PROFESSOR JOHANSEN SHOOK his head in disbelief. “What Vyrogen did to you violates the Hippocratic oath. It makes me ill. It is like a war crime, only you were not a soldier of any war.”
“I think we may dealing with a different kind of war, Professor, but a war nonetheless. A war between powerful multinational corporations, fighting to bring the next blockbuster drug to market first. Will is an early civilian casualty of this war,” Julie said.
“If what you are telling me is true, then I would agree. Please, Will, if you don’t mind, tell me what happened after the injections.”
“After the first several rounds of injections, nothing happened. Then six weeks became twelve weeks, and the injections became much stronger. I started to become sick. I think they were ramping up the virulence factor on what they were giving me, you know, trying to find my body’s limit. They probably started with the common cold and ended with Yersinia pestis, but no matter how hard those bastards tried, they couldn’t break me. I always recovered.”
Johansen was dumbfounded. The irony of the situation was profound. He had dedicated his entire career to researching the role of immunity mutations in bubonic plague pandemics. And now, seated in front of him was a man who appeared to possess the very genetic mutation he had theorized to exist. To discover and decode such a mutation could mean a universal cure for all disease. Except where he would offer the panacea to the world for free, Vyrogen wanted to pirate it. Control it. Make it exclusively their own. They would chop it up and sell a hundred variants to remedy a hundred different afflictions to maximize their profits. But Will Foster had abandoned Vyrogen, and in doing so, stumbled upon him. Fate, it seemed, did have a sense of humor.
“Professor, I have the Foster files you requested,” Johansen’s assistant said, standing in the doorway to his office.
“Thank you. You can set the box on the table.”
She did as he requested, looked at Will and Julie curiously, and then left the office without another word. Johansen picked up the Foster records and paged through them for a minute in silence.
“Ah yes, now I remember,” Johansen said with a fine nostalgic tone to his voice. “This case dates back almost twenty years ago. It was one of my earlier investigations, only a few years after I decided to keep a genealogical database of epidemic survivors. As you can see, I used to store information in cardboard boxes!” The professor gently parsed through the contents of the tattered box with a smile on his face. He retrieved a small leather bound book and smiled broadly as he set it on the table. “I was looking for germs and I found a love story instead.”
“What do you mean, Professor?” Julie asked.
“This is a diary. It chronicles the hopes, dreams and fears of young woman who lived in Eyam, England during the infamous plague epidemic of 1665. I went to England specifically to research Eyam. It’s quite a famous little town in epidemiological circles, because it has such a unique plague saga.”
Johansen stroked the closed cover of the diary and leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. Julie looked at Will and smiled. The atmosphere in the office had softened considerably; Johansen’s story was something they all could use.
“The story goes that in 1665, the town’s tailor ordered some fine fabrics from London. Unbeknownst to him, and to the rest of the town’s residents, the fabric that was delivered was infested with fleas, and the fleas were carrying the plague bacteria, Yersinia pestis. You see, at that time, London was suffering from recurring plague outbreaks. When the tailor opened his package, he released the infected fleas, and he was bitten. The tailor became infected and so did many others as the disease quickly spread through the town. Recognizing the severity of the outbreak, the town rector convinced the elders to do a most unprecedented thing; they enacted a mandatory quarantine of all the town’s residents.”
“Why did they do that? Sounds like suicide to me,” Will said.
“In one sense, you’re right. For the people of Eyam it was a death sentence. But in another sense, the town leaders demonstrated both wisdom and compassion. By instituting the quarantine in Eyam, they prevented the plague from spreading to all the surrounding villages. The sacrifice of the few saved the lives of the many.”
“Utilitarianism,” Will mumbled.
“Yes, I suppose that’s one view. You could also call it altruism.”
“I think it would be altruism if everyone in the town had been given a choice, and they all came to the same conclusion as the elders. A mandate like that is a different story in my book. Don’t get me wrong, I think what they did was noble, but at the end of the day, who really has the power to decide when some people’s lives should be sacrificed for the greater good, and when they should not?”
“Philosophers have debated the question for a thousand years, and here we are still discussing it today.”
“It hits pretty close to home for me, because some rich executive decided to put me in quarantine under the auspice of serving the greater good, and I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I definitely can relate to the people who lived in Eyam.”
Johansen chuckled. “Maybe more than you know.” The professor slid the leather bound diary across the table to Will. “Be gentle with that. It’s almost four hundred years old.”
“Where did you get this?”
“In a souvenir shop in Eyam. It was one of the most expensive items in the shop. I paid two hundred pounds for that over twenty years ago. Imagine what it would fetch today.”
Will opened the cover and gingerly began turning the pages. “Whose diary was this?”
“It belonged to the tailor’s daughter, Kathryn Vicars, who married and became Kathryn Foster. She lived in Eyam when the plague hit.”
Will eyed the Professor with curiosity. “What happened to her?”
“She became infected, and she died.”
“And her family? Did they all die too?”
“No, not all. Kathryn’s father, the tailor, was the first to die; but Kathryn eloped with her young lover, Paul Foster. Together, they avoided infection during the first outbreak in the fall of 1665. Months later, the couple returned to Eyam, only to find the town infested with plague. They decided to live at the Foster family farm. Kathryn became pregnant and birthed a son, George. Sadly, there was a resurgence of the plague that lasted almost all of 1666. Kathryn fell ill and died in August of that year. When the plague had finally run its course, only 20 percent of Eyam’s population remained. The story is all inside. The pages of the diary are laden with emotion. Pain, sorrow, suffering. Love, joy, new beginnings. I read it cover to cover. It could be made into a movie.”
“And Paul Foster, he lived because he was immune?”
“Yes, and so did the son, George Foster,” Johansen said. He grinned at Will. “Now, I suspect the answer to my quest may be sitting at this table. I tried to trace the Foster lineage to the present, but the line went cold in the mid-seventeen hundreds. Maybe that is because one of your ancestors sneaked across the pond and became a Yank without telling anyone.”
“That would be incredible if it were true.”
“I can propose one surefire way to find out,” Johansen said with a raised eyebrow.
“Take a sample of my DNA?”
“Yes.”
Will looked at Julie, who was beaming. “Absolutely, do it, Will. This is what you were hoping for. Answers to what makes you special.”
Will rubbed his chin and then said, “First let me ask you one more question. If you had to come up with a theory about why my immune system is impervious to disease, what would you say?”
Johansen laughed, and then replied. “I can’t answer that question without conducting years of research. It’s the very question I’ve dedicated my professional career to. If I knew the answer, I would retire tomorrow.”
“But if you had to guess? Let’s say the Nobel committee told you to forward your hypothesis today, or they would never listen to you again,” Will pressed.
“That sounds like the Nobel committee all right,” Johansen laughed. “Since you are being very persistent, I will tell you my theory. Understand, however, I have no conclusive evidence to support this idea; it is only a theory.”
“No problem.”
“I speculate that you have a genetic mutation—passed down from Paul Foster via your paternal lineage—which is responsible for the unusual lymphocyte in your pictures. I have postulated for several years now that, theoretically, a skeleton key lymphocyte could exist.”
“Skeleton key lymphocyte?” Julie questioned.
“Let me explain: T cells and B cells are specific, meaning a single lymphocyte has receptors that can bind only to a particular antigen. Think of this as a lock and key system—a single key fits a single lock. Now, imagine a mutation where a lymphocyte could bind to a variety of antigens expressed by a variety of pathogens. Instead of being effective against only one specific type of pathogen, a skeleton key lymphocyte could mount a defense against many different pathogens—just as a skeleton key can work on many different locks. Such a mutation would bestow upon its owner an extremely efficient immune response.”
“How can we determine if Will has this skeleton key mutation?”
“I know only one way to do that my dear, and it’s the hard way. Research. Lots and lots of research,” Johansen laughed. “But let’s start with the DNA test to confirm Will’s ancestry first, shall we?”
“How long will that take?”
“I can draw the blood sample in the lab now, but the analysis will take some time. I should have a preliminary answer within a couple of days. I would also like to draw additional vials of blood to begin an analysis on that mystery lymphocyte of yours. Are you opposed to that?” Johansen asked.
Will looked at Julie.
“Were going to need some assurances from you and the university before we tread down that path,” she said.
“Of course,” Professor Johansen replied. Then he took Will’s hand between both of his and squeezed, while looking Will in the eyes. “Please understand, I might be a man of science, but I am also a man of conscience. I’m morally opposed to the patenting of genes. I maintain the belief that your genome is your property. I have no more right to patent it for my own personal gain than I do the right to pilfer the contents of your wallet. Vyrogen tried to exploit you, make you the Henrietta Lacks of our time, but I assure you that will never happen here. I sign a written contract with every research subject in my genealogy study, waiving any and all patent rights to genes discovered while conducting my research. The university doesn’t always like it, but I’ve made it a condition of my employment.”
Gene patents? Henrietta Lacks? He turned to Julie again. “What is he talking about, Julie?”
“Medical practitioners and medical researchers have always been joined at the hip, but with the advent of modern genetics, we’ve become strange bedfellows,” Julie said. “It all started in early 1950s with an American woman named Henrietta Lacks. She was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cervical cancer. She was treated at Johns Hopkins. For diagnostic purposes, her doctor ordered a tissue biopsy of her cervix. A scientist in the culture lab by the name of George Gey noticed that Lacks’ cancer cells did not die off in the culture dish like normal cells did. Instead, they survived and multiplied unfettered. He dubbed these resilient cells HeLa cells, borrowing the first two letters from Henrietta and Lacks. As a scientist, Gey realized that these immortal cells would be invaluable to the field of medical research, so he cultured a HeLa cell line for this express purpose. This did nothing of course to help cure poor Henrietta of her cancer, but it did lay the foundation for sixty years of ground-breaking research based on her cells.”
“How do you know all this?” Will asked.
“I’m an oncology researcher, Will. I’ve been using HeLa cells my entire career. Every man, woman and child on this planet owes Henrietta Lacks a debt of gratitude. Without HeLa cells, modern medicine would not be where it is today. Vaccine creation, cancer research, pharmaceutical drug development, our understanding of infectious diseases like HIV and influenza . . . all these things rely on the use of HeLa cells,” she said. Then, exhaling slowly, she added, “But there’s more to it than that. In recent years, Henrietta Lacks has become the poster child for biomedical exploitation.”
“Why?”
“Because the HeLa cell line was cultured, patented, and commercialized without her knowledge or consent. Moreover, her family was kept in the dark and never financially compensated or paid a royalty from the subsequent profits. I think the point Professor Johansen was making is that if your mutation turns out to be the miraculous discovery we all think it is, then you and Henrietta Lacks would be kindred spirits—genetically exceptional and thus exploited for both patent and profit.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying that Vyrogen could patent my genes and make millions of dollars from my immunity mutation simply because they happened to stumble across it first?”
“Billions of dollars,” Johansen said, beating Julie to the punch. “And yes, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office has been granting patents on genes since the Supreme Court case of Diamond v. Chakrabarty in 1980. A recent study estimated that approximately 20 percent of the human genome has already been patented. It is disgusting. Patent holders are granted a virtual monopoly on applications associated with their patented genes, a practice that not only undermines scientific freedom and the collegial exchange of information, but also jeopardizes each and every person’s right to have free access to and use of the information encoded in their own DNA.”
“So Vyrogen has already won,” Will said, his eyes cast down. “Once they patent my mutation, they control everything.”
“Not necessarily,” Johansen replied. Then with a sly grin he added, “I would never presume to tell you what to do in a scenario as extraordinary as yours. I can, however, tell you what I would do if our stations were reversed.”
“And what would you do?”
“I would publish my genome on the Internet, for the entire world to see. It would be my gift to humanity,” said Johansen.
“And, it would make life hell for Vyrogen,” Julie added. “If Dr. Johansen can identify the genes responsible for your mutation and make a public disclosure before Vyrogen, then you win and Vyrogen loses.”
Johansen nodded. “The irony of trying to sell something which is priceless is that one should never try to sell it to begin with.”
Will nodded, contemplating his words. “Thank you, Professor, for everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Were just starting this race,” said Johansen, shaking Will’s hand.
“You’ve done plenty already. You’ve given me hope.”
Johansen smiled and looked down, almost embarrassed. He liked Will Foster. It took great courage to do what he was doing, especially considering the ordeal he had been through with Vyrogen, and great courage was hard to find in people these days.
“This,” Johansen said, taking the diary off the table and handing it to Will, “should belong to you. I think you will find the story to be inspirational.”
“I couldn’t,” Will stammered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The words on these pages are no more mine to possess than the information encoded in your DNA. I’m just along for the ride. Please, take it. Meet Kathryn Foster. Meet her husband, Paul, and their son, George. Know what it was like to be a Foster in 1665.”
Will nodded and took the diary in his hands. He gently opened the worn leather cover and paged to where a black silk ribbon page divider rested and read a short entry.
May 27, 1666
Dearest Diary,
At length the day has come on which I am a mother. My tears flow as I write at the idea, for I am both full of joy and wrought with fear at the prospect. My dearest Paul and Mother Alice have been steadfast at my bedside since the labour, and they chasten me for talking nonsense whenever I speak of my fears.
Little George is so fair, but Alice says he is of nice colour. To my eyes, his likeness is that of Paul, but Paul of course says the opposite, that he is wholly a reflection of me. It is no matter, because all in the family agree that nary have they seen a child so handsome, pleasant, and hungry as George. I have placed a cutting of his hair inside the crease of this page so that I might never forget how soft and fair he was on this, the day of his birth.
As I look upon my son, asleep at my bosom, I think that there is nary a child in the world—perhaps one in one hundred generations—as perfect as he. I pray that the plague never finds him, and that God grants me the good fortune to be able to love him for a thousand thousand to-morrows.