Kyle W. Davis is a genetic counselor who works in the Master of Genetic Counseling program at Vanderbilt University. He writes about genetics and has been published by Slate and the National Human Genome Research Institute's blog, as well as multiple peer-reviewed scientific journals. A longer bio appears at the end of this post.
This story will be published in three parts.
Eighteen Years Ago
I’ll do anything for him. Celeste paced in the softly lit clinic room and felt that statement’s truth about Chase—their future son. As a math professor, she relied on step-by-step proofs to establish truths. Yet she couldn’t explain this premonition. But like gravity to the ancients, she knew it to be true.
Colorful pictures of plump, beaming IVF babies decorated the clinic’s walls. The room was made for conversations, not operations. She watched Mason as he swiped through the colorful pages on the clinic’s tablet. She knew another thing: they would be getting a gene—some gene to improve things—no matter Mason’s opinion. Years ago, her sister had received an experimental gene therapy to cure a would-be fatal condition, and it worked. Thirty years later, gene transplants weren’t for only saving life, but improving it. A marketplace for the rich, famous, and talented sprung up to sell copies of their genes to hopeful parents wanting the best.
“This stuff is impossible to understand,” said Mason. “Except the price. They have a lot of options, just—”
She completed his thought: Nothing for an associate math professor and a junior real estate agent after IVF costs.
“We have to do it,” said Celeste. “This is what parents do for their kids. It’s the smart thing to do.”
“If I sell 38 Stratford.”
Celeste read the tablet over Mason’s shoulder. Each page featured a celebrity, a pithy bio, details about their special gene, and colorful cartoons of a looping and twisting protein, impossibly complicated and yet perfectly calibrated.
“What’s this one?” said Celeste.
“Actin. From that Serbian tennis pro. It’s twelve thousand.”
He scrolled past a clip of the lanky Serb whipping his racket around with speed and grace, the ball skipping past his winded opponent. Actin, it stated, was involved in muscle contraction and movement. The Serb’s reaction times were one-hundred-and-fifty-two percent faster than average due to rare genetic changes that improved muscle strength and quickness.
He tapped the screen, another gene. Something sensible: a blood group antigen for type AB blood, RH positive from a famous actor. Chase could be a universal recipient, and every blood transfusion would be acceptable. Eight thousand. Mason tapped on others: a Michelin-star chef with superior taste buds; a Grammy-winning pianist with long fingers.
There was a soft knock at the door and a man entered. He was clean-shaven with a soft, pudgy face and a crisp dark button-down. No white coat. His name tag said Winston and Genetic Counselor. They shook hands as he joined them at the small table and explained the basics: they could buy one gene copy to swap for their original genes in the organ or body system during the second trimester, ensuring the sperm or egg cells didn’t include the new gene. The gene copies were limited to the number in the brochure and the provenance was guaranteed. A certificate of authenticity would accompany their child’s birth certificate. They would get materials on disclose practices to their child.
“It’s all very impressive,” said Celeste, “but we were hoping for something—I don’t know—bigger?”
Winston sat back, furrowed his dark eyebrows. “Bigger?”
“How do we know what’s best?” she said.