The Lazarus Vendetta - Страница 6

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Their Mark I design had failed in early animal testing because the nanophages themselves were destroyed by the immune system before they could do their work. Since then Jon knew the Harcourt scientists had been evaluating different shell configurations and materials, trying hard to find a combination that would be effectively invisible to the body's natural defenses. And for months the magic formula had eluded them.

He glanced up at Brinker. “This looks almost identical to your Mark One configuration. So what have you changed?”

“Take a closer look at the shell coating,” the blond-haired Harcourt scientist suggested.

Smith nodded and took over the microscope controls. He tapped the keypad gently, slowly zooming in on a section of the outer shell. “Okay,” he said. “It's bumpy, not smooth. There's a thin molecular coating of some kind.” He frowned. “The structure of that coating looks hauntinglv familiar… but where have I seen it before?”

“The basic idea came to Ravi here in a flash,” the tall, blond-haired researcher explained. “And like all great ideas it's incredibly simple and freaking obvious… at least after the fact.” He shrugged. “Think about one particularly bad little mother of a bacterium — resistant staphylococcus aureus. How does it hide from the immune system?”

“It coats its cell membranes in polysaccharides,” Smith said promptly. He looked at the screen again. “Oh, for Pete's sake…”

Parikh nodded complacently. “Our Mark Twos are essentially sugar-coated. Just like all the best medicines.”

Smith whistled softly. “That is brilliant, guys. Absolutely brilliant!”

“With all due modesty, you are right about that,” Brinker admitted. He laid one hand on the monitor. “That beautiful Mark Two you see here should do the trick. In theory, anyway.”

“And in practice?” Smith asked.

Ravi Parikh pointed toward another high-resolution display — this one the size of a wide-screen television. It showed a double-walled glass box secured to a lab table in an adjoining clean room. “That is just what we are about to find out, Colonel. We have been working almost nonstop for the past thirty-six hours to produce enough of the new design nanophages for this test.”

Smith nodded. Nanodevices were not built one at a time with microscopic tweezers and drops of subatomic glue. Instead, they were manufactured by the tens of millions or hundreds of millions or even billions, using biochemical and enzymatic processes precisely controlled by means of pH, temperature, and pressure. Different elements grew in different chemical solutions under different conditions. You started in one tank, formed the basic structure, washed away the excess, and then moved your materials to a new chemical bath to grow the next part of the assembly. It required constant monitoring and absolutely precise timing.

The three men moved closer to the monitor. A dozen white mice occupied the clear double-walled container. Half of the mice were lethargic, riddled with lab-induced tumors and cancers. The other six, a healthy control group, scampered here and there, looking for a way out. Numbered and color-coded tags identified each mouse. Video cameras and a variety of other sensors surrounded the box, ready to record every event once the experiment began.

Brinker pointed to a small metal canister attached to one end of the test chamber. “There they are, Jon. Fifty million Mark Two nanophages all set to go, plus or minus five million either way.” He turned to one of the lab techs hovering close by. “Have our little furry friends had their shots, Mike?”

The technician nodded. “Sure thing, Dr. Brinker. I did it myself just ten minutes ago. One good jab for each of them.”

“The nanophages go in inert,” Brinker explained. “Their internal ATP power cell only lasts so long, so we surround that section with a protective sheath.”

Smith understood the reason for that. ATP, adenosine triphosphate, was a molecule that provided energy for most metabolic processes. But ATP would begin releasing its energy as soon at it came in contact with liquid. And all living creatures were mostly liquid. “So the injection is a kick start?” he asked.

“That's right,” Brinker confirmed. “We inject a unique chemical signal into each test subject. Once a passive sensor on the nanophage detects that signal, the sheath opens, and the surrounding liquid activates the ATP. Our little machines light up and off they go on the hunt.”

“Then your sheath also acts as a fail-safe,” Smith realized. “Just in case any of the Mark Twos wind up where they aren't supposed to be — say inside one of you, for example.”

“Exactly,” Brinker agreed. “No unique chemical signature… no nanophage activation.”

Parikh was less certain about that.

“There is a small risk,” the shorter molecular biologist warned. “There is always a certain error rate in the nanophage build process.”

“Which means sometimes the sheath doesn't form properly? Or the sensor is missing or set to receive the wrong signal? Or maybe you wind up with the wrong biochemical substances stored inside the phage shell?”

“Stuff like that,” Brinker said. “But the error percentage is very small. Ridiculously tiny. Heck, almost nil.” He shrugged. “Besides, these things are programmed to kill cancer cells and nasty bacteria. Who really cares if a few strays go wandering around inside the wrong target for a couple of minutes?”

Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. Was Brinker serious? Low risk or not, the senior Harcourt scientist's attitude seemed just a bit too cavalier. Good science was the art of taking infinite pains. It did not mean writing off potential safety hazards, no matter how small.

The other man saw his expression and laughed. “Don't sweat it, Jon. I'm not crazy. Well, not completely, anyway. We keep our nanophages on a damned tight leash. They're well and truly contained. Besides, I've got Ravi here to keep me on the straight and narrow. Okay?”

Smith nodded. “Just checking, Phil. Chalk it up to my suspicious spook-like nature.”

Brinker shot him a quick, wry smile. Then he glanced at the technicians standing by at various consoles and monitors. “Everybody set?”

One by one, they each gave him a thumbs-up.

“Right,” Brinker said. His eyes were bright and excited. “Mark Two nanophage live subject trial numero uno. On my mark… three, two, one… now!”

The metal canister hissed.

“Nanophages released,” one of the technicians murmured, watching a readout from the canister.

For several minutes nothing seemed to happen. The healthy mice moved here and there, seemingly at random. The sick mice stayed put.

“ATP power cycle complete,” another technician announced at last. “Nanophage life span complete. Live subject trial complete.”

Brinker breathed out. He glanced up at Smith in triumph. “There we go, Colonel. Now we'll anesthetize our furry friends, open them up, and see what percentage of their various cancers we just nailed. Me, I'm betting we're talking close to one hundred percent.”

Ravi Parikh was still watching the mice. He frowned. “I think we may have a runaway, Phil,” he said quietly. “Take a look at test subject five.”

Smith bent down to get a closer view. Mouse Five was one of the healthy ones, a member of the control group. It was moving erratically, repeatedly stumbling headlong into its fellows, mouth opening and closing rapidly. Suddenly it fell on its side, writhed in apparent agony for a few seconds — and then lay still.

“Crap,” Brinker said, staring blankly at the dead mouse. “That's sure as hell not supposed to happen.”

Jon Smith frowned, suddenly resolving to recheck Harcourt Bio-science's containment and safety procedures. They had better be as thorough as Parikh and Brinker claimed, so that whatever had just killed a perfectly healthy mouse stayed locked away inside this lab.

* * *

It was nearly midnight.

A mile to the north, the lights of Santa Fe cast a warm yellow glow into the clear, cold night sky. Ahead, the upper-floor windows of the Teller Institute glowed behind drawn blinds. Arc lights mounted on the roof cast long black shadows across the Institute's grounds. Along the northern

edge of the perimeter fence, small stands of pine and juniper trees were wholly submerged in darkness.

Paolo Ponti slithered closer to the fence through the tall, dry grass. He hugged the dirt, careful to stay in the shadows where his black sweatshirt and dark jeans made him almost invisible. The Italian was twenty-four, slender, and athletic. Six months ago, tired of his life as a part-time university student on the dole, he had joined the Lazarus Movement.

The Movement offered his life meaning, a sense of purpose and excitement beyond anything else he had ever imagined. At first, the secret oaths he had sworn to protect Mother Earth and to destroy her enemies had seemed melodramatic and silly. Since then, however, Ponti had embraced the tenets and creeds of Lazarus with a zeal that surprised everyone who knew him, even himself.

Paolo glanced over his shoulder, seeing the faint shape wriggling along in his wake. He had met Audrey Karavites at a Lazarus rally in Stuttgart the month before. The twenh-one-year-old American woman had been traveling through Europe, a college graduation gift from her parents. Bored by museums and churches, she had gone to the rally on a whim. That whim had changed her whole life when Paolo swept her right off her feet, into his bed, and into the Movement.

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