Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

Synthetic biology was the transistor of the twenty-first century. Yet political realities in America made it increasingly unfeasible for entrepreneurs there to tinker with the building blocks of life. Every cluster of human cells was viewed as a baby in America. A quarter of the population wasn’t vaccinated. A majority of Americans didn’t believe in evolution. Social-media-powered opinions carried more influence than peer-reviewed scientific research. In this virulently anti-science atmosphere, synbio research was hounded offshore before it had really begun. Activists crowed over their victory.

“And what behavior do honey bees and serial killers have in common?” “Bee brains are fairly simple, so it’s easier to model how bees are recruited to flowers than it is to understand how serial killers are drawn toward victims. However, both follow certain elemental behaviors. Bees, for example, maintain a buffer zone around their hive—a zone where they do not forage—in order to avoid bringing unwanted attention to the location of their home. Likewise, the data indicates most serial killers kill in the region of their home, but not in the immediate vicinity of it, where they’re more likely to run into someone who recognizes them. Therefore, mapping the geographic spread of a killer’s victims helps to further pinpoint the home base of a killer—narrowing the search area with every murder. The mathematical model closely correlates with bee-foraging algorithms.”

Durand passed along a line of dealers. As he watched, an emaciated junkie pointed out a tattoo of a molecular model on his left arm to a drug printer. The dealer scanned it under the bioluminescent light, and a moment later the molecule appeared on a disposable phablet screen—ready for synthesis somewhere nearby. He’d never actually seen this in person—only read about it. Custom highs were the drug business now. Your drug was synthesized as you ordered it—specialized just for your DNA, to create the perfect high. To gauge the precise dose, to avoid death. At maximum purity.

“Of course, of course, way too old to have received these edits in vitro. CRISPR didn’t even exist then. Somehow you have specialized cells known as chromatophores seamlessly woven into your skin. My microscope just confirmed their structure.” “What are they?” “You could think of them as genetic tattoos. They appear identical in structure to that of a chameleon—the topmost layer transparent with subsequent layers containing various pigments; xanthophores for yellow, erythrophores for red, cyanophores for blue, melanophores for brown—you get the idea. In a chameleon the colors are locked away in tiny vesicles so they don’t normally appear. But they react to the central nervous system and are sensitive to chemicals in the bloodstream, making their colors visible when under duress or—” “Excitement. Emotion.” “Precisely. Mood. Most people think the color changes of a chameleon are for camouflage, but they’re actually to convey information to enemies and potential mates. Fascinating creatures, really.”

moving cardboard boxes. Pallets of boxes stood nearby. Arranged in a circle stood half a dozen six-year-old children of varying ethnicities—both boys and girls. They wore simple blue work smocks with cheap plastic sandals. They didn’t even glance up as Vegas and his guests entered. Instead, the children focused on passing cardboard boxes from the conveyor line, on to another child, and then to a third child, who added it to the stack of boxes on a pallet—whereupon a child on the far side removed a box from the pallet and placed it onto the conveyor line, starting the loop all over again. It was a bizarre imitation of work. Vegas gestured to the little workers. “Our other DLG3 line of edits. We call it ‘Worker Bee.’ Creates laborers of low IQ. Low food requirements. Designed for docility. They can be trained to perform tasks too simple for robots to perform cost-effectively. Sterile, of course.” Frey and Durand stopped cold.

“I’m given to understand that there are plenty of slaves already in the world. Huge populations of refugees on the move. Wouldn’t that make for a . . . challenging market for this product?” Vegas nodded. “Indeed. But unlike slaves, as you can see, these workers will not rebel. Or demand rights. Docile—susceptible to suggestion and lacking self-interest. This achievement was accomplished through research on Devil’s Breath.” Frey stared out at the workers. “Scopolamine.” “Yes. It has a fascinating effect on the human brain. Zombifies the mind, making it receptive to external suggestion. Our partners have perfected embryo edits to create the chemical naturally within the brain. With these children, such susceptibility to external suggestion is permanent. They will hold their hand over a flame if you tell them to.” Durand felt nausea. Right here—this was the reason for the Genetic Crime Division. It’s what had motivated his old self. Before he’d gone on this insane quest, his job had been to prevent abominations like this. He’d had a noble purpose. Now he was standing here petitioning monsters for assistance. This was devolution. Humanity was devolving a portion of itself into a slave subspecies. He had to put a stop to this. It could not go on. The evil on display here was too great.

Vegas shouted as they drew alongside. “Halt!” The boys snapped to, and slapped their boots on the ground as they stood at rigid attention. Vegas paced around them, resting his hands on the shoulders of the diminutive soldiers. “You like them, Bryan? They’re knockout mice of a sort—only the genes we’ve knocked out this time are those that support compassion and empathy. HTR2A. SLC6A4. BDNF. DRD2. And don’t forget CRHR1—shrinking the fear center of the human brain. These children are designed to grow into reliable soldiers. They will not fall prey to conscience, or be tormented by memories of horror. Nor do they fear death. They obey and tell no tales of what they’ve done. Likewise sterile. Don’t want these nasty fuckers breeding.”

“A caterpillar and its butterfly have the same genetic sequence.” Frey pounded his fist into his hand. “Same exact DNA and completely different forms. How is that possible?” Durand realized he’d never known that. And it did seem puzzling. “Epigenetics. Gene expression. Turning genes on and off. That’s what happens during the butterfly’s metamorphosis. It builds a chrysalis and secretes chemicals that cause it to fall into a comatose state as its body changes.” “Like my coma. After they injected me.” Frey nodded. “I think that’s what the Huli jing discovered—not only how to edit DNA, but how to turn genes on and off on demand, not simply write them into the chain. After all, computer code doesn’t do anything unless you execute it.” He stabbed at Durand’s butterfly tattoo. “I think this was the butterfly species that helped them figure it out, and why Wyckes and Otto wear it as a tattoo: Archon apollinus. The False Apollo.”

Durand asked, “How far to the border, Thet?” Thet smiled. “Just a couple kilometers.” “Will we cross in the night?” “Oh, no. Darkness has no advantage. Machines see better than we at night. We like day. Rain like this during the day, perfect weather against fighting machines. Worse for them. You should rest.” He mimed sleep. “We leave just before dawn.” Soldiers strung up thick, black netting between the trees around the camp. Frey noticed them working and turned to Thet. “If those are mosquito nets, I’d hate to see the mosquitoes.” Thet laughed good-naturedly. “Anti-drone netting. Snares surveillance units. Sets off alarm.” Men behind him laid out bamboo mats, and soon the group huddled in several different spots under camouflaged tarpaulins in the rain, while others kept watch. Durand recognized the tarp material as a thermal insulator. It would conceal their heat signature from the air. Likewise, he’d seen motion and acoustic sensors set up on their perimeter, scanning the jungle around them for threats, interpreting movement and myriad sounds. Even here, out on the Thai-Burmese border, algorithms ran the show. He considered this as he watched a stream of rainwater rush a foot past his head in the semidarkness. Durand drifted off to sleep.

“It is not something you chose but something the universe thrust upon you. Yet you call it you.” “It’s the form my daughter calls Dad. And it’s half her DNA. What I brought to the union my wife and I made.” “Anatta—the third characteristic of life. The not-self. There is no permanent atta—or self. From the moment we begin, all entities—including living beings—are subject to a process of continuous change.”

“You should invest now. I would invest more if I could. You are fortunate to be men of means.” “Invest. In biotech?” “No. In genomic sequences.” Durand and Frey looked at each other. “I would immediately purchase my own genomic sequence at the very least.” He glanced back again. “Before someone else does. Personally, I’d rather own a slightly inferior genetic sequence than lease a more desirable one.” Durand narrowed his eyes. “What in hell’s name are you talking about? The Treaty on Genetic Modification is—” “Is a relic. Live editing will render germ line editing moot. Genetic edits can be reversed—even in mature organisms. The TGM is a dead letter—and quite soon.” Frey interceded as he apparently noticed Durand was getting agitated. “Humor me, here. What exactly are you saying?” “The international legal groundwork is being laid, copyrighting and patenting genomic sequences for proprietary algae, bacteria, and yeast organisms—the factories of the fourth industrial revolution.” “What does that have to do with human beings?” “DNA is DNA. Merely information. Which means that human beings are merely information. And there is a long-established legal precedent that information can be owned.”