane hurtled down the runway, the first giddy moment of takeoff, the exhilarating climb as the afterburners ignited thrusting the plane skyward and then the sheer freedom of flight in a fast, highly maneuverable jet. Hell, he found he even missed flying choppers. He had often been tempted to approach one of the pilots and ask them to bring him up. Despite the fighter jock swagger most of them lived in awe of the CSARs stationed on base. He was sure some of them might even have been crazy enough to let him take the stick for a while. But he had never done it. The incident with the Pave Hawk three years before had raised enough questions. Thankfully Fitzpatrick had decided to let the matter rest but he knew that the base commander had never really bought his explanation. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself like that again.