Charisma by Jeanne Ryan Page A

continues, “No matter how happy the chimps are, there’s a huge gap between making the jump from animal trials to human clinical trials. You know what they call that gap in the R and D business? The Valley of Death. Where perfectly good projects meet an untimely end.”
    She’s used the term before, but never has it caused me such a pang of disappointment. “You can’t let this project die. It could be so amazing.”
    Her smile is rueful. “I know. Believe me. Yet amazing won’t be enough to get it approved via official channels any time soon. My father’s adamant that Nova Genetics only targets diseases, the more life-threatening, the better.”
    I say in a low voice, “Sometimes I think feeling like this is worse than a disease.”
    She sighs. “I understand, Aislyn. And by the time the world catches up on gene enhancement, I’ll probably be ready for a walker.”
    My breathing hitches. “So you aren’t going to test it on humans any time soon?” A fresh batch of tears brews behind my eyes, even though I’m sure I used up my quota last night.
    Her face goes steely and she grinds the toe of her pump into the white tile floor. “It’s ridiculous. Can you imagine how many people crippled by shyness and social phobia I could help?”
    â€œIt would be life-changing.”
    She gives me an appraising look. “I’ve seen the questionnaires you filled out for the family dynamics study. How you ache to speak up so badly, to be heard, but at the same time are terrified to. When I started college at fourteen, I was the tiniest kid in the room, with the squeakiest voice, unable to raise my hand even though I knew all the answers.”
    I know all about keeping my hand down. About what it’s like to keep your spirit trapped at ground level. “It’s hard to believe gene therapy could make someone braver.”
    She purses her lips. “Well, personality
is
terribly complex. Charisma, or CZ88, targets multiple genes that work in harmony, DNA that might be dismissed by other researchers. But one scientist’s trash is another’s treasure.”
    I can’t picture genes as tiny packets of trash or treasure, but Dr. Sternfield never shies away from colorful descriptions. One of the first explanations she gave me of how gene therapy works was to imagine the viral vector as a shipping box addressed to specific tissues in the body. Inside the box was altered DNA that could take the place of faulty genes or instruct them to behave differently. The virus could hold so much DNA before ripping apart, but if you had too little DNA in it, you’d need to include stuffer DNA, like packing peanuts.
    I kick at the tile, mirroring Dr. Sternfield. “If you were able to get approval, how long before you had something you could test in humans?”
    She cocks her head and stares at me for a long moment. “It’s ready now.”
    My vision goes blurry. “As in
today
now?”
    â€œToday now,” she says with as much of a grin as she’ll allow.
    I shiver. “And it’s safe?”
    She bristles. “I’ve tested drugs for years, with a stellar safety record.” She exhales loudly. “But no matter how safe I know Charisma to be, the FDA will prevent this from going to clinical trials. Which is why my days at Nova Genetics are numbered.”
    A surge of panic races through me. My voice squeaks out, “What?”
    â€œI’ve got to go where I can help the most people. Right now, that’s not the US.”
    No, this can’t be happening. To get so close to a dream, and have it snatched away before I could grab it. Without thinking of what’s coming out of my mouth, I say, “What if you performed a pre-trial before you left? On someone who really needs it?”
    Her brow furrows. “Are you proposing what I think you are?”
    I don’t know. Am I?
    She says,