The Genesis Genes

By Brian Spector

Professor David Touster, an ambitious young geneticist, believes that the DNA in every human cell is embedded with a "God code." His research aims to uncover these genes and show how they tempt each one of us to pursue a spiritual connection. Unexpectedly, Special Agent Boyd Easton interrupts Dr. Touster's a

• Language: English
• Publisher: BluSky Publishers
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218413378

Brian Spector

Dr. Brian Spector, MD, is a seasoned medical professional and a captivating storyteller. With a background in Biology from Vanderbilt University, a medical degree from the University of Florida College of Medicine, and a residency in Otolaryngology - Head and Neck Surgery at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, he has been practicing medicine in Orlando, Florida since 2001.As the Department Chairman for Otolaryngology - Head and Neck Surgery at the Advent Health Central Florida Division, Dr. Spector has garnered recognition for his excellence in healthcare, including the Advent Health Service Standards Values Awards.The Genesis Genes is Dr. Spector's debut novel, offering a scientific lens through which to explore the intersection of science and spirituality. Married and a proud father of three grown daughters, Dr. Spector's life embodies the harmonious blend of science, literature, and family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

FAITH

WINTER 2020

Though he’d never kidnapped a baby before, he was at peace.

Grounded by the forest floor, his spine rose like a vine. Vitality flowed through each upturned palm. Mind, emotion, and sensation, each an anchor of ego, faded with the breath.

Letting go led him to the core, to the dark place of no thing. In this little death he merged with the source of life.

And then came light. The waxing crescent moon, uncloaked by a drifting cloud. Its face, steadied by the ocean tides, urged him to arise. It was late December, 2020, the early morning hours of slumber. Time returned, ready to birth an ending.

The adjacent home, patterned in English ivy and translucent glass, appeared vibrant and awake.

Inside, Clayton and Stephanie Cotton surely remained in the midst of deep sleep, their brains generating slow delta waves. Should they stir from this relaxed state his features would seem dreamlike.

But he had no interest in meeting the parents; he wanted their creation, the quiet bundle lying within earshot. He would soon stand in that nursery and take Baby Boy Harry.

The mud room granted the closest entry, so he had disabled its door a day earlier. It would still be that way. The man of the house did not attend to such things.

He left the cover of the wooded backyard and followed a path of grass and stone toward the majestic two-story Richmond villa. Its tastefully lit walls felt more inviting than foreboding.

He moved mindfully, greeted inside by the success of an alarm system that failed. He measured seven steps across wood planks until he met the muted response of soft carpet. Peering ahead through protective slats, he eyed the gift.

He didn’t hesitate, he simply reached for ownership. And then he stopped. Even through leather gloves, he sensed the softness of the baby’s hair, the fragile armor of his little skull. His biceps fired and he felt the tender weight ascend into his arms. She was right; Harry remained quiet. She was always right.

The casement windows opened with a smooth glide that contradicted their age, as if they had been recently cleaned and treated. The pair dropped softly down into a hibernating garden. Protecting his swaddled prize, he paced again through the private forest. His boots, purposely two sizes too small, maneuvered across fallen leaves and rocks to limit the imprint of their tread.

Harry’s little mind remained adrift even as they hurried to the portion of the James River that defined the property’s edge. Securing the baby in his left arm, the kidnapper untied the inflated raft and launched them eastward with the current.

Two minutes downstream, Harry finally stirred, his brown eyes confused by the novelty. The river flung icy drops that forced tears and a broadcast of screams.

The small craft’s captain scanned for witnesses as he charted a more aggressive course to the opposing bank. And then, a screeching call. The kidnapper surveyed the horizon so quickly he nearly plunged them both into the water. A second scream came, louder and more precise; he dropped to his knees and located the source overhead. A peregrine falcon circled, each rotation a measure closer to Harry.

The river moved faster than on previous nights and threatened an overrun of his next target. Steering for the trees, he stabbed at an overhead limb, endured a slash to his forehead and pulled them both to the sloped embankment. As he sank his boots into the waiting mud his available hand pulled open the air nozzle, the deflating squeal harmonizing with Harry’s instinctive pleas.

A shrubbery trail separated them from level ground and by the top, Harry was quiet, alert, and grasping protectively at the stranger. The pace of the kidnapper’s breath slowed with the fading call of the falcon. He wiped blood from his brow, clicked the baby into the car seat, and opened the driver side door. The grip of the synthetic leather steering wheel made him think of home. As he started off in his three-year-old Toyota Prius, he knew they were going to make it there together.

* * *

At 6:38 a.m. Thursday morning, Apollo leapt from floor to bed and all but asked to be let out. Clayton groaned at the intrusion and flipped sides. Stephanie pried open an eye and smiled, conceding that her sleep was done.

Hello, my little Sun God, Stephanie gushed as she arced into a seated position. She pulled her blonde hair back in a pony and freed her hands for affection. Then, after exchanging rubs for licks, the back door opened and the golden retriever began his beloved trek to the river.

She pursued her kitchen rituals with the energy of a young mother, took three strong sips of coffee, and entered Harry’s room. Her blue eyes approached the cherry wood crib like an aircraft ready to expose the awe of the Grand Canyon. What greeted her, however, was not the breathtaking view she had come to love. The absence stopped her heart. Her mind locked, her mouth opened, and the room filled with a piercing shriek.

For Clayton, there would be no hitting snooze. The tone, volume, and intensity carried a demand.

What? What? Stephanie, he yelled as he was swept from the drift of sleep into the currents of terror.

He found Stephanie sitting in surrender position, crumpled on the floor, no longer able to speak but not at all silent. He surveyed the contents of the crib: a fitted sheet, a new lovey, a forgotten binky, but no baby.

Disbelief led to questioning. Did you put him down in our room? Clayton asked in desperation.

No, no! Of course not, she managed.

Did you put him in the guest quarters?

Clayton ignored the rebuttal and ran the entire house, up the stairs, back down and around one more time. Call the police, he screamed as he made it outside. Dumb dog! he yelled as he reached the river. You’re supposed to hear things! What happened, Apollo, where is he, who took him?

By 7:15 a.m., there was a bang at the door. Police, is this the Cotton residence?

Officer Kelly was whisked inside. Our baby’s missing. I think he’s been stolen! He’s not in his crib. We can’t find him anywhere.

Are you Mr. Cotton?

Yes, yes, of course! he said with fierce anger. It seemed he had lost more than his second-born son; it seemed that he had lost everything.

Please remain calm, sir. I know this is extremely difficult but you must try to tell me what’s happened.

The scene played out with an enraged Clayton Cotton in the living room asking more questions than he answered. Meanwhile, Stephanie was locked in an elliptical orbit of the home’s interior, channeling her adrenaline into motion, leaving her husband to speak the unspeakable.

The usual search ensued. Frightened neighbors witnessed a house under quarantine.

Was there a murder? a landscaper asked from the end of the driveway. His question landed on the equally ignorant. The men and women of the Richmond Police Department, those who could answer, tuned out his frequency. The police explored all 5,800 square feet of living space, an acre of grass, and an acre of woods until they made it to the property’s borders. They meticulously scanned the residential streets and an entire stretch of river. Each inch of carpet, wood, pine, and water revealed the same thing: nothing. This mystery, Lead Detective Boyd Easton told them, was sure to stir fear and widespread interest.

The twenty-four-hour news trucks descended, proving the rumors to be reality. A nine-month-old baby boy had been plucked from the home of Clayton M. Cotton, CEO of Cotton Computing, a major semiconductor firm. His company had started with an established formula: Combine crystallized silicon with impurities such as phosphorous and boron, and you have created a highway for electrons. String these diamond-like crystals up by the millions on a minute chip and you have made a microprocessor. Clayton Cotton planned to further his name atop a budding industry, that of the nanoprocessor. In a space 60,000 times smaller than the diameter of a human hair, his chips would someday orchestrate a symphony of ones and zeros that would attract the ear of the entire world. His plans for nanotechnology had overwhelming implications in the fields of manufacturing, communication, and biotechnology.

Mr. Cotton had conquered enough scientific barriers at a young age to be labeled a prodigy. Now, in the haze of morning, he felt slow. His own blood had been hunted and captured, the baby’s location and condition complete unknowns. Money, he figured, would be his salvation.

Finally, he approached Stephanie—the first time they were alone in hours. His words began timidly, not knowing how to awaken another’s mind from devastation.

We will find him.

Her energy spent, she sat in a nearly catatonic state, not speaking, not moving. He watched her there on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her shins, her knees compressed to her chest.

Steph! Clayton said, unable to hide his irritation any longer. What are you doing? Get up, help me, help Harry for Christ’s sake! You’re not gonna find him from the floor!

Still, she did not respond and so he spoke as if to himself: We lure him with ransom. The police catch him. He burns in hell!

* * *

From his retreat in Idaho, the kidnapper turned on the television. In time, he shook his head at the dramatic reporter who spoke in front of the Cotton’s broken home.

They have no idea, he mumbled to himself. Wait’ll I take more.

The tone of coverage forced him to smirk and holler toward the bathroom, Honey, come watch.

Not now, sweets, I’m washing the baby, his wife said from the tub.

It’s happening again, he noted.

What’s that, dear? Her question rose above the running water.

Well, you know how tornado survivors thank God for saving them while their neighbors lay dead in a pile of rubble?

There was no answer, but he continued as if she’d heard.

Well, they’re interviewing a neighbor and all he can do is praise the Almighty for sparing his children...I mean, I get the idea, but doesn’t that make God seem a bit choosy with his blessings?

In the next room his wife finished drying the hair of her freshly bathed prince. She admired his glow and thought to herself how truly blessed she felt, how her life had just furthered its purpose. Beyond this indulgence of self, however, lay a much deeper and important reality. As if on a continuous mental loop, she kept thinking about how much good this little boy would someday bring to the planet.

CHAPTER 2

JUPITER

FALL 2035

If you’ve got the genes to face me and talk DNA, raise your hand. But remember, the professor warned from the base of the amphitheater, over a hundred and fifty of your peers will be watching you, more specifically, judging you, quietly, quickly, and with absolutely no filter.

Dr. David Touster, Ph.D., repositioned a blonde curl and stepped toward the sea of nascent scholars. And if that’s not enough pressure, he added while raising a brown elbow patch to the audience, I can guarantee you that at least three of those judges are exactly your type! Now, if like me, you’re too intensely involved with science to need romance, you’re good. But, if you’re planning to spread your scent today, well, you’d better be ready to compete.

He let the laughter fill the hall and spent the interlude scratching several days of stubble. Indeed, while you’re down here talking nitrogenous bases and sugar phosphate backbones, your peeps are gonna be silently searching your shoulders, your jawline, and mathing out every other curve and angle you’ve got. If your voice squeaks while explaining hydrogen bonds, man, that perfect ten will demote you to an incompetent zero. And please, don’t fake swag, millions of years of evolution have hard wired the Homo sapiens brain to spot fake swag.

I’ve got it, sir, a stocky Samoan boy hollered from one of the middle rows, been tested and everything, homozygous for major swag.

Clearly, the professor replied, a pure breed. He then turned his own 5’11 lean frame to his audience and flashed a broad grin. Welcome everyone. My name is David Touster. I’m a behavioral geneticist by trade and this semester I will serve as your host for Introduction to Genetics. The day you circled has finally arrived, August 23, 2035, and that means, for most of you, your Vanderbilt University experience is just taking flight. He paused and looked to the ceiling. Now, this is gonna be so much fun that I need to make it a little terrifying. So get ready to face a fundamental human fear — public speaking."

He turned away to let his challenge sink deeper into the collective psyche of his audience. They were all eager, each a winner of a lottery system that granted enrollment into the most coveted freshman class on campus. By the age of thirty-two, Dr. Touster had gained substantial academic stature through a series of thoughtful and ground breaking journal publications. His doctoral thesis provided an accurate way to match an individual’s DNA makeup to their personality type and his next offering predicted susceptibilities to fear and anger.

Over the prior three years, however, his work took a turn toward controversy and placed his natural charisma before an intrigued international audience. His youthful looks attracted clicks on articles and interviews that revealed his argument that science and religion were intricately related in ways not previously accepted. He went viral.

In English, French, and German, he could explain the DNA model for building a brain that subconsciously drove its owner to engage in mythology, organize codes of behavior, grasp at meaningful symbols, and seek out predictable rituals in order to experience the mystery of transcendence.

His work opened a new conversation about the role of spirituality in human history and culminated in a book that suggested that the DNA scripts the notion of a divine maker into every human. The evidence-based offering garnered praise from those who read its content and anger from readers who had stopped at the title.

Finally, the school year arrived. Everyone wondered who would have the guts to speak directly with the newly famous author of New York Times best seller, The Genetics of God.

The professor surveyed the sparse show of hands. Ah, I think we’ve found our sacrificial lamb, he announced. You, in the back row, please come down here, kind sir.

The new focal point was an eighteen-year-old with jet- black hair and tan skin. His blue eyes barely widened as he rose and exposed his tall and sinewy body. The hall echoed with rotating chairs, their occupants analyzing every move of the volunteer.

’Courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to face it,’ Dr. Touster announced as he took in the young man’s measured pace. A lovely quote from World War II Air Force lieutenant John B. Putnam, Jr.

The two shook hands as the professor introduced the proceedings. Welcome to my Thursday Morning Think Tank. Each week I’ll select a volunteer to join me under the bright lights and review an important topic in genetics. I expect preparation and I like composure. If you faint, that’s fine. We’ll place a cold cloth on your head and wait for you to wake up. Meantime, the rest of us will review the science behind the vasovagal response. Now please, he motioned to his guest, be seated.

Two commodious leather chairs and a rustic coffee table awaited the professor and the student. Behind them were three mahogany book shelves, each mounted on a metal frame with rollers. A twenty-two-year-old TA approached from the side of the room with glasses of lemon water. The setup was odd for a classroom. It looked more like an intimate 1950s talk show, down to having an illuminated applause sign and a vintage silver microphone. The room dimmed as stage hands lit the scene in an amber glow.

Young geneticists, the professor announced formally, help me welcome our esteemed guest from the back row.

The crowd responded to the prompt with a vigorous and brief burst of applause. Now, Dr. Touster began, it is customary on my show to begin from the beginning. Please tell us a little about your genetics.

Sir?

Your parents, your family, the ones responsible for you.

His guest portrayed calm, smiling without a show of teeth. My mom’s back home in Sante Fe, New Mexico, he announced in an ultra relaxed cadence. She’s American Indian, Apache descent. My dad, he died when I was little, a normal white guy from out West. Protestant, I think.

I’m sorry about your dad. Tell us though, where did you finish up your embryonic months?

Where was I born?

Same thing.

New Mexico. Same place. Sante Fe.

Beautiful scenery and due west from Nashville. Did they give you a name, these parents of yours?

Yes sir, Kirby. Kirby Bloom.

I like it, Dr. Touster said, strong and fruitful. Now, Kirby, tell me something: what’s your creation story?

Kirby waited a moment, unsure if the question was straight or a riddle. Are you asking about my parents or my religion?

Bigger than your parents, Kirby, I mean look at this planet, the blue water filled with fish, the trees with all the critters, birds flying about eating worms that wanna dig into the dirt. I didn’t even mention fungi and protozoa, the professor replied, and now us, humans. It’s amazing right? There must be a common thread. I mean, what do you think explains all this life?

Without allowing time for an answer, Dr. Touster rose from his seat and walked to the book shelves, grabbing six ample sized texts before returning. The Torah, he announced and placed the hard copy down between them. The Holy Bible, the Koran, he added, layering each beside the other in succession. The verses of Tao Te Ching, the Hindu texts, the word of Buddha, he said while completing the formidable alignment. One of these surely answers creation for you, yes? Am I wrong?

Kirby surveyed his options and then turned his head to look behind him. I’ll just be a second, he said swiftly and walked away to review the remaining choices. Seemingly unburdened by time, his index finger tapped the spines of some of the dusty tomes. Finally he stopped and grabbed his book. He then took a several step detour and used his free hand to hook an eighteen-inch model of a DNA molecule.

"On the Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin, he proudly announced and then placed his selection in front of the others. He then turned to offer the twisted helical ladder to his professor. This is my maker, sir."

Ah! Dr. Touster accepted it as a gift, holding it like an idol in front of his audience. So this is the main character in our story. My multicultural friends, in genetics we do not read from the narrative of the supernatural. What I hold in front of you can be explained without magic and understood without the uncertainty of faith. Behold the undeniable source of your creation, behold the Deoxyribonucleic Acid molecule!

The applause sign flickered back on but this time drew an uneven mix, many enthusiastic claps with some notable abstentions.

Yes, Dr. Touster said, I understand the hesitation from those who explain creation through religion, but this is a science class and the burden of proof falls to those who have not yet proven their truth. Now, Kirby, what kind of man are you?

Sir?

How would your mama describe you?

Oh, she’d use better words than I deserve.

Let me hear one of those words.

Fearless.

Quite a word, Dr. Touster said. Why fearless?

I don’t really get scared. I’m a climber.

You climb trees?

When I was a kid, yeah. Now I favor big walls, long ascents up sheer mountain faces, that kind of thing.

Oh, you’re a rock climber. You rope up on weekends with your buddies. Gosh, that is nuts. I see what your mom is saying.

No, sir, Kirby said, his deep voice gaining in passion, I mean no ropes and no buddies. I free solo, take on steep and deep routes without anything but chalk on my hands and climbing shoes on my feet.

Do you climb naked? an excitable co-ed hollered from the far corner.

Uh, intense, but not my thing, Kirby admitted.

Were your parents sensation seekers too? Dr. Touster asked.

My mom’s pretty chill. My dad, yeah, I bet he was. Heard he was a good athlete, did some crazy stuff back in the day.

Well, Dr. Touster explained, there are dozens of genes known to correlate with risk taking, not surprisingly some of which determine how and where the brain slurps up dopamine, the neurotransmitter often associated with pleasure and reward.

Are you analyzing my genes, Professor?

Have been since the moment you raised your hand. Can’t help myself. What have you learned from climbing?

Kirby leaned forward in his chair to think. Can I take off my shoes? Permission implied, he tucked his toes under himself and resumed the interview in a modified lotus position. I got a visit from Death. Lucky he didn’t finish the job but he definitely taught me a thing or two.

This doesn’t sound good.

When I was sixteen, my climbing coach, Freak, we called him because, well, you’d have to know him, he finally let me try this epic route. It was three hundred feet up and flush with hazards. We used ropes back then and halfway along, my head bumped into an overhang of granite wall. There’s a way to get around that and keep moving up, only, I got super careless, missed my grip, and trashed my finger. This, he said, holding up a distorted right pinky, got caught in a crack and took the entire weight of my body before I dropped. Saw bone and everything, super gnarly. Still, could’ve been worse.

A round of gasps filled the auditorium as he held up the evidence.

Whoa, Dr. Touster said, and what did you take from that?

Just that if I lose my mind up there I’ll lose my life. My gear saved me, I didn’t like that. Gotta control my insides to manage my outsides, and I have. Since then I gave up the ropes, except of course when I train. Otherwise, I climb focused and fast.

You’re pretty good then?

I guess, I’ve won some things, but I don’t like those competitions. Coach makes me do ‘em.

Why not use ropes, Kirby? Nothing wrong with having a little support.

Support comes from within, Kirby said with a smile. Maybe I am a little nuts like you say, but I didn’t like relying on those things. Still don’t.

Dr. Touster elected to hold back the next question, choosing instead to ride the analytical silence in the room and let it float his guest’s rising stature. He watched the boys shuffle in their chairs and the way the girls lasered in on Kirby, admiring his wit and peculiar wisdom.

Kirby’s mouth twisted. That night I promised myself I was done losing focus when things really mattered. I didn’t see a foothold, you know. I hoped for it, I believed because I needed it to be there. But reality took the shape of smooth, weathered rock—indifferent just like gravity. The right move is to look, wait, get my hand grip right, turn my foot in a little. When you free-solo climb, every move asks a new question. With so much demand for the right answer, I ask, what good is faith? You have to be certain based upon experience and real data. That’s why I like science, sir. Nuts, right?

With this, the professor turned to the classroom. What about you out there? Would any of you be willing to examine questions so thoroughly that you would bet your life on the answer?

There were no responses.

They say you’re definitely nuts, the professor concluded.

Yeah, they’re probably right, Dr. Touster, he said with a steady nod and returning smile. But, hey, if anyone else wants to try, grab me after class. I’d love to take any of you out some time...and no worries, we’ll use ropes!

Only if you promise to catch me when I fall, cried out the same female voice. Her peers responded with a chorus of hoots and whistles.

Okay, Kirby, Dr. Touster said, back to the DNA we both revere, let’s give that thing its due. With this he turned to his audience. In each of you, in every cell in your body, you possess a set of ancient blueprints. They are not promised immortality, yet have continued on in some form for billions of years, a living remnant of your ancestors, and not just the human ones. They collectively incubated through a myriad of species, journeyed to you from foreign lands surviving nearly insurmountable odds. Amazingly, they are written in a language deciphered only three short decades ago. In this auditorium you now share you will discover the secrets in its possession, and, as such, you will learn the story of life.

The professor leaned slightly forward in his leather chair and continued, Kirby, both of your parents passed to you a copy of their genetic material, this very thing that had been weathered and shaped by time: their precious DNA. How exactly did that go down?

Um, Kirby said, a boy doesn’t like to think about his parents that way, sir.

Hah, Dr. Touster laughed, no, how did they make you, biologically speaking?

If I must, sir, Kirby answered. Dad’s sperm brought me twenty-three chromosomes and so did Mom’s egg, so I got forty-six total out of the deal. And each chromosome is sorta like a suitcase that carries the DNA that packages my genes. My Y chromosome is small, carrying only two hundred genes while my chromosome 1 is pretty big. It holds, like, three thousand genes. All those different genes code for the proteins that built every part of my body and sustain my life right now.

Very nice, Dr. Touster said, and I’m sure you know that every nucleated cell from the hair follicles on your head to the nail beds on your toes carries the same matching set of DNA, all forty-six chromosomes.

Yes, sir.

And where in the cell does the DNA live?

It’s always in the nucleus, the central vault of the cell, away from all the working machinery that is stored in the other part, the cytoplasm. It’s amazing how our cells work and make things, like an assembly line.

And who first described the basic form and function of DNA?

James Watson and Francis Crick, sir, in the 1950s. They didn’t know everything, but they understood that DNA was the basic unit of heredity, the way we passed stuff along to our pups.

Correct again. You’ve clearly done your pre-class reading, Kirby. And since then the understanding of DNA has exploded, culminating in 2003 with the publication of the international Human Genome Project.

Yes, sir, Kirby said, for the first time the entire genome, every component part of the full DNA code, was mapped out. It set the stage for understanding what the entire tangled web of genes and non-gene sections did to make us and keep us going.

Precisely, his professor agreed, and well put. This amazing molecule, a ladder of component parts curled like a spiral staircase, sets off from a single cell to form a new human. At birth we are each full of potential but helpless to survive on our own. Knowing this, our DNA made sure to manufacture large, adorable eyes that our parents could not resist, a smile that they’d yearn to see again and again. The DNA programmed our search for milk and our grip to Mom. Folks, you are each a masterpiece of your DNA’s making, and, in this class, you will learn all about the chemicals in the paint and the texture of the canvas, as it were.

I love it, Kirby said, I love genetics, sir.

Well then, Mr. Bloom, will you do me a favor? the professor asked.

Of course I will, he replied.

I want you to scan the audience, your fellow students. And I want you to pick out one guy who looks like a total weenie, some dude you are certain you could take down in a fight.

Kirby paused to replay the request for certainty. I...I can’t really see anyone, sir. I mean, it’s too dark.

Spotlight please, Dr. Touster requested. His request was quickly implemented as his TA handed him a 35 Watt handheld spotlight. The professor fixed the settings and handed it to Kirby. Here you go. Find me a wimpy kid.

Sir, I don’t really want to do that.

Why not?

"I just don’t. I’m sure you have