The Gene Thieves

By Maria Quinn

The future is closer than you think ... family bloodlines, genetics, legal shenanigans, a horrific kidnapping combine in a thrilling, fast-paced story.
Brilliant, lonely genetic scientist Piggy Brown is desperate for a child, but he's in a tricky legal situation. Dancer is a lawyer with his own reasons for wanting to grant Piggy's dearest wish - and he can set up Conjugal Contracts which push the envelope of the law. Dancer visits the Nest, the official centre for surrogates, and inveigles them into recommending someone they have used before, someone who won't ask too many questions about the baby she carries. But choosing a surrogate can be risky, and this one, Angela, comes with baggage: her own child, Molly, a six-year-old who has already seen too much of her mother's world. When a grotesque kidnapping occurs, everything is thrown into chaos and Jack Lee, Chief Investigator for the UN Ethical Science Council, decides it's time to take charge of the case - for the sake of humanity's future. Praise for tHE GENE tHIEVES: 'Something for everyone here: part science fiction, part family drama, part mystery, part geo-political thriller ... [Maria Quinn] weaves each element together seamlessly, all the while never losing sight of the endearingly normal humans at the core of her tale' aurealisXpress 'an exciting near-future thriller ... fast-paced and engaging' Bookseller+Publisher four-star review

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jan 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730400080

Maria Quinn

Maria Quinn’s career began in Sydney as an advertising copywriter. After working in the US and Canada, she moved to a London agency, as Creative Director. Returning to Australia, she became a magazine editor and feature writer. Her television credits include producing the national program King’s Kitchen. She is the winner of the 2007 Todhunter Literary Award for short story and the recipient of a prestigious Varuna fellowship. This is her first novel. Visit Maria's website at www.storyworldonline.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Twenty-seven pairs of eyes swivel in Jack Lee’s direction; enough cerebral fire power to jump-start the future — or even hold it in check.

‘You really believe he’s up to it, this Mitchell Brown?’ Nils Sorensen’s sceptical smile is proof that he’s a newcomer. The other members of UNESC — the United Nations Ethical Science Council — have embraced the faith in Jack Lee’s instincts and his unique sources. If their Chief Investigator says this breakthrough is in sight, they’ll go on alert.

Jack takes in the too-blue-to-be-true eyes and Riviera tan sported by the Council’s latest appointee, and thinks This science superstar’s gone Hollywood. ‘I realise Brown seems small potatoes on your scale of things, Dr Sorensen. Preventing Brittle Bone Disease doesn’t compare to solving the melting of glaciers.’ Dark eyes pierce blue; blue blinks first. ‘But that’s just how it started. My information shows he’s quietly taking the steps, one at a time; I believe they’ll add up to the giant step we’re holding our breath about.’

‘But he’s a renegade, Jack — the blue-eyes gene, remember?’ Professor Shunjii Kimura, Emeritus Professor of Genetic Science at the University of Tokyo, is no fan of Dr Mitchell Brown. ‘Five hundred million yen is a lot of money, even from the Japanese state coffers.’ Jack can’t deny the truth of the wizened Nobel Laureate’s statement.

‘I agree, it makes him mega-rich in anyone’s language, Professor Kimura, but before he jumped ship and sold that gene sequence he was all pure science. He published the osteogenesis imperfecta paper when he could have offered it to any of the big pharmas first.’

‘Genetic OI isn’t a common problem, Jack. They wouldn’t have paid the really big bucks. Why the whitewash?’ Mary Corrigan, convener of the Nobel Society Awards in Biology and Chemistry, already knows the answer. But she wants the others to hear it. Jack Lee looks across the table at the woman whose bed he is secretly sharing during this stint in Brussels, the only thing making his least-favourite city bearable. She’s giving him the lead question he wants, but he can’t seem too pleased with her; just businesslike.

‘I hope to convince him to present the work for assessment, and abide by the Council’s decision.’

‘He didn’t last time.’

‘That was all about money. He needed to fund the ongoing research. Now that money’s no longer a problem I think he’ll do the right thing.’

The scruffy-looking man at the head of the table snorts out a laugh. ‘He was pretty pissed off when he stormed out of this room eighteen months ago, Jack. You weren’t here to cop the show —science mafia he called us, the cheeky little turd.’

In contrast to Nils Sorensen, Hamilton Masters actually looks like a prototype for the absent-minded professor, all bushy beard, electrically charged hair and crumpled collars. He is also the longest-serving member of the Council, a founding father and the man who poached Jack Lee from the Americans. ‘We’re talking billions — no — infinite amounts of dollars here, Jack, if he does it. We can’t let it happen, you know that. It will change the world. We’re not ready.’

‘You’ve got my reports, Ham. He started tinkering with this on the Cambridge system years ago. You can see he’s heading in that direction, and his groundwork on Brittle Bone gives him a head start.’

‘One little ant, to build an Everest of an ant hill?’ Nils Sorensen is now wearing a counterfeit smile that sets Jack’s teeth on edge.

‘You’d better hope so, Dr Sorensen. If one of the multinationals gets there first they’ll spit in the eye of this Ethical Science Council.’ Hamilton Masters sighs his acceptance.

‘What do you want, Jack?’

‘A no-holds-barred budget.’

‘Why? Do you think he’s in danger?’ Mary Corrigan frowns as she says it.

‘No, the goose is perfectly safe until he lays the golden egg. But once he does, I don’t want money to stand in the way of getting him to submit here.’

‘You’ll be off to Australia, then?’ Mary Corrigan asks the question casually, as if her interest is strictly academic. Trying not to smile, Jack reassures her.

‘That won’t be necessary, Professor Corrigan, unless Brown is closer to a result than I suspect. For now it’s a watching brief. We’re just tracking his progress as closely as we can: every site he logs on to, every email he sends, every question he asks, every piece of equipment and material he orders. But there’s no need for me to be in Sydney at the moment.

‘I have to get to Beijing. My people there believe the word is out that Jiang Mei plans to meet with us over the tracking implants. She seems to have disappeared.’ He risks looking directly at Mary. ‘Then I’ve got three case briefings to give here in Brussels and teams to put together for those, so I’ll be back in this dreary city for some time.’

Taking his leave, Jack closes the door to the boardroom behind him, as always appraising the quotation etched into the brass plaque: ‘Change’ is scientific, ‘progress’ is ethical; change is indubitable, whereas progress is a matter of controversy. — Bertrand Russell. Jack wishes the great man himself was around to put the argument personally.

Behind the closed door all eyes turn again, now to stare at Nils Sorensen, the new man in the game, who dares to voice an unwanted question.

‘Well, I’ll say it again. Should we let him? If you really are convinced the investigator is right, should we let this Dr Mitchell Brown get that far?’

ONE

In the reception lounge of Tebrett, Paige & Goldspink, Mitchell Brown was growing more edgy by the minute. The smell of money always made him nervous, and this place certainly smelled of it — its semicircular walls of glass making it appear part of the sky, atop the magnificent panorama of Sydney Harbour, the city, opera house and bridge. Not that he couldn’t afford the best. In fact, Mitchell Brown was now a very rich man. He just couldn’t get used to it.

A childhood spent on the edge of need, enough to live on but never much left over, had made him cautious with money, even parsimonious. It was a trait he was trying to overcome. This very morning he had replaced his faithful old briefcase with a slim attaché model bearing an exclusive Italian label. His hand had actually trembled as he passed his access card to the snooty assistant, a hangover from the time he could never be totally sure the electronic teller would give him the nod. Still, the instant change of demeanour in the toffee-nosed brunette made up for a lot.

When the diamond-shaped unlimited access symbol glowed green, her condescending air shifted to interest as she gushed out her eagerness to be of service. He’d been tempted to suggest a more personal kind of service, but the sight of his own reflection in the wall of bronzed mirror behind her stopped him. He knew these fancy places used the bronze tint because it showed things in a more flattering light, but it could not mask the fact that his was a face no woman would be likely to find attractive.

An unfortunate melding of genes had governed the direction of Brown’s life; he was the odd-looking boy who had been tormented and bullied right through school. But luckily exams are no beauty contest, and his unique intellect had opened the doors to the best education his country, then the world, had to offer.

Now he was after the best again — the best legal advice money could buy. This fancy chair must have cost a bit, he thought, succumbing to the luxurious touch of its kid-soft suede and the voluptuous comfort of its engulfing egg shape. Well, at least they keep you waiting in style.

Peter Tebrett decided to eschew the private lift that opened directly into his office and take the main elevator, in order to emphasise regret for his tardiness. Ascending in the glass cylinder, he suddenly heard his mother’s voice: ‘Pretty fancy building, Dancer — must use a lot of horse manure.’

The vertical sky-farm, one of two interlinking spirals making up the seventy-storey building, had been the butt of his mother’s teasing jokes. But the city has fallen in love with the stunning tower, dubbing it ‘The Twister’, and Dancer has faith that his huge gamble will eventually pay off big-time. Powered by hydrogen converted from the farm’s photosynthesis, and energy from geothermal sinks created in the bedrock below the foundations, the office spiral is cool in summer, warm in winter and self-sustaining; and the sky-farm spiral supplies vegetables and flowers to the busy city markets and beyond.

Suddenly the black cloud threatened him again. He’d missed his mother so much these past three months. Daphne had always been so aggressively alive; it was hard to believe she just hadn’t refused, point-blank, to die.

At the subtle hiss of the stainless-steel doors the lawyer willed himself to overcome the dark turn his thoughts were taking, and stepped into the foyer contrived to impress his design-conscious clientele. He noted just three people: an obvious couple and a woman he recognised as a client of his partner Aaron. Silently he mouthed to Lisa, their elegant receptionist, ‘Dr Brown?’ With a relieved look she indicated the back of the egg chair, facing the magnificent, never-ending view.

‘Dr Brown, please forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ Slowly the chair swivelled away from the view and its occupant stood up.

Although wearing an impeccably tailored suit and sporting a heavy gold Rolex, Brown looked nothing like the men who usually turned to the lawyer for advice. As he proffered his hand and looked into the startling eyes, Dancer had to consciously stop himself from flinching. Although Mitchell Brown was not scarred, not actually disfigured in any way, there could be no doubt that he was physically unique.

He was so fair as to be bordering on albino. His small, translucently pale eyes were fringed with short, white-blond lashes, while his skin had a ruddy, definite pinkness. His nose was exceedingly short, with a pronounced upturn combined with large, flaring nostrils. The fair, bushy tufts that served as his eyebrows seemed to match those that insisted on protruding from his ears, which were tiny and lay very flat against his large head. His short-legged, heavy-set body completed the undeniable resemblance Mitchell Brown bore to a Large White — one of the more common breeds of pig.

But Dancer’s shock was not only due to the reaction many people had on being introduced to Brown. There was also a painful stab of childhood memory:

‘Go on, Dancer, stick the apple in the kid’s mouth.’

‘I can’t, he keeps biting it.’

‘Well, hold his jaws open, you idiot!’

Dancer stared into the startling eyes for an extra beat and then steadied himself, hoping his astonishment hadn’t registered on his face. ‘I’m Peter Tebrett. We spoke on the phone. Please, come through to my office.’

Used to the unique first impression he created, Brown was pleased to note that the man in whom he intended to confide his dream had managed to avoid the usual mumbling awkwardness. ‘I nearly slid into the arms of Morpheus,’ he said, ‘I was so comfortable.’

Dancer ushered his client across the foyer towards an impressive pair of double doors, making small talk to cover his uncharacteristic confusion. ‘Well, the chairs in my office are no match, I’m afraid. Perhaps tea or coffee will compensate?’

‘Tea would be very nice, thank you.’

At the reception desk Dancer introduced Dr Brown to Lisa, the beautiful young woman whose eyes Brown had been trying to avoid ever since he had shyly announced his appointment nearly forty minutes earlier. She gave the little man the full benefit of her dazzling smile, targeting him like a kangaroo in a rifle’s sight while he stood there, mesmerised. As usual, Lisa was fully aware of the effect she was having, and once again Dancer marvelled at the fact that even his women clients seemed to relate well to her knockout looks and man-melting attitude. He’d thought that she would seem too much like competition, but Aaron argued the case for mirror imaging. He’d been proven right. ‘Lisa, get the kitchen to do morning tea, would you — in my office, just for two.’

Opening his door, Dancer ushered Brown to the seating area wrapped around one corner of a rich-list layout. ‘Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in just a minute.’

While his client took in the backdrop — yet another angle of the harbour and cityscape — and tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable in the low-slung Wassily chair, Dancer strove to rein in the unsettling effect Brown’s appearance had on him by distancing himself at his pristine, angular desk. Feigning busy-ness, he quickly glanced through two notes, hand-scribbled on Aaron’s notepaper. ‘The mad Russian is in my office.’ This brought a smile. ‘Come and rescue me when you hear screams.’ As ever, Aaron’s humour seemed to put things in perspective, helping Dancer to shed some of his natural uptightness. But still he didn’t know whether Brown had recognised him, or if he’d been aware of their childhood history when he made the appointment.

‘I warned you they’re not very comfortable,’ he said, joining his new client in the seating area. ‘My partner insisted on investment pieces. I foolishly assumed he meant traditional antiques.’

Still struggling to fully regain his inner composure, Dancer was helped by the arrival of morning tea, wheeled in on an elegant trolley and consisting of a choice of China and Indian teas, coffee, wafer-thin smoked salmon sandwiches and a selection of delicate pastries. This ritual was a ploy the lawyer often used to allow himself time to make a preliminary assessment of a new client.

Anthony, the fastidious, balding doyen of the Twister’s executive dining room, always took it on himself to serve the ‘big office’ when the client being feted was particularly famous, glamorous or notoriously rich. Dancer was well aware of his inquisitiveness. However, he was surprised that Brown’s presence held any particular attraction for the starstruck Anthony — unless, of course, his curious appearance was already a hot item on the office grapevine.

‘Thank you, Anthony, we can help ourselves from here on in. Just leave the trolley.’

‘Yes, Mr T. I’ll come back for it in a little while.’

‘That won’t be necessary. It will be left in the floor kitchen later.’

Dancer had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed causing Anthony’s little flounce of the shoulders and allaying his eavesdropping ploy. Whatever Brown wanted to discuss was between him and his lawyer, privileged information. At least Dancer hoped that was what it was, not some scathing trip down memory lane.

As the door closed, a little louder than necessary, Dancer indicated to the man opposite to help himself and poured strong black coffee into his own cup. ‘I’m afraid many of my clients take being twittered over by Anthony for granted.’

‘It must be interesting, all those movie stars and such.’ Brown let his eyes wander around the impressive room, then settled on the equally impressive Peter Tebrett. For a moment he felt overwhelmed, out of his league. Then he visibly brightened.

‘But I can afford the best, and in the area of conjugal matters I’m assured you’re absolutely that.’

‘So it’s a contractual matter?’

‘Well,’ replied Brown, ‘I’m not quite sure. I want advice actually, about how to go about … about having a child.’

The muscles in Dancer’s neck started to relax. Since he had set eyes on Brown in reception he’d had a horrible foreboding that somehow he was going to have to atone for childhood cruelty, pay his dues to this strange-looking creature. Now it seemed that this was going to be a simple matter after all.

‘Well, Dr Brown, if you don’t have a Propagation Clause in your current Contract it can be added —’

‘I haven’t …’ interrupted Brown, ‘I haven’t got a Conjugal Contract.’

‘Oh … well in some ways that actually makes things easier. We can draw up a Contract specifying the terms you want, and if your intended partner’s happy to go along with them there won’t be a problem. I assume you can raise the Socio Trust money for one child right away?’

‘Money’s the least of my concerns, Mr Tebrett. In fact I’ll never have to worry about what anything costs again.’

Too late, Dancer tried to conceal his surprise at this statement, delivered so matter-of-factly. Brown quickly went on. ‘I’m a molecular biologist, a geneticist if you prefer, Mr Tebrett. I worked on the HapMap —’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite with you,’ Dancer interjected.

‘It’s sort of the Holy Grail of genetics — a key to the cure for disease; the accurate clock of evolution.’ Sensing that he’d let himself get carried away by his own enthusiasm, Brown pulled back. ‘Anyway, I worked on it while I was at Cambridge. After I left, I developed a rather unique programme and continued to map and sequence thousands more base pairs. I discovered the gene for blue eyes. That’s how I made the money.’

He leant back in his chair with a distinctly self-satisfied air, certain he’d impressed the patrician figure whose presence so dominated the room. Dancer poured himself another coffee and then moved across to the seat right next to Brown, giving him the benefit of his own intense blue-eyed gaze.

‘So you patented the blue-eyes gene?’

Noting an air of censure, Brown seemed eager to elaborate. ‘Genetically modified organisms have been legally patented since back in the 1980s and gene squatting has been going on since the inception of the Human Genome Project — that’s private companies and research institutes taking a gamble on the possibility that the genes they’ve patented will become valuable. If a gene is found to have a unique property, you can demand a licence fee from anyone who wants to use it for any kind of research, or even testing for disease.’

‘I’m quite aware of that, Dr Brown. The ramifications and arguments about gene patents have been tying the courts up for years.’

‘Well, like it or not, over fifty per cent of the human genome is now the intellectual property of private companies and multinationals, mostly big pharma — the giant drug companies — and that’s just the known sequences. Virtually all of the non-coding or junk human DNA is in private registration. And that’s probably going to be the most valuable research source of all.’

‘So you sold the patent to a multinational?’

‘Not the patent, just the gene sequence. I approached it from another angle for the reasons you’ve just given — the possibility of years in court trying to justify the patent application. I sold it to the Japanese government.’

‘Good God!’ Trying to make sense of this startling revelation, Dancer got up and walked to the windows. He reached for the pair of binoculars on his desk and scanned Circular Quay.

Commuter jetskis crisscrossed the water, vying for berths in the docking marina and dodging Sydney’s colourful retro-ferries and the tourist charter boats using the bigger wharves. Tiny bubble-boats, with wind rotors driven by the driver’s own pedal power, were a new craze and their leisurely pace seemed to excite bad behaviour in the speedy commuters. They whizzed around them as if they were flags marking a downhill race, churning up the water and leaving the bubble-boats bobbing like crazy in their wake. Two mega-yachts, each a hundred metres long, caused a traffic jam as smaller boats vied for a close-up of these Sydney-to-Hobart ocean-racers.

As usual, the surrounding area was a hub of activity with street performers and sightseers out in force. Backpackers lolled on the expanse of lawn fronting the Museum of Contemporary Art, many exposing too much skin, hatless and unheeding of the strength of Australia’s sunshine.

Dancer panned across the crowded cafés and the broad stairs sweeping up to the Sydney Opera House, a glorious white bird that seemed to have just set down on the water. Years before, over a million ceramic tiles were overlaid with transparent photovoltaic cells, painstakingly matched to the profile of the unique originals on the amazing precast concrete ‘sails’ of the roof. Jørn Utzon’s masterpiece now powered much of the city that worshipped it.

Then the lawyer caught a young Japanese couple in his sights. They were having their photograph taken. He knew from experience that they would have politely requested a stranger to press the button. Into his head popped the unlikely image of dozens of pairs of blue eyes hiding behind those Japanese cameras that clicked away incessantly, on the lucky occasions he found himself crossing Sydney harbour on one of the new retro-ferries, designed for pleasure rather than speed.

Putting the binoculars down, Dancer laughed out loud. The scientist joined him at the windows, pleased that the deviousness of his plan had been appreciated.

‘I went to the Ministry of Technology and explained how all their grandchildren were going to be running round with blue eyes. They paid me 450 million dollars — 500 million yen to relinquish all rights to the computer program I embedded the gene sequence into. And to avoid trying to justify a patent application, they copyrighted my program and claimed the sequence as a resultant product. That way they can retain complete control over it, virtually own it. Very clever really.’

‘Well, the Japanese have made a fine art of plagiarism.’

‘I got a howl of moral indignation from the UN Ethical Science Council. They expected me to just hand over the result of years of work, so they could play God. But there’s nothing they can do. The Japanese have it sewn up tight. They think they’ll be able to prevent even further Westernisation of their youth. Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me to see a rash of blue-eyed babies cropping up in Hong Kong or Manila in a few years,’ smiled Brown.

‘Black market eugenics.’

‘Of course not, Mr Tebrett. Somatic cell gene therapy has been legally used for some time to correct genetically transferred diseases. Selective gene manipulation for cosmetic or other reasons isn’t so far removed.’

Dancer returned to his desk and waved Brown to the opposite chair. ‘Designer babies, you mean. In a few generations each society looking like its peers … alike, all perfect, all beautiful. A frightening thought.’

‘Rather that than ugliness, perhaps, Mr Tebrett? Children are pack animals. They don’t want to be different, an outsider.’

A rush of guilt rose in Dancer’s craw, like bile. Like you; that name we tagged you with couldn’t have helped either. ‘Piggy’, but never in the middle, always on the fringes, or totally excluded. Designer babies. Dancer could have bitten his tongue off.

TWO

Aaron Goldspink was miffed. He knew Dancer had a client in there, so he couldn’t go in and scream bloody murder at him. Why had he taken old Horak on again? They’d been through it all before. The old goat agreed to anything Dancer put forward, Aaron did all the financial planning work on the Conjugal Contract and Trust, and then the bastard started haggling like a street pedlar. What did he think motivated the fertile young things he proposed to — love? Four times Aaron had revamped the special financial clauses in this Contract. That was enough! The woman was about to walk if she didn’t get what she wanted. But whenever Aaron howled about Horak, Dancer just told him to add $20,000 to the bill … Maybe if they made it $50,000 this time they might get rid of the old bastard.

On the other side of the solid jarrah, Piggy was wondering how he would actually get the words out. I suppose he’ll think I’m mad. Ever since the lawyer first shook his hand, the scientist felt a growing sense of intimidation. Not that Tebrett’s manners and demeanour were anything but impeccable, but his charisma was palpable and his refined good looks suggested a kind of sensitivity and intellect that must draw women to him like flies to sticky paper. Peter Tebrett was everything Piggy Brown could never be, and the effect on the little man was overpowering.

Although he had taken great pains in selecting his best suit and especially purchasing another of the wildly colourful traffic-stopper ties that were his sartorial trademark, Piggy now felt scruffy and unkempt. Clothes had always been important to him — at least the ill-favoured reflection in his mirror could be well-dressed. But the way Tebrett’s tall, rakish figure offset his cream silk shirt and pale linen suit indicated to Piggy that he must look like an overstuffed toy. A brisk knock on the adjoining door ended his introspection. As it opened inwards, the figure he saw standing in the doorway was far less imposing than the celebrated Peter Tebrett.

Aaron Goldspink was of medium height and carried enough weight to qualify as ‘chubby’ but just miss out on ‘fat’. He had workaday features but was saved from plainness by deep-set, black-coffee eyes and an abundance of glossy dark hair that curled every which way. Years ago he had conceded the futility of trying to keep this mop looking businesslike, so now he wore it long enough to be considered eccentric in legal circles. Aaron had a rather crumpled look to him, in sharp contrast to Tebrett’s elegant style, and Piggy Brown started to relax.

‘I do apologise for interrupting,’ Aaron waved a thick folder at Dancer, ‘but this Horak Contract has to be signed off by twelve o’clock. I hope you won’t mind, Mr …?’ He turned to Piggy with a smile.

‘Brown, Dr Mitchell Brown,’ replied Piggy, accepting Aaron’s proffered handshake.

‘I’m Aaron Goldspink, Dancer’s partner in the firm.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand …’

‘He means me, I’m afraid,’ Tebrett interjected quickly. ‘Silly childhood nickname. At times my partner seems to revert to childhood habits too, like barging into my room.’

As Aaron grinned at Dancer, Piggy caught a flash of their closeness, the underlying years of friendship. He wondered what it was like, friendship. Of course he’d had mentors and he believed some of them had truly liked him. But no one ever sought him out just for the pleasure of his company, just for friendship’s sake. Suddenly he saw Peter Tebrett in a different light — more human somehow, more accessible. He needed to confide in someone; this new path his work was taking was so exciting. Not yet, though; perhaps by the time he was certain of his results he and the lawyer would know each other well enough for Piggy to entrust him with his other secret.

‘I was going to ask you in soon anyway. We need to set up a Socio Trust for Dr Brown.’

‘Planning a baby, Dr Brown, a nice idea!’ said Aaron, taking stock of their new client. No, it couldn’t be!

‘Just as well you’ve got a big dog, Aaron, this kid just fits in the basket.’

‘Just as well he’s away at the vet, you mean. If Brutus came and sat on top of him he’d be squashed flat.’

‘Then he’d look more like pork schnitzel than stuffed piglet!’

Aaron glanced across at Dancer, trying to get some kind of signal as to what was expected of him. No help there. ‘A Trust? How much do you wish to start out with?’ he asked, hiding his consternation behind a forced business-like façade.

‘I’ll take your advice,’ replied Piggy, looking directly at Aaron, ‘but I imagine something in the region of five million dollars.’

Noting that Dancer seemed to take this figure in his stride, Aaron fought to keep the note of surprise out of his voice — and any sign of recognition off his face. ‘How many children are you planning the Trust to eventually provide for?’

‘Only one. I only intend to have one child. A single, perfect, child.’

Dancer felt himself flushing with anger. So that was it! Brown was playing him for a sucker, trying to take advantage of the past to manipulate him into an untenable situation. ‘If your intention is towards the kind of genetic engineering we’ve been discussing I must warn you that —’

‘It’s not like that! No.’ Piggy held up his hand, suddenly panic-stricken. ‘Please, it’s not like that. The child will be just the way nature intended it.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ replied Dancer, crossing to the sitting area and pouring himself a coffee so as to get away from Piggy and the potential problem he had become. ‘I thought you intended to break the law and wanted us as your accomplices.’

‘Well, not break it, Mr Tebrett, perhaps manipulate it a little. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m told you’re an encyclopaedia of Conjugal and Propagation Law and I want to go about things in an orderly, legal manner.’

The muscles in Dancer’s neck started to tighten again. Looking across at Aaron, he tried to decide whether his childhood accomplice had placed Piggy. Surely that face was unforgettable. But now he was less certain that Piggy got their old connection. If he had, this would be the time he’d put the boot in. Dancer waited for the punch line that he could see the extraordinary face considering carefully.

‘You see, I want to recreate myself, or rather myself as I should have been.’

Impatient to get the worst over with, the lawyer brusquely responded. ‘Please get to the point, Dr Brown, and in words a layman can fathom, if you will.’

‘The child I intend to raise will be the child of my parents, a new beginning, a chance for their genes to combine more successfully than at my conception and ultimately to be passed on to future generations, without creating another genetic mistake like me.’

In the stunned silence that his proposition engendered in the stylish office, the scientist nervously awaited the lawyer’s reaction, scared to prompt a response in case Tebrett’s answer put more obstacles in the way of creating the child he had grown to want so desperately.

Piggy’s mother, Noella, had been beautiful, so beautiful that every time the little boy looked up at her he felt like the beast in the fairy tale. Treasured photographs of the father who had committed suicide six months after his baby’s birth revealed an athletic build, a healthy crop of sandy hair, and candid eyes highlighting a friendly handsome face. Their genes should have produced a fine result; still could. Then Piggy would see what he should have looked like. Even more importantly, he would have someone to love who would love him back, someone to fill the awful emptiness. I suppose he does think I’m insane. Piggy watched the silent back Tebrett had turned to him.

Even Aaron’s ‘I’d better leave you to this’ and the sound of the door closing didn’t stir a response from Dancer, who was now gazing down at the busy harbour but seeing something altogether different … a lane, a red bike propped against a paling fence, and his mother, Daphne, waiting at the back gate and wearing a look that meant big trouble. Aaron knew that look too, and Dancer envisaged the little ten-year-old toad skidding his bicycle into a turn and tossing ‘See ya, Dancer’ over his shoulder. Confrontation was never Aaron’s style, Dancer reflected. He still preferred to retreat, then attack the enemy from behind.

Now Dancer could taste it, the apple’s skin, and feel the tears of humiliation and shame. His mother had tied him up with a clothesline, pushed the fruit between his teeth and locked him in the laundry. A few minutes later she came and removed the apple, but she left him there for what seemed like hours, ignoring his crying until he fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep. When she did come and get him his whole body was stiff and sore.

‘Still think you’re so funny?’ Daphne had asked.

‘No, Mum.’

‘How much worse do you think it would feel for a six-year-old?’

Then Dancer had felt the sickening realisation of true shame. Mostly, though, he remembered an only child’s terror at the thought of losing his mother’s love. He was sure Daphne truly loathed him at that moment. Determined never to experience

Reviews for The Gene Thieves

[jmyers24_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This debut novel by Maria Quinn was long-listed for the Ned Kelly Award. It's a solid near-futuristic science-fiction thriller set in Australia where marriage is considered archaic and surrogacy is a respected profession. There is a legal specialty built around arranging conjugal contracts and navigating the laws governing artificial procreation. The central character is attorney Peter "Dancer" Trebett who has built a legal empire arranging the often tricky legal contracts surrounding this specialty. His mother, in fact, pioneered the concept of surrogacy as a regulated career that ensures both the surrogate and the children will be provided for. When the world-renown scientist, Mitchell Brown , seeks Dancer's help with using his parents' sperm and eggs to create a genetic brother whom he will raise as his son, Dancer feels obligated by guilt from his childhood association with Marshall (nicknamed "Piggy") to help him negotiate the necessary legal permissions to proceed. But, Brown has made a scientific breakthrough that will earn billions for the big pharmaceutical companies who desperately want to get their hands on his research. On the other side, the United Nations Ethical Science Council (UNESC) wants Brown to turn his research over to them to ensure it will be used for the ultimate benefit for mankind and not to amass fortune and power. Thus, Brown's child that is being carried by a surrogate becomes leverage in the battle between UNESC and big pharma. When the child is kidnapped, Brown's only hope is to rely on the expertise of UNESC's expert troubleshooter, Jack Lee.The Gene Thieves is really an engaging read that you won't want to put down. The setting is interesting; the characters are well-developed and worth knowing; the plot is creative and fascinating. I purchased this book because it was long-listed for the Ned Kelly and was available in digital format. I was not disappointed. I'd really like to see Dancer and company in another novel.

[patty_jansen-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

The premise for this book is interesting. The plot is reasonably solid.However, right from the start, I found myself increasingly irritated with the unrealistic assumptions about the future and about the lives of those who work in science.Much as we complain about childbirth being painful, and children being expensive little buggers, the process of creating them is FREE. Never in the history of humanity has anyone had to worry about too few children born naturally. Children are born even if we don't want them to be.I totally get that high-class women, suffering a case of 'too posh to push' would outsource the act of breeding. But everyone? Nup, no way not on your nelly. It's FREE. You do the deed, you get pregnant. End of story. Now, it would have been really easy for the author to plug this gaping hole by throwing a disease into it. Suddenly, women *can't* fall pregnant naturally anymore.Anyway.While the background science is OK, it became increasingly clear to me that the author knew little about the lives of scientists. How does science get done? What sort of people do science? How do they live? That sort of stuff.In general:They don't smoke.They don't drive expensive cars (if they have wealth--through their spouse, because scientists get paid bugger-all--they don't flaunt it)They don't work alone.Sorry, but the mad scientist working alone in a secret lab in a basement is SUCH a bad cliche, and SO untrue to boot. Scientific results are achieved by large teams of people. Even if the scientist works mainly alone (which doesn't happen in research, but, OK, for the sake of the plot), he would have needed some assistants to do work. Major achievements are never made by lone people. Not realistically at least.While I would have been happy to swallow stuff like this for a book that was obviously set in a different time or place, this was a major turn-off for a book that is trying to portray a realistic future based on our lives today.As I said, the plot was quite fast, although there was some stuff that made me scratch my head as well. But... quick to read, and I suppose that's the only reason why I read all of it.