{"product_id":"the-mother-codeisbn-9781984806932","title":"The Mother Code","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhat it means to be human—and a mother—is put to the test in Carole Stivers’s debut novel set in a world that is more chilling and precarious than ever.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe year is 2049. When a deadly non-viral agent intended for biowarfare spreads out of control, scientists must scramble to ensure the survival of the human race. They turn to their last resort, a plan to place genetically engineered children inside the cocoons of large-scale robots—to be incubated, birthed, and raised by machines. But there is yet one hope of preserving the human order: an intelligence programmed into these machines that renders each unique in its own right—the Mother Code.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKai is born in America’s desert Southwest, his only companion his robotic Mother, Rho-Z. Equipped with the knowledge and motivations of a human mother, Rho-Z raises Kai and teaches him how to survive. But as children like Kai come of age, their Mothers transform too—in ways that were never predicted. And when government survivors decide that the Mothers must be destroyed, Kai is faced with a choice. Will he break the bond he shares with Rho-Z? Or will he fight to save the only parent he has ever known?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSet in a future that could be our own, \u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code\u003c\/i\u003e explores what truly makes us human—and the tenuous nature of the boundaries between us and the machines we create.\"Carole Stivers is far from the first to wonder if motherhood can be scientifically replicated, but this is a thoughtful and thought-provoking addition to that meditation.  An end-of-times tale that focuses less on what has been lost and more on what and who might be saved (and how).  Stivers' wonderful story settles right on the line between human and machine, as blame and threat and rescue and love shift from character to character in surprising and powerful ways.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eKaren Joy Fowler, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are All Completely Beside Ourselves\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Some stories are so unique, yet so universal, that it is wonder they aren’t a part of the human fable already. Carole Stivers’s \u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code\u003c\/i\u003e, is such a novel. Simply written but powerful, chock full of ideas and extrapolations about what it means to be a mother and all that such a word implies. Both apocalyptic, yet hopeful, treat yourself to this story. You’ll be well rewarded.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eJames Rollins, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eCrucible\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I could not put down \u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code \u003c\/i\u003e! Part action adventure, part sci-fi, the novel is suspenseful and cinematic and such a pleasure to read. Carole Stivers is a masterful storyteller and she has combined science, technology and history to tell a beautiful story of humanity and love.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eDevi S. Laskar, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Atlas of Reds and Blues\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Set against a post-pandemic apocalypse, biochemist Carole Stivers’s \u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code\u003c\/i\u003e offers it all: intriguingly flawed characters; compelling action; and, that most elusive of things, a fresh plot—children raised from birth by mother bots. The Mother Code asks us to reimagine the limitations of artificial intelligence and the costs of species survival, and in doing so, offers a profound meditation on motherhood and what it means to be human. Stivers is a brilliant storyteller!\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eLori Ostlund, author of \u003ci\u003eAfter the Parade\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code\u003c\/i\u003e takes us to the intersection of artificial intelligence and biotechnology and shows us what could go wrong. Carole Stivers has written a chilling tale about the relationship between humans and machines in the not so distant future. It is a prescient story that offers both a good read and a thoughtful way of thinking about a human way to shape the technologies that are reshaping our world.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eJohn Markoff, author of \u003ci\u003eMachines of Loving\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code\u003c\/i\u003e by Carole Stivers is brilliant, innovative, and moving.”—Seanan McGuire,\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stivers’s sweeping, cinematic debut raises probing questions about the nature of family and human connection….painful, provocative, and ultimately infused with hope.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Propulsive page turner.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eNewsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Debuting author Stivers, a biochemist, blends hard science, emotional relationships, and artificial intelligence to produce a chilling and realistic narrative.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stivers’ debut novel might be a mashup of P.D. Eastman’s childhood classic \u003ci\u003e‘Are You My Mother?’\u003c\/i\u003e with Kazuo Ishiguro’s breathtaking ‘\u003ci\u003eNever Let Me Go\u003c\/i\u003e.’”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe San Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An apocalyptic novel revolving around government incompetence and disregard for scientific evidence might seem too on the nose for the current global crisis we are living through, but read this book for its excellent plot, its diverse well-written characters and for the hope that perhaps humans are not entirely terrible.”—Girly Book Club\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stivers counterbalances her scientific knowledge with excellent storytelling skills, very sturdy and engaging prose, and a raft of eternal themes that underlie the human condition…. Shifting effortlessly from the lab to the printed page, Carole Stivers illustrates that great science fiction must be equal parts test tube and beating maternal heart.\"—Locus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Immense and poignant resonance about the vitality and fragility of human lives and relationships and the complexity of human emotional needs.\"\u003ci\u003e—Book Browse Magazine\u003c\/i\u003eCarole Stivers was born in East Cleveland, Ohio. She received her Ph.D. in Biochemistry at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. She went on to post-doctoral work at Stanford University before launching a career in medical diagnostics. She now lives in California, where she's combined her love of writing and her fascination with the possibilities of science to create her first novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Mother Code.\u003c\/i\u003ePart One \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarch 3, 2054\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir treads tucked tight to their bodies, their wings outspread, they headed north in tight formation. From above, the sun glimmered off their metallic flanks, sending their coalesced shadows adrift over the ridges and combs of the open desert. Below lay only silence-that primordial silence that lives on in the wake of all that is lost, of all that is squandered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt their approach, the silence was broken. Every grain of sand hummed in tune with the roar of air through their ducted fans. Tiny creatures, wrested from their heated slumbers, stirred from their hiding places to sense their coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, pausing in their trajectory to map ever-larger arcs, the Mothers fanned apart, each following her own path. Rho-Z maintained altitude, checked her flight computer, homed toward her preset destination. Deep in her belly she bore a precious payload-the seed of a new generation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlone, she set down in the shade of an overhanging crag, sheltered from the wind. There she waited, for the viscous thrum of a heartbeat. She waited, for the tremble of a small arm, the twitch of a tiny leg. She faithfully recorded the signs of vitality, waiting for the moment when her next mission would begin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil, at last, it was time:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFetal Weight 2.4 kg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRespiration Rate 47:::Pulse Ox 99%:::BP Systolic 60 Diastolic 37:::Temperature 36.8C.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWOMB DRAINAGE: Initiate 03:50:13. Complete 04:00:13.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFEED TUBE DISCONNECT: Initiate 04:01:33. Complete 04:01:48.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRespiration Rate 39:::Pulse Ox 89%:::BP Systolic 43 Diastolic 25.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRESUSCITATION: Initiate 04:03:12. Complete 04:03:42.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRespiration Rate 63:::Pulse Ox 97%:::BP Systolic 75 Diastolic 43.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTRANSFER: Initiate 04:04:01.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe newborn nestled into the dense, fibrous interior of her cocoon. He squirmed, his arms flailing. As his lips found her soft nipple, nutrient-rich liquid filled his mouth. His body relaxed, cradled now by warm elastic fingers. His eyes opened to a soft blue light, the blurred outline of a human face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDecember 20, 2049\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eURGENT CONFIDENTIAL. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Said:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRequest your presence at a conference to be held at CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDecember 20, 2049, 1100 hours.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTop priority.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTransportation will be provided.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlease respond ASAP.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-General Jos. Blankenship, U.S. Army\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames Said removed his wrist phone ocular from his right eye, tucking it into its plastic case. He peeled his flex-phone from his wrist, then undid his belt and loaded it along with his shoes and jacket onto the conveyor. Eyes focused straight ahead toward the optical scanner, he shuffled past the cordon of airport inspection bots, their thin white arms moving efficiently over every portion of his anatomy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUrgent. Confidential. When it came to communications from the military, he'd learned to gloss over terms that he'd once found alarming. Still, he couldn't help but steal a glance around the security area, thoroughly expecting a man in military blues to materialize. Blankenship. Where had he heard that name?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran his fingers over his chin. That morning he'd shaved close, exposing the dark birthmark just below the jaw-the place where his mother told him Allah had kissed him on the day he was born. Did his looks betray him? He thought not. Born in California on the fourth of July, his every habit scrupulously secular, he was as American as he could be. He possessed his mother's light-skinned coloring, her father's tall stature. Yet somehow the moment he set foot in an airport, he felt like the enemy. Though the infamous 9\/11 attacks had preceded his own birth by thirteen years, the London Intifada of 2030 and the suicide bombings at Reagan Airport in 2041 kept alive a healthy suspicion of anyone resembling a Muslim in the West.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the last of the bots offered him a green light, he gathered up his belongings, then pressed his thumb to the keypad on the door leading out to the gates. In the bright light and bustle of the concourse, he slid the ocular back into his eye and secured the phone on his wrist. Blinking three times to reconnect the two devices, he pressed \"reply\" on the phone's control panel and murmured into it. \"Flying to California for the holidays. Must reschedule after January 5. Please provide agenda.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHead down, he hurried past colorful displays filled with beautiful faces, all calling him by name. \"James,\" they crooned, \"have you tried our brave new ExoTea flavors? Queeze-Ease for those high-altitude jitters? The new Dormo In-Flight Iso-Helmet?\" He hated the way these new phones broadcast his identity, but such was the price of connectivity in public spaces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn line at the coffee stand, he refreshed his phone feed. He smiled at the sight of his mother's name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe harvest is in. We are ready for the New Year. When will you arrive?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSwiping the phone's small screen with a long index finger, he located his airline reservation and tacked it onto a reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"See attached,\" he dictated. \"Tell Dad not to worry about picking me up. I'll catch an autocab. Can't wait to see you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe scrolled through his mail, filing his engagements in the online calendar:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e- Faculty Luncheon. Jan. 8.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e- Graduate Seminar, Dept. of Cell \u0026amp; Developmental Biology.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTopics due Jan. 15.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e- Annual Conference on Genetic Engineering: New Frontiers, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew Regulations. Jan. 25.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames frowned. He didn't always attend the annual conference, but this year it would be in Atlanta, just a few blocks from his Emory laboratory. He'd been invited to talk about his work engineering genes within the human body, this time with the goal of curing cystic fibrosis in the unborn fetus. But these government-sponsored conferences tended to focus less on the science than on the policy-including the ever-shifting landscape of government control over the novel material that made his work possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver a decade before, scientists at the University of Illinois had developed a type of nanoparticulate DNA called nucleic acid nanostructures-NANs, for short. Unlike native, linear DNA, these small spherical forms of synthetic DNA could easily penetrate a human cell membrane on their own. Once inside the cell, they could insert themselves into the host DNA to modify targeted genes. The possibilities seemed endless-cures not only for genetic abnormalities but also for a whole host of previously intractable cancers. From the moment that James, then a graduate student in cell biology at Berkeley, had first learned about NANs, he'd been bent on getting his hands on the material that might make his dreams a reality.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGenetic engineering of human embryos prior to implantation had become a mature science-carefully regulated, the tools well characterized and virtually free of the off-target effects so often encountered in the early days. Likewise, tests for diagnosing fetal defects later in development, after implantation in the womb, had been available for decades. But once a defect was detected, there was still no way to safely alter a fetus in the womb. James was convinced that by using NANs, faulty genes could be reengineered in utero. Gene-treatable diseases like cystic fibrosis could be eradicated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there were hurdles to overcome, both technical and political. This was a technology that might prove dangerous in the wrong hands; the University of Illinois had soon been forced to hand over all license to the federal government, and Fort Detrick, a Maryland facility northeast of D.C., held the bulk of it in strict confidence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe missed California. He missed Berkeley. Every day, he had to remind himself that coming to Atlanta had been the right thing to do. The Center for Gene Therapy at Emory was the only public institution that had been allowed access to NANs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the waiting room, he slouched into a seat near the boarding gate. He'd once been a spry, athletic farm boy, the captain of his high school baseball team. But he'd let himself go-his straight spine curved forward from years of hovering over laboratory benches, his keen eyes weakened from staring into microscopes and computer screens. His mother would fret over his health, he knew, plying him with plates of spiced lentils and rice. He could taste them already.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames looked around. At this early hour, most of the seats were empty. In front of him a young mother, her baby asleep in a carrier on the floor, cradled a small GameGirl remote console in her lap. Ignoring her own child, she seemed to be playing at feeding the alien baby whose wide green face appeared openmouthed on her screen. By the window an elderly man sat munching a ProteoBar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames jumped at the feel of a buzz at his wrist-a return message from DOD.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Said:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo reschedule. Someone will meet you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-General Jos. Blankenship, U.S. Army\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked up to see a man in a plain gray suit stationed by the gate. The man's thick neck rose out of his collar, his chin tilting upward in an almost imperceptible nod. Removing his ocular, James glanced to his right. His arm flinched reflexively from a light tap on his shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dr. Said?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames's mind went blank. \"Yes?\" he croaked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm sorry, Dr. Said. But the Pentagon requires your presence.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\" James stared at the young man, his crisp dark uniform and glossy black shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll need you to accompany me to Langley, ASAP. I'm sorry. We'll have your airline tickets reimbursed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But why-?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't worry, sir. We'll get you there in no time.\" Latching a white-gloved hand around James's arm, the officer guided him to a security exit and down a set of stairs, through a door and out into daylight. A few steps away, the man in the gray suit was already waiting, holding open the back door of a black limousine, ushering James inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My luggage?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Taken care of.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis heart forming a fist in his chest, James wedged his body deep into the leather seat. He placed his right hand protectively over his left wrist, guarding the phone-his one remaining link to the world outside the limo. At least they hadn't confiscated it. \"What's going on? Why are you detaining me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young officer offered him a wry grin as he climbed into the front seat. \"They'll fill you in at Langley, sir.\" He pushed a few buttons on the dash, and James could feel the pressure of a smooth acceleration. \"Just sit back and relax.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young man reached out to activate a transceiver on the car's center console. \"Subject en route,\" he assured someone on the other end. \"Expect arrival ten hundred hours.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That fast?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We've got a jet lined up. Just sit tight.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside the tinted window, the black tarmac sped by. James held up his wrist, punched on his phone, and whispered a short message: \"Amani Said. Message: Sorry, Mom. Won't be home. Something came up. Tell Dad not to worry. Send.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis voice shaking, he added a second thought. \"If you don't hear from me in two days, call Mr. Wheelan.\" Silently, he prayed that his message would go through.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRick Blevins powered on his computer and settled into his chair. As he waited for his secure link to boot up, he ran the palm of his hand down the length of his thigh, massaging the place just above the knee where the prosthesis joined what remained of his right leg. He winced. The adjustment to this new device was proving difficult.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike his old one, the bulk of the new prosthesis was covered with a synthetic mesh that stiffened and softened as he moved, mirroring the softness or stiffness of the tissues in his upper thigh. Its bionic muscles were controlled via the same electrodes, connected to his own nerve tissue. But this new appendage, built for better mobility, seemed to have a mind of its own. When he snapped it into place each morning, tiny pinpricks of energy surged upward toward his spine, a force like something alien. Worst of all, the new leg seemed to be waging war on his neurostimulator, the device they'd implanted in his lower back to dull the pain. The old phantom signals, pulsing and burning, were inching back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared out the window. The weather wasn't helping. The previous night's freezing rain had painted the concrete facade of the Pentagon with a thin layer of frost. Running his hand over his scalp, he felt the stiff growth of his thick brown hair. He needed a cut . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was startled by the buzz of the intercom at his lapel. \"We need you down here,\" came a clipped male voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Down here\" was General Blankenship's basement office. Rick gulped coffee from his thermocup and straightened his tie. He was pretty sure he knew what this was about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA month prior, he'd been summoned for comment on a biowarfare project at Fort Detrick. He was no longer subject to the immediate threats that had dogged his life in special ops, but in his desk job as an analyst at the CIA's Directorate of Intelligence, he'd found plenty of use for the same keen instincts that had served him so well in the field. With growing concern he'd pored over the feasibility report, acquainting himself with difficult scientific terms like \"apoptosis,\" \"programmed cell death,\" \"caspase,\" and \"nucleic acid nanostructure.\" He'd heard of the DNA nanostructures, nicknamed \"NANs,\" before; it was his job to oversee approval of their use in domestic research labs. But this was different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe project was called Tabula Rasa, a moniker that was frightening enough. But as he'd rescanned the section labeled \"Expected Impact,\" he'd felt his heart skip a beat. The basis of the bioagent was a specific type of nucleic acid nanostructure called IC-NAN. When a victim inhaled this particular sequence of nanoparticulate DNA, his infected lung cells would begin to outlive their \"use by\" date: Rather than dying off to make way for fresh new cells as they were supposed to do, the old, infected cells would replicate to produce more defective cells. These mutated cells would overgrow good tissue, impeding proper lung function and eventually invading the body, robbing other organs of nutrients. The desired result was akin to an aggressive lung cancer-a slow but inexorable death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRather than offering the expected rubber stamp on the program, he'd fired off a salvo advising its cancellation. Sending uncharacterized bioweapons out into the world, even to the most remote parts of the world, was crazy. The mass poisonings, the devastation of innocent populations in an effort to rout out the few . . . weren't they past all that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now, he was sure the vehemence of his response hadn't gone unnoticed. No doubt Blankenship had been dissatisfied. As he caught the elevator and traveled the three floors down, he steeled himself for the inevitable reprimand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe elevator door buzzed open, and he headed down the dim corridor. A first lieutenant was waiting for him near the door to the general's office. As the man came to attention, Rick caught sight of the glimmer of a rifle. An armed guard. A cold sweat dampened his shirt.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301301309669,"sku":"NP9781984806932","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984806932_40ba3c08-f6b3-48db-8fbe-ad7ac1c28cd4.jpg?v=1730747557","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-mother-codeisbn-9781984806932","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}