The Visionary
by Adam Williams
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
London Broadcasting house, London, England. December 19th. Year three.
“DNA. The basic building blocks of life itself. It has been to us a tome of information about ourselves, a book we could always read but never write. That is all about to change.” Jessica took a brief pause, as the monitors flickered, and the cameras switched to life.
She sat in a low seat, with Henry across from her. She had been a young woman once, without as well as within. She looked it still, her skin radiant, her hair flaxen blonde, her lips cherry red. But she didn’t feel it anymore. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and got herself ready for another interview with a no-name scientist, about an innovation that would lead nowhere. “We sit today with Dr Henry Marshall, the head geneticist from the Royal University of Bhutan and a visionary in his field.” She made herself smile warmly at him and the camera. “So, Dr Marshall, we’ve been informed that you are working on a cure for cystic fibrosis.”
“Well, actually, Jessica, the cure has been completed. We have gone through excessive testing for the past few years, and we are already trialling our therapy throughout Bhutan. It isn’t a matter of scientific difficulties that have led to it taking this long for a cure, but legal troubles. Bhutan’s repealing of many laws sanctioning genetic research is the real innovation here. As a matter of fact, it was your report on the matter, Jessica, that led to me travelling to Bhutan.”
She smiled warmly and fakely, once again. “So tell us, Henry, how does this cure of yours work?”
“It doesn’t actually ‘cure’ the condition in individuals who have the gene within them. Someone who undergoes the procedure will still need to carry out their normal treatments. The cure alters the gametes, or sex cells, of the individual, so that they cannot pass on the faulty gene. Effectively we are ensuring the next generations will be fitter and healthier and, I hope, free of genetic disease.”
“But surely altering someone’s sex cells can lead to complications? Like infertility?”
“No, of course not. There is, of course, certain risk, as with anything. Anesthesia causes death in some one percent of people who use it. But there have been no long-term side effects associated with my treatment. The only side effects that we’ve encountered have been short-term symptoms like insomnia and sickness, but that is only temporary.”
“This all sounds very impressive, doctor, but I have to ask: what’s next?”
“Of course, we still need to oversee the rollout of this current treatment worldwide, though I won’t have much involvement with that. I believe that Nepal and Bangladesh have started to roll out the cure, and India soon will, too. But the goal is to wipe out genetic disease, and that is a goal that I will accomplish.”
Jessica turned to the camera with another forced smile plastered across her face. “Well, there you have it, folks; we may soon live in a world devoid of genetic disease. For BBC news at ten, I’m Jessica Burrows.” The cameras clicked off, and she sighed. She had an AA meeting in half an hour, and if she was going to sit through that, she’d need a drink first.
* * *
Little Saint Mary’s Churchyard, Cambridge, England. January 11th. Year four.
It was a dark, dreary and dismal December day, the sky overcast, the faint rumblings of thunder rolling in the distance. The churchyard was nearly empty, save for a few people huddled around a freshly-dug grave. The rain was falling in sheets, and the only reprieve was the solemn beauty of the church itself.
Henry pulled his coat around himself tightly. He would no doubt catch a chill. This was a distraction, and that was no lie. He had work to do, he did not need distractions. The coffin of one Anthony Simmons was lowered slowly into the hole. The priest finished the funeral, and everyone scuttled away. Henry hurried back to his car and, with a sigh, drove off to the wake. He was ill-tempered now; he had work to do, work that could not wait. And besides, he had never much liked Anthony.
The car pulled away from the church and drove towards the outskirts of the city, where Anthony had once lived. Henry had already prolonged his visit to England so he could join his family for Christmas, and he could not push back his schedule for much longer.
It took about half an hour to arrive at the old house beyond the city limits for the wake, and it was a half an hour of driving down narrow country lanes in the darkness of the tempest. The house was large and isolated amidst a close bordered on all sides by dark forest. Henry and a number of others hurried through the shower to the house.
He spent an hour or two in the wake and took the opportunity to speak to many of his former colleagues. One William Skinner, a high-ranking official at the Sanger Institute and an old friend of Anthony, had said that Henry had become close to a legend on campus. He also offered him his old job back, which Henry had to decline. Eventually, he bumped into them, Phillip and Sarah. “Hello,” he said as cordially as he could muster.
They just nodded at him. After a long, awkward silence, Sarah said, “You are doing well for yourself then. I saw your interview.”
“Yes, thank you, I am doing quite well for myself. It was a shame that you couldn’t make it with Phillip to see my laboratories, out at the Royal University.”
She laughed, almost. “You really don’t get it, do you? Why I didn’t visit you and why Phillip left.”
He didn’t laugh. “Yes, jealousy is quite the thing, isn’t it?”
She did laugh this time. “You know something, Anthony was right about you. Leave us, just go! You’ve clearly got exactly what you want, and you’ll get what you deserve.”
“Oh, be quiet, you... you trollop. You know what, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you’re exactly like Simmons. A no-name nobody, who will live and die without purpose. You will be forgotten, and nobody will care!”
His voice quietened, as he realised that everyone was staring at him. He turned to them and shouted, “Oh, be quiet, all of you. You’re all like him.”
He stamped out of the house and out into the waiting rain. Sarah and Phillip followed behind him. They walked off to their car, and Henry called out to them. “Wait!”
Sarah turned back and sighed. “What do you want, Henry?”
“I... I’m sorry. Look, I... I don’t mean to be like this, I... I don’t want to be. Sarah, maybe you and I can catch up together. It could be like old times?”
“Henry, Phillip and I are engaged.”
“Oh.”
He strode away into the darkness of the storm, that made the sky like unto night, the harrowing feeling of despair overwhelming his senses. He forgot his car and just went away down a narrow path into the dark and inky forest beyond, being enveloped by the shadows of the gnarled and withered boughs. He was grateful for the rain. In the storm it’s hard to see where the rain ends and the tears begin.
* * *
Saint Nicholas Hospital Clinic, Lagos, Nigeria. April 18th. Year four.
It was a warm afternoon in Lagos, too warm. The heat was sweltering, even in the air-conditioned offices and hallways of the Saint Nicholas Hospital Clinic. There had not been even the slightest hint of rain for three weeks now, and Henry was unsure how much longer he could endure it. He stumbled wearily into the office of Dr Adebayo Agbani.
Adebayo was the head of the hospital staff and had been personally appointed by his government to oversee Henry’s work. Henry sat down in a chair, while Adebayo eyed him grimly. “Tell me, Dr Marshall, how goes your work?”
“Good, actually, Adebayo. As a matter of fact, there is nothing more that I can do.”
The grim figure laughed, an unusual sound. “Surely you jest, Doctor. You have been with us not even a year, and you tell me that you are done? I know that you have had much success with your cystic fibrosis treatment. We have even completed the rollout of it here in Nigeria. But, you cannot expect me to believe that you have already completed your sickle cell treatment.”
“And why not? Do you doubt my skill, Adebayo? The treatments function in much the same way. Swap out the undesired alleles with desired ones in the gametes, and then you’re done. We are ready to roll out the treatment. With the changes to Nigerian genetics sanctions, we can have the disease wiped out in this country and most others by this time next year.”
“But you cannot be done? Have you even started trials?”
“I don’t need trials; this will work.”
“You cannot just say something will work and hope that it is true. You need to test it before we can even think about giving it to the population.”
“If it were a drug I had made, perhaps. But this isn’t a drug. There aren’t enough sanctions in place for my research. We need to start rolling it out.”
“But we cannot—”
“How many people died of sickle cell disease in this hospital alone last year?”
“I don’t know. A thousand, maybe?”
“That’s a thousand lives we can save, Adebayo. Look, either you greenlight this treatment or I will go over your head and get a government official to do so and file a formal complaint against you for good measure.”
Adebayo paused for a moment. “Alright, Dr Marshall. I shall greenlight your treatment. I wash my hands of this, be it on your own head.”
* * *
Royal University of Bhutan, Thimphu, Bhutan. August 19th. Year seven.
A sea of reporters and cameramen from across the globe crowded around the stage. It was a warm and bright day, and Henry was glad that the rain had held off. It was monsoon season, and it seemed that at times the rain would never end.
The stage had been erected on the lawn of the university, and Henry was surrounded, beyond the throng of the media, by the lush and verdant gardens of the campus. Trees swayed gently in the pleasant summer breeze.
Henry took a deep breath and then stepped forward to the microphone. “Hello,” he said, his voice wavering somewhat. “Welcome all of you, to this press conference. I’m glad that you could all make it.”
A weaselly-looking man, a reporter in a crumpled suit, pushed his way through the throng, followed closely by his cameraman. Once he got to the front, he shouted out, “Harold Digby, reporter for MSNBC. Is it true that there has been a correlation between your sickle cell therapy and increased rates of infant mortality due to Malaria in Sub-Saharan Africa?”
Henry said nothing, but he could feel his face growing red and hot.
Harold continued, “Is it not true that sickle cell disease effectively makes one immune to malaria?”
Henry was able to stammer out only, “Yes.”
“Then can it not be said that your ‘cure,’ such as it is, does more harm than good? We have also heard reports of complications from your cystic fibrosis ‘cure.’ We have had a number of victims reach out to us to say that your treatment has led to complications such as infertility and has led to birth defects in the children these cures are designed to help.”
Henry grew angry, not just annoyed, but furious. He slammed a fist down on the podium that was before him. Who were they to question him? He was doing good, he was helping. “We will have no questions at this time,” he said, glaring down at Harold. “And will security please escort this man off of university premises? He is clearly an agitator, and I doubt he even works for the news.”
Henry took a sharp breath in and started again. “I have made the cure for cancer.” He said the words plainly enough, rather in contrast to the roar that started among the media. “Using gene editing technologies, I aim to make the onset of cancer very rare. I have developed a treatment similar to my prior ones that will directly eliminate the specific alleles that can help cancer occur or that can lead directly to cancers. This will be combined with another therapy I have developed. It will work to render tumour-forming oncogenes ineffectual, whilst strengthening the response of tumour-suppressing genes.”
He looked out at the sea of reporters. He saw their faces frozen, contorted into gasps of surprise, and then, all at once, they regained life. There was a buzz of excitement, shouts and questions lobbed at him. They were all here for him; they were all under his control. He owned the attention of each and every one of them. He could silence them with a glance; he could bring forth praise with sentences they didn’t even understand. He just had to smile.
* * *
National Human Genome Research Institute,
Bethesda, Maryland, USA. 21st July. Year eight.
“Dr Marshall, we are so glad that you could join us today,” Dr Richard Saunders said, with a warm smile. He was the current head of the NHGRI and a very influential figure in the field of genetics. He was a thin, wiry man, with scraggly grey hair and a warm countenance.
The office was small and a bit cramped, but comfortable. Richard sat behind an old, dark oak desk, leaning back into a high-backed chair. The floor was wooden, too, but was much scratched and scuffed with wear.
“It’s a pleasure,” Henry said, though he did not return the smile.
“We here at the NHGRI have been more than impressed with your research. Not only have you found effective cures for cystic fibrosis and sickle cell disease, along with one of the best preventative measures for cancer used today, but you have also led to the creation of far more lax genetics laws worldwide. You have been one of the most influential figures in genetics in the past decade. Your work has led to the creation of further therapies aimed at Haemophilia and Colour Blindness, by this very Institute. We want you to work for us.”
“Well, I do currently hold a very high-ranking position within the Royal University.”
“We are willing to triple whatever they are paying you.”
“And what would you require my work to focus on exactly?”
“You are a pioneer. We want you to focus on whatever area interests you. We both have the same aspirations, you and I, to have a better world, one free of disease, where people can live their lives happy and healthy.” He paused for a moment and then said, “Well, are you in?”
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Adam Williams
