Down’s.
“He was always happy,” the doctor said, “but even as an adult, he couldn’t tie his own shoes. He needed constant supervision and medical care until he died at thirty-eight.”
The OB/GYN’s opinion was firm. Nonviable children should be aborted. The screens weren’t able to test for ASD, however—notyet—much less determine which children might be high-functioning versus those who would be low. If those predictions became reliable, where did anyone draw the line?
I can’t imagine our lives without P.J.,
Emily thought, and yet Laura and Greg were better off than most parents. They lived in West Hollywood, a golf course community where they owned a house with a yard, unlike the cramped apartment complex where Emily lived with Chase in Pasadena. Although they easily covered their expenses for physical therapy and special ed, the stress of having an autistic son had added to the fine wrinkles and dark, permanent smudges of exhaustion around Laura’s eyes. Too many families didn’t have the money for special assistance.
Maybe I really should steal my data for the guys at the University of Texas,
she thought.
They can say they developed those results on their own. Simultaneous discovery. It happens all the time. DNAllied won’t be able to track it back to me.
With a prenatal vaccine, no one would suffer—not the children, not the parents—but Emily didn’t want anyone else to refine her work.
Her possessiveness wasn’t a matter of her ego or her guilt.
She wanted to keep a secret.
Her statistical models held the prospect of something more controversial than any vaccine. In comparing the protein expression patterns of
Homo sapiens
to those of Neanderthals and chimpanzees, Emily had uncovered a disconcerting trend she hadn’t shared with anyone at DNAllied, much less Ray or the board.
What would her sister think?
Emily had found a genetic time bomb buried deep within modern man. The fuse was burning. And she wasn’t sure if making it public would do more harm than good.
Letting go of P.J., Laura smiled at her son. Then she paused. She hugged Emily again and kissed her cheek, misinterpreting the worry on Emily’s face. “Don’t be upset about that reporter,” Laura said.
Emily ducked her eyes. “I won’t.”
“Some people are always going to be upset,” Laura said. “That’s their problem, not yours. You’re helping children. Never forget it.”
“Thank you,” Emily said. But her heart was unhappy.
I still haven’t told you the whole truth,
she thought.
NORTHERN CALIFORNIA
T he noon sun glared through the windows as Marcus walked from the control room into the lounge. Roell and Agent Drayer followed him. Marcus turned on her, hoping to push her farther from their computers with his voice.
“This is illegal and stupid,” he said. “Our lawyers will file an injunction.”
He’d hardly slept since driving to the array three days ago. His nerves were tight, and his blood felt like dirty water. Given the choice, he would have concealed his frustration from Roell, but he refused to let his son out of his sight with armed men posted in the control room and the parking lot.
He’d learned Agent Drayer was a desk jockey like himself. Her specialty was signal analysis, which was why the National Security Agency had sent her to the array. They expected Drayer to verify Marcus’s readings and to ascertain whether or not he was faking his data. Her fellow agents were also analysts and techs. The two Army soldiers had been sent to quash any inkling of causing trouble.
“We can fight you in court,” Marcus said.
“Mr. Wolsinger,” Drayer replied, always
Mr. Wolsinger.
She was formal and dry. “Unless you have something new to—”
“Our lawyers have contacted the media. Thousands of our supporters worldwide are posting about your takeover on the net.”
“I understand.”
Between the two of them, Marcus and Roell outweighed Drayer by three hundred pounds, but she wore
“He was always happy,” the doctor said, “but even as an adult, he couldn’t tie his own shoes. He needed constant supervision and medical care until he died at thirty-eight.”
The OB/GYN’s opinion was firm. Nonviable children should be aborted. The screens weren’t able to test for ASD, however—notyet—much less determine which children might be high-functioning versus those who would be low. If those predictions became reliable, where did anyone draw the line?
I can’t imagine our lives without P.J.,
Emily thought, and yet Laura and Greg were better off than most parents. They lived in West Hollywood, a golf course community where they owned a house with a yard, unlike the cramped apartment complex where Emily lived with Chase in Pasadena. Although they easily covered their expenses for physical therapy and special ed, the stress of having an autistic son had added to the fine wrinkles and dark, permanent smudges of exhaustion around Laura’s eyes. Too many families didn’t have the money for special assistance.
Maybe I really should steal my data for the guys at the University of Texas,
she thought.
They can say they developed those results on their own. Simultaneous discovery. It happens all the time. DNAllied won’t be able to track it back to me.
With a prenatal vaccine, no one would suffer—not the children, not the parents—but Emily didn’t want anyone else to refine her work.
Her possessiveness wasn’t a matter of her ego or her guilt.
She wanted to keep a secret.
Her statistical models held the prospect of something more controversial than any vaccine. In comparing the protein expression patterns of
Homo sapiens
to those of Neanderthals and chimpanzees, Emily had uncovered a disconcerting trend she hadn’t shared with anyone at DNAllied, much less Ray or the board.
What would her sister think?
Emily had found a genetic time bomb buried deep within modern man. The fuse was burning. And she wasn’t sure if making it public would do more harm than good.
Letting go of P.J., Laura smiled at her son. Then she paused. She hugged Emily again and kissed her cheek, misinterpreting the worry on Emily’s face. “Don’t be upset about that reporter,” Laura said.
Emily ducked her eyes. “I won’t.”
“Some people are always going to be upset,” Laura said. “That’s their problem, not yours. You’re helping children. Never forget it.”
“Thank you,” Emily said. But her heart was unhappy.
I still haven’t told you the whole truth,
she thought.
NORTHERN CALIFORNIA
T he noon sun glared through the windows as Marcus walked from the control room into the lounge. Roell and Agent Drayer followed him. Marcus turned on her, hoping to push her farther from their computers with his voice.
“This is illegal and stupid,” he said. “Our lawyers will file an injunction.”
He’d hardly slept since driving to the array three days ago. His nerves were tight, and his blood felt like dirty water. Given the choice, he would have concealed his frustration from Roell, but he refused to let his son out of his sight with armed men posted in the control room and the parking lot.
He’d learned Agent Drayer was a desk jockey like himself. Her specialty was signal analysis, which was why the National Security Agency had sent her to the array. They expected Drayer to verify Marcus’s readings and to ascertain whether or not he was faking his data. Her fellow agents were also analysts and techs. The two Army soldiers had been sent to quash any inkling of causing trouble.
“We can fight you in court,” Marcus said.
“Mr. Wolsinger,” Drayer replied, always
Mr. Wolsinger.
She was formal and dry. “Unless you have something new to—”
“Our lawyers have contacted the media. Thousands of our supporters worldwide are posting about your takeover on the net.”
“I understand.”
Between the two of them, Marcus and Roell outweighed Drayer by three hundred pounds, but she wore
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