SAGE
The seats at our table filled with women in gowns, men in tuxedos.
Marshall Mitchell took the stage again as the workers started serving the third course. Steak, asparagus, and cream sauce were arranged beautifully on a large white plate in front of me.
Too bad I felt like throwing up.
“I’ve had the great honor of being both a scientist and a board member for Vasterias for the past nine years,” Dr. Mitchell said. “Tonight, before the bidding begins at 10:00 pm, I would like to update you on the status of our current work within our genetics division.”
Dr. Evans leaned in toward me. “That gives plenty of time for everyone to get filled up with liquor. It brings in nice high bids that way.”
I didn’t find this comment humorous, seeing as they were my eggs people were bidding on.
Dr. Mitchell continued. “As many of you know, for the last few decades at Vasterias, we have focused on the application and study of epigenetics, an endeavor which began over twenty-five years ago with both Dr. James Adamson and Dr. Robert Cunningham.
“What we know is that in most cases of gene order and expression, it’s not the DNA itself but the proteins in the body that create specific genetic changes and expressions. Those correct proteins, attached to the correct DNA, can work miracles, and can actually shift the DNA itself. It’s quite an amazing process, to state it lightly.”
Dr. Mitchell adjusted the thin microphone, cleared his throat. “J. A. was the first successful arrangement of this DNA code, complete with an exact arrangement of proteins on top. Unfortunately, J. A.’s DNA code and protein order have been inaccessible to us for many years.”
It took me a moment to realize that J. A. was short for Jack Adamson.
They didn’t even have the heart to refer to him by his actual name?
It made sense though, probably made their inhuman job of working on him easier. They could sleep better at night if they didn’t have to discuss him as Jack: “We’re just working on J. A. Not a real person. Just J. A.”
Mitchell’s voice droned on. “A blanket had been placed over J. A.’s DNA code, making the code non-extractable, unreadable. And even if we were able to read his DNA strands, the specific proteins creating epigenetic changes on top of those genes—the pattern making him exactly what he is—has always been a mystery to us.
“In order to bypass this problem in the past, we attempted to partner J. A.’s sperm with eggs of female recruits. Up to this point, this had been rendered an unsuccessful endeavor.”
I shifted in my seat. I didn’t like the direction this guy headed.
“We currently know that there are over 24,000 protein-encoding genes in our DNA. Both Hope’s and J. A.’s DNA have a specific arrangement of those proteins, and in addition, a specific expression of those proteins—meaning some of those proteins have ‘open’ gene expression and some have ‘closed’ gene expression. This phenomenon was discovered nearly two decades ago when their fathers’ unfolded a gene code that we have yet to duplicate. Now eighteen years later, remarkably, we have available the reproductive cells of two different subjects, one of each sex, whose bodies contain an arrangement of DNA code that we refer to in our research labs as ‘the golden order.’”
I wondered if the people in the crowd knew why I hadn’t been “available” for so long?
Surely they knew what my father had done? How he’d sent my family into hiding, how no one even knew the code existed in me longer than a few days ago?
Surely they knew the testing Jack had undergone? The attempts to use his body for research? The pain they put him through? The attempts that failed over and over again?
I wondered if Dr. Stanstopolis told Dr. Mitchell I’d failed all my tests this morning at headquarters. What would he say to that?
Dr. Mitchell continued, “We still have sufficient amounts of J. A.’s sperm on hand.” He waved toward the spotlighted glass display case. “And we will be pairing them shortly with this selection that Hope has already so graciously supplied us with.”
Graciously supplied? Was he being serious?
“We have high expectations from the results of this pairing: new access to an unrivaled genetic code. The embryos will be an example of what is possible and will provide us with years of research and study. We plan to make this genetic research available to the world.”
Dr. Evans leaned in toward me and whispered. “For those who are willing to pay for it, of course.”
The room broke into a round of applause. Some turned toward me, smiling.
They were clapping for me.
Clapping like I wanted to help them, like it was something I was proud of. Like I was some savior of their world. And maybe I was their savior—their dollar sign, their power to wield. That was their world: money and power.
I wanted to stand up and scream at Dr. Mitchell.
Liar! You’re a liar! I didn’t volunteer ANYTHING!
Would anyone in the crowd even care? Maybe it didn’t matter whether or not the whole thing was covered in lies. Maybe it wouldn’t even bother these people to know I was being held against my will. I wanted jump out of my seat and tackle Dr. Mitchell to the ground. That’d give him a real taste of what my “genes” could do.
But I knew I could do better than that. If I really wanted to get Vasterias where it hurt, I had to do better than that.
I composed myself before turning to Dr. Evans. “Dr. Evans, is it true that many of the recruits are dying off?”
He nodded, an unfortunate look on his face. “I saw a boy stationed at the Vasterias base in London before I left. Poor thing.”
My heart pinged at the thought of Imogen—her strong, capable, sardonic self—wasting away to nothing like Sven described would happen.
I tried to shove this thought aside as I asked my next question. “And am I really Vasterias’s last hope for getting this code off the ground and into the hands of these people?”
Dr. Evans thought about this for a moment.
“At least for the next three or four decades, I’d say.”
I nodded and sat back stiffly in my chair.
Up on stage, Dr. Mitchell rambled on about genetics, proteins, coding, and being on the “cusp” of change.
I slipped my steak knife into the napkin on my lap.
Sven lied to me.
Beckett wasn’t coming.
Jack wasn’t coming.
Finn was quite possibly dead, most likely dead, as much as I didn’t want to believe it deep in my heart.
And if I stayed alive, someday Vasterias would be displaying my real eggs up on stage, not my fake ones.
I had to stop feeding myself the lie that I could somehow escape.
No more games, no more pretending this story had a happy ending.
This had to end. Now.
“Do you mind if I have the rest of that?” I motioned to Dr. Evans’ glass of wine.
His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he scooted it toward me. I swallowed it in five gulps, puckering at the bitterness of the flavor.
My first glass of wine on my last day of life.
How ironic.
As discreetly as possible, I stood up.
It was time to go to the bathroom.