The Sacred Blood

new lease on life, however? That was a transformative event that left a permanent, humbling impression. And it was an impression that she was anxious to share with the world.

Rubbing her eyes, she swiveled back to the computer monitor, where two images were paneled side by side.

“Just makes no sense,” she muttered.

The image on the left was a spectral karyotype plotting twenty-four fluoresced chromosome pairs in a grid. The image on the right was virtually identical, except for the label on the last pair—XX instead of XY. Nothing wrong there.

Sample XX had been extracted from the nucleus of her own blood cell. Female.

Sample XY had been extracted from a two-thousand-year-old skeleton found inside the ossuary she’d secretly studied at the Vatican Museums back in June. Male. Identity? . . . The possibility still sent shivers down her spine.

But the real difference—the aberration—was plainly evident in both images. It was the chromosome pair marked “23.” The strands indeed had a normal wormlike shape, but lacked the visible bands of a compressed helix. Closer study had revealed why: pair 23’s genes weren’t structured in tightly wound strands. In microscopic view its structure resembled . . . rock candy? Adding to the genetic mind-bender was the fact that the nucleobases—guanine, cytosine, adenine, and thymine—found in all other chromosomes were not present in 23. Which led to a most amazing discovery: a previously undocumented coding nucleobase she and her boss Evan Aldrich had, for the time being, simply dubbed “chromosome 23” or just “23.”

And 23 operated like a super organic nanomachine, rebuilding and recoding damaged cells in the remaining chromosome set—a synthesis she still couldn’t fathom. And when introduced into an organism—like an unsuspecting thirtysomething female geneticist with bone cancer—it swept through the bloodstream like a virus to repair damaged coding, system-wide.

She still couldn’t believe Evan had been so daring as to inject her with it. For all he’d known, it could’ve killed her. Then again, he wasn’t the type to leave things to chance. When he’d spotted the anomaly while performing a routine genome scan on the ancient bone sample she’d sent him months back, he knew what he’d stumbled upon. He just couldn’t explain exactly what it was.

When they’d returned from Rome in June, that job had been delegated to her.

So far, her search to find answers had only brought bigger questions. Where had 23 come from? How could it have only existed in a twothousand-year-old man? A chromosome that could selectively undo countless centuries of adverse genetic mutation? It was an epigenetic riddle of unprecedented proportion.

Charlotte sank back into her chair and sighed.

She couldn’t help but contemplate an idea serious researchers considered taboo: the “origin—unknown” variable that pointed to something bigger than scientific rationale. Irreducible complexity? Don’t think it, she told herself. But she did anyway. Intelligent design? If her analysis even hinted at creationism, she could kiss her career good-bye.

“Come on,” she admonished herself. You can find the answer. You can do this.

But even if she could, what about the commercial aspects of the research? This thing would be the Pandora’s box of medicine. Eradicating every disease could have daunting implications—like the complete collapse of the medical-industrial complex.

“Just breathe,” she muttered to herself.

“Take a breath for me too,” a voice called from the door.

She turned. It was Evan, looking like a billboard ad in his Armani navy double-breasted suit and a tasteful periwinkle and white striped tie that made his blue eyes flash—a more serious corporate image (adopted not by his own volition, but at the insistence of the board of directors). She still opted for the company’s standard-issue white lab coat over her 40-percentoff Ann Taylor Loft pantsuit.

“How ya doin’?” He stayed leaning against the door frame.

“Oh, you know. Trying to figure out how we trapped the Garden of Eden in a test tube,” she said with great sarcasm.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She shrugged.

He tipped his chin up at the monitor. “Your sample still stable?”

“Yes.” Enzyme levels normal, blood cell counts immaculate, no trace of cancer cells. Remission.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I’m not complaining,” she said with a smile. “Still think we should keep this under lock and key?”

He nodded slowly and sharply. “One step at a time. This little wonder has already helped BMS redesign its gene sequencers. And now those puppies can pick out just about every known disease.”

That was putting it mildly, she thought. Beta testing of the Genocodifier XMT by the country’s leading genetic researchers had led to unbiased euphoric reviews in the industry’s most prestigious journals and had set the entire health-care market buzzing—from pharmaceutical companies to biotech firms to fertility clinics. The orders were flooding in from all corners of the globe, presenting Evan with a CEO’s most invited dilemma— how to keep up with production and growth. He’d been meeting nonstop with venture capitalists to arrange funding for BMS’s global expansion. Wall Street was already whispering about “the next Microsoft.” Hence the spiffy suit. What a difference a few months had made, she thought.

“A bit premature to follow up with a potential cure-all,” he said, “especially when my best researcher can’t quite explain what it is.” He folded his arms to await her rebuttal to the dig.

“Is that right?” she said, feigning offense.