For the control cultures, in which the wild card initiator sequence isn't present in the DNA, the Black Trump has nowhere to attach on the genome, so it and the transposon remain as junk floating around in the cell. The carrier - a much less dangerous virus - proliferates instead.
In the wild card cell cultures, the Black Trump attaches at the initiator site on the DNA. The linked transposon element wildly recombines and reproduces the Black Trump, causing random genetic insertion and throwing the cell immediately into lytic phase. The cells burst, dispersing the Black Trump virus to other cells.
In theory this should be deadly. But the 94-15-04-24LQ virus got progressively weaker as it was transmitted from cell to cell.
According to my follow-up tests, it appears that - ironically - this virus is too virulent. Introducing the transposon has made it so wildly recombinant that it produces a host of missense mutations, weaker strains that are more successful than the original Black Trump gene at repackaging themselves before the cell bursts. So the more lethal strain gradually kills itself off. Progressively weaker strains result.
Given the rates of mutation in the tissue cultures, my calculations indicate that the first wild card who contracts the virus will die, and also the wild card who catches it from the first, for a total of about three to four generations of wild card transmission. The intervening nats who contract it don't alter the Black Trump portion of the virus, so they don't dilute the effect.
Given the length of the viral incubation period and the ease with which it's transmitted, three to four generations should be enough to kill most of the wild carders in any given population center, before it mutates to the nonfatal form. So this is a powerful virus, despite its limitations. But it means that we can't use the virus to effectively sweep the globe, without mounting a larger infection campaign than Uncle Pan intended. Its virulence will peter out within weeks of its release. Thus it might be stoppable with the use of quarantines, unless we hit all the major centers at once. It will also almost certainly miss isolated areas, and it will be useless against the inevitable new wild card infections that will occur. That in particular concerns me.
The other potential concern is that this virus is so recombinant it could mutate to a form harmful to non-wild cards, under the right circumstances. It's a small risk, but I'd be more comfortable with a rather less mutable version.
Overall, though, I'm fairly pleased with this virus. I've dubbed it necrovirus Takis I - Black Trump, strain I.
And I think a few modifications will make it truly unstoppable. I'm now trying the same viral package, but without the transposon. That should diminish the virus's mutability enough - I hope - that the lethal form has enough time to repackage itself before the cell destructs, and is able to compete against the weaker, daughter strains. It should also reduce the risk that the virus might somehow become harmful to non-wild cards.
I should have preliminary results on the new batch, 94-04-28-24LQ, Black Trump II, by Sunday.
I want to share this with someone - I'm so close to solving the puzzle! But there's only one person I can confide in, and I find myself reluctant to tell Uncle Pan about my progress.
Not that I could reach him right now in any event; he's off to Asia, trying to consolidate support for our plan. But he was back for a day or two, and Saturday night he came by the lab and asked me out to dinner. He took me to a lovely little restaurant in the Village and we talked for hours. As tense as things have been between us, I was relieved that our relationship was returning to normal.
He asked me about my meeting with my father. Of course I told him nothing of what was said, only that Papa was adamant. He urged me to continue my efforts. I told him it's pointless. Papa's mind is made up. I wish Pan would believe me.
And when he dropped me off he kissed me. I mean on the lips. A romantic kiss.
And - I don't know, I mean there's no doubt he's a very attractive man, especially now - but it feels vaguely incestuous. Wrong. I've known him for too long as a sort of second father to be comfortable switching roles this way.
And I can't help but wonder, why now? And why me?
I feel terrible for harboring these thoughts against Uncle Pan, but I feel there's something else behind all this. I've overheard some of the angry remarks he's made about my father in unguarded moments, and the other day I heard him and Faneuil talking in Faneuil's office. (I must confess to being a bit of a snoop; I listened at the door when I heard my name.) Only caught a few words, but he seemed to be saying that I wasn't to be invited to some meeting or another. Faneuil mentioned someone named "Nor" or "Ner." And Pan said that the less I knew about any of Faneuil's work the better.
Faneuil's work is epidemiology - he has been working on ways to disperse the Black Trump through the populace. I'm being shut out of a major portion of the Black Trump effort. Because of my father, I'm certain.
And last night I dreamt about the dinner date, only Uncle Pan really was Pan, the mythical goat. Grotesque genitalia and all. He kept leering at me, and I was very frightened of him, but kept laughing and laughing so he wouldn't know. When we got to my apartment, Bradley Finn rode up and shot Pan with an arrow. It didn't seem to hurt Pan, but suddenly I was free of whatever spell of fear he had cast over me. I jumped onto Finn's back and he leapt out a window.
Then Finn turned into this Benji sort of dog, and a big snake with the face, arms, and breasts of a woman appeared and attacked him. I woke up shouting, in a cold sweat, at four A.M. and I've been awake since.
I've dreamt of that snake before. She was a lamia. A weeping lamia. More distorted Greek mythology.
Seeing auras and such, but no headache yet. I've taken some medication to see if I can fend off the migraine.
I guess I'm just under too much stress.
It's odd that I should dream of Bradley Finn. Perhaps it was because I've been thinking about him in terms of Greek mythology, and that got linked to Pan's name.
Had a long talk with Cody Havero the other night. My feelings about the wild card are changing. My commitment to eradicating the virus hasn't changed; it must be destroyed and there is only one way. Even if Pan, or Papa - even, I hope, if I - contracted the virus, I would continue my work on the Black Trump, for the good of the human race.
But I do think that knowing the people - realizing these are human beings, not just statistics - is important for me to face. I don't want to become another Etienne Faneuil, whatever Papa says. And I have to respect people like Bradley Finn. I'm struck by the difference between his natural, enthusiastic charisma and Pan's, whose charm has the feel of artifice, of calculation.
It's a shame the world must lose people like Bradley Finn, when the disease is released. Damn Tachyon and his race, for inflicting this disease on us.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"Umm," Bradley Finn said, twining a finger in his lab coat buttonhole. His hind leg stamped and his tail swished. "Sunday is May Day."
Clara removed her reading glasses and eyed him. What on earth was he so nervous about? Was he afraid to ask for the day off?
"I know," she said, mildly.