Upgrade(74)

To match what Kara had done, and quickly, I would double down on many of my already modified genes by also activating the silent copy for maximal expression—a very coarse kick to a delicately balanced system.

I caught a few hours of sleep in the Sprinter when I could. Occasionally, Feld’s cell biologists and virologists would wander over to see what I was up to, but I kept my head down, engaging as little as possible.

Using DNA forges, I ordered up a half dozen different DNA minicircles, each one a self-contained, self-replicating delivery vector for a specific set of genes and instructions.

On day three, I uploaded the raw genetic sequences and put Feld’s DNA forges and assembly array to work creating DNA to order in precise amounts and purity, with everything I needed rendered fully chemically synthesized.

But I still needed a delivery method, something that would integrate into my system much faster than the viral vector that our mother had used to deliver the first upgrade and that Kara had used for her second one. I needed something that would take my mixture of DNA sequences and minigenes and blast the new DNA into my poor, overstretched cells.

I’d been working nonstop for twenty-two hours.

Leaving the workstation, I took a stroll down the pillaged aisles of what had been the sporting goods section.

An article came to mind. I’d read it fifteen years ago on a supersonic flight from D.C. to Los Angeles, only half comprehending it at the time. Now it was perfectly preserved in my mind.

The article examined the benefits and drawbacks of various gene-delivery methods, one of which was via hydrodynamic force—a technique that used pressurized injection of a large volume of DNA to essentially blast a gene package through cell walls via osmatic shock, and permeate the body with great efficiency. Hydrodynamic force wasn’t easy on the recipient, but for a quick and dirty delivery method of the systemic changes I needed, it was hard to beat.

In addition to injecting myself, I’d also need a specialized delivery system to cross the blood-brain barrier and effect the changes to my brain. Something fast and delicate. For that, I’d fabricate nanoparticles to house my gene packages, which would go straight to my brain via inhaler.

When I told Feld what I was doing, he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“There are more fun ways to kill yourself than catastrophic organ failure.”

“You got a better idea for fast delivery?” I asked.

He didn’t.



* * *



—

Six days after my arrival, I shook Feld’s hand at the edge of the loading bay and thanked him for his hospitality, for which I had given him no choice.

“You’re toast if you do this. You know that, right? The human body cannot withstand what you’re about to put it through.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“I’m still going to wish you luck. Remember that I helped you.”

“After you tried to have me killed. Twice.”

“Yeah. Only twice.” As he smiled, I hopped down from the loading bay and started across the sunbaked pavement toward my Sprinter.



* * *



—

I was running out of time to find Kara, so for the first time since establishing my new identity, I decided to fly.

Twelve minutes after takeoff from Harry Reid International, we leveled off at 95,000 feet. It was an eighty-seater Boeing, and though the ramjets propelled us at a mile per second, there was no sense of movement until I looked down and saw the old-school supersonic jets seven miles below, and the older-school subsonic jets another four miles below them. They all seemed to be racing backward.

I watched the curvature of the Earth—the fragile blue mist of atmosphere transitioning into the black void of space.

After twenty minutes at cruising altitude, I heard and felt the engines shut off. The pilot announced that we’d begun our glide descent into D.C.

For the first time in over a year, I was going home.





THE DASHBOARD CLOCK SHOWED 6:45 P.M., and it was dark and drizzly beyond the glass. My house had been painted—the wood siding refreshed, the trim changed from burgundy to navy blue, the door painted red.

This was the first time in months that I’d felt indecisive. The minicooler containing my new upgrade was buckled into the seat beside me. I could’ve taken it in Vegas. I should’ve taken it in Vegas. But I’d come here instead.

I didn’t know what was to come, and I wanted to see my family one last time.

I was fixing my hair in the rearview mirror, trying to make myself more presentable, when the front door swung open.

Beth appeared in the threshold.

She wore a green wrap dress I’d never seen before, and she’d changed her hair from a natural, shoulder-length cut to a sleek, asymmetrical bob.

Beth pulled the door closed after her and started down the flagstones toward the street.

This was my moment.

But as I reached to open the car door, headlights appeared in the distance, the light scattering across the raindrops that were sliding down the windshield.

I waited, watching as the driverless car pulled to the curb.

Beth opened the rear passenger door and climbed in.



* * *



—

After two miles, Beth’s ride-share stopped in front of a restaurant called La Fleur, where we’d eaten together on a handful of special occasions. It was an anniversary and birthday place. A trying-to-impress-someone place with a synthetic-free menu and stupefying prices. They sold what some people were willing to pay a very high price for—the experience of what it used to feel like to eat out in the world.