“We all are. We’ve known for the longest time that a fair amount of our junk DNA is just bits and fragments of viral genes that entangled themselves into our own code and were carried forward.”
“Inheritable mutations,” Benjie added as he and Monk rejoined them.
“That’s right. We once thought only a fraction of our code was so polluted. Somewhere around eight percent. Which is still a lot. But even that number keeps creeping up as we compare our code to viral sequences. In 2016, a review published in the journal Cell estimated the truer number could be as high as eighty percent. Still, whether eight or eighty, we now know that many of those genes acquired from archaic invasions are not junk, but vital to who we are. Without those past viral infections, humans would not exist today.”
Gray frowned. “Really?”
“He’s right,” Lisa answered, cutting the veterinarian off. “Newest genetic research offers an explanation for why embryonic stem cells are pluripotent, meaning that they can transform into any other cell. It’s due to the activity of the gene HERV-H, which came from an ancient retrovirus. So, embryo development would never have come about without this past viral invasion.”
Frank stood straighter. “And if we skip ahead in our development, it was another virus that granted us the greatest gift of all. Our human consciousness.”
Kowalski scoffed. “Are you saying the flu made us smart?”
Frank ignored him. “The ARC gene—which codes for the activity-related cystoskeltal-associated protein—is well documented to have arrived in four-limbed animals millennia ago, through the incorporation of a snippet of viral code. This gene is essential to the function of our synapses in storing memory, in learning. Abnormalities with this gene tend to show up in people with neurological deficits, even in people with autism.”
Frank looked at Benjie, as if uncomfortable bringing the subject up. But the young man looked unfazed.
Lisa used the moment to interject. “Viral genes also play a role in our immune system. Even in fighting cancer. Following a bout of flu, leukemia patients show a dramatic drop in cancer cells.”
She had been studying these findings due to Kowalski’s recent diagnosis. She was hoping to discover alternate treatments for his myeloma. There had been some intriguing research in harnessing viruses to combat tumors, using them to boost our immune response to attack cancer cells.
“I didn’t know that,” Frank admitted, nodding at her with a measure of respect.
She accepted his bit of deference; appreciating it, even. Many men often resented being upstaged, but at least Dr. Whitaker was not one of them.
Frank pressed his case. “So again, without viruses, none of us would be around. In fact, some geneticists believe viruses might be the very source for life itself on this planet.”
Lisa pushed him harder. “But again, why do you think this particular disease is viral in nature. You’ve not even examined a single patient.”
Frank ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “From the short incubation time reported in the field. From its possible wind-borne spread. From how it can potentially harbor inside an insect or animal vector.” He waved at the specimens under the hood. “It’s checking all the boxes. And like I mentioned, viruses are everywhere, encompassing hundreds of millions of species. Yet, we’ve only named seven thousand of them. So, we’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s truly out there. It’s estimated—in animals alone—that eight hundred thousand species of viruses run the risk of infecting humans.”
“So, like you said before,” Lisa said, “it’s all a numbers game.”
“Then pair those numbers with a virus’s ability to mutate in this hotbox called the Congo, and anything could be out there.”
Benjie interjected his support, “And don’t underestimate the latter. The Congo is full of evolutionary mysteries. You can see nature changing before your eyes due to environmental stressors. The tusks of African elephants are growing smaller, even vanishing, due to the threat of poaching. Generations of forest lizards have developed stickier feet to climb walls after being forced to live in cities. And if viruses mutate at a pace that’s a million times faster—that’s a problem, innit?”
“Which begs the question,” Frank finished, “what if Mother Nature decides we’re too much of a stressor?”
Lisa remembered the veterinarian’s earlier warning.
Mother Nature will inevitably turn that arsenal on us. And when she does, the weapon she will choose will be a virus.
She glanced over to the sprawl of Frank’s equipment on the center table. “Then maybe we’d all better get to work.”
9
April 24, 6:51 A.M. CAT
Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo
I’ve fallen back in time.
Charlotte studied her prison as she was marched across the central plaza of an old colonial settlement. The jungle had nearly consumed the encampment long ago. Birdsong and the hum of insects created a constant chorus all around, as if still claiming this place.
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. The morning already sweltered. Each humid breath weighted down her lungs and tasted of rot and moldy dampness. She struggled to catch her breath, as if drowning. But it wasn’t just the weather. Her heart pounded in her chest. She gazed unblinking at her surroundings.
Two dozen structures spread out from the weedy mud of the plaza. She and Jameson were marched at gunpoint along a spread of planks that crisscrossed the space to keep boots out of the muck. More men patrolled the jungle or were stationed around the collection of moldering buildings.
She ignored the latter, until another guard crossed alongside a row of planks near the forest’s edge. She did a double take at the armed man’s companion. A waist-high figure clomped on four jointed metal legs beside the guard. It was clearly some sort of robotic quadruped. It marched along like a tailless black dog, one stripped down to its skeletal essence. Where its head should be, a compact crystalline ring of lenses were topped by a stubby gun mount.
Jameson noted it, too. “What the hell is going on?” he muttered under his breath before they both were goaded forward at a faster pace.
Charlotte took stock of the rest of their surroundings, struggling with the same question.
All around, a century of rain and forest encroachment had exposed brick and stucco foundations of the small outpost, leaving them crumbling and encrusted with verdant moss. The roofs’ old thatch had been patched with sheets of tin. Windows had been boarded up or left open, fringed by broken glass. A few buildings had been refurbished, freshly whitewashed, like the two-story guesthouse, fronted by balconies and a wide porch, where she and Jameson had been held last night. They had been locked up in a small room with bars on the windows and a row of cots along one wall.
She stared around, trying to get her bearings. She still didn’t know where she was. Last night, the harried flight from the campsite amidst a raging storm had left her disoriented. The transit had been under an hour, which meant she was likely still in the Tshopo province of the Congo.
When they had finally descended toward a helipad at the end of a waterside dock, she had realized the place was a large island in a river. She had also spotted a scattering of lights to the northwest, deeper in the jungle.
She stared there now, past the impenetrable wall of green. Smoke rose from that direction, along with the distant growl of heavy machinery and faint clanking echoes.
Maybe a mining town.
Not that its presence helped pinpoint her location. The breadth of the DRC was peppered with diggings, pitheads, oil fields, and lumber mills. Even this colonial settlement was unnoteworthy. Hundreds of such abandoned places—trading posts, tiny missionaries, hunting camps—dotted the forest, long forgotten and reclaimed by the jungle.