Synthetic Biology

    He loves his children, as any parent should. Like a proud father, he examines his creations. He built them: nucleotide by nucleotide, molecule by molecule. They are his offspring, life born of his own hand. But now, they must learn to fly on their own.

    He dons the protective equipment: disposable gloves, masks and shoes. Passing through airlock after airlock, he follows every procedure, enduring each stage of decontamination until, finally, he stands inside his lab. Already his breath fogs the visor, despite the cold, filtered air rushing through the tube. But the hard part is done, now the fun begins.

    Carefully, he collects the vial from the biosynthesizer. Settling into the bio hood, he smiles. It’s time for the first stage: Paradise. Everything a baby virus needs to thrive: cells, nutrients and optimal temperatures. He gives his children all they could ever need. He lets them replicate, and in just a few days, one becomes billions.

    Next comes the Selection. Like before, they have all they could wish for. But he is not a benevolent god. He bathes them in low-grade radiation, a spark for mutations, a helpful push for evolution. It is random. His children die by the billions. But from among the countless duds, he picks out the gems: the ones who grew beyond his programming, acquiring new, unexpected abilities. Generations pass under his gaze.

    Then come the Trials. The first is simple: he raises the temperature. Fever is the body’s defense, meant to kill invaders, to kill his children. So he tests them. Not all survive, but from the chaos of Selection new challengers rise every day. Eventually, he finds the winners, the ones who adapt and evolve, who rise to the occasion.

    But the Trials are long and perilous. Broad-spectrum antivirals, DNA NET traps, swarms of angry lymphocytes, and everything else humanity could throw at them. He does not flinch, as they die and fail. He trusts the method, the procedures. Steadily, over months, the survivors emerge, virulent and hungry.

    But there is only so much you can simulate in plastic bottles and Petri dishes. The time comes for the Test, real living things. His heart races in excitement. Mice die by the thousands. Losers are culled. Winners rise: strains that wipe out entire colonies, undeterred by vaccines, drugs, or containment measures. All the while, they evolve beyond his wildest dreams.

    It’s almost done. The suffering is nearly over. Now comes Judgement. Deep within the rock of his spinning asteroid, his private zoo thrives: habitats filled with well-fed, healthy simians. But their paradise is over. In each enclosure, a single curious primate is infected. In less than a week, it’s over. One strain remains, his champion, raging unchecked among the simians that remain. Survival of the fittest, as it is in here, so it shall be outside.

    The time has come for the Final Test. He has only a dozen human prisoners, but it should be enough. There is little doubt now, just a confirmation. One by one they fall ill, they infect, and then they die. A spotless record. His child is a being of pure destruction, tuned to perfection. His chest swells with pride at its accomplishments, like a father at graduation.

    In deep space, far from any travel route in the solar system, a shuttle docks with his asteroid. His client, or his lackey. He doesn’t care, as long as the money and supplies keep flowing. His grand experiment must continue, his ultimate creation, a being the universe itself has never seen.

    He watches the visitor undock, stepping out alone into the airlock. He stuffs a syringe into his labcoat, just in case. It is time for the true test, the one he can’t hope to replicate inside his lab. With measured steps, careful not to shake it, he carries his latest creation.

    Hands trembling, he passes the transport case to the visitor.

    The visitor opens it.

    He steps back, heart suddenly pounding.

    “What are you doing?!” he asks.

    “What?” the visitor shrugs. “We’d have to open it sooner or later. Is this it?” he points to the ten tiny vials, packed in dry ice.

    “Yes,” he says, keeping his distance. “Tiny drops. Metros, spaceports, as I explained.”

    “Good,” the visitor replies, closing the case. “Payment’s been sent.”

    The visitor leaves. Another child goes out into the world. He can’t wait to see the glorious things it will accomplish. But there’s no time to waste. He returns to his grand project, his magnum opus.

    Days pass in a fevered dream, sleep forgotten. He can see it now, in his mind, the whole thing, every interlocking piece. A perfect being, a perfect parasite. Deadlier than any bacterium, more insidious than any virus, and more resilient than any fungus. It’s all of them, yet different. It is complete.

    He rushes to the lab, waiting by the biosynthesizer, counting down the seconds. He can’t remember ever being this excited. The perfect Paradise is ready, the entire lab reconfigured now to this purpose. With reverence, he cultures the samples, each drop carefully placed. Once finished, he loads them into the incubators, checking and re-checking the readings. Everything must be perfect.

    He staggers into the airlock, exhausted. He peels off the biosuit, sweaty and panting. Absent-mindedly, he checks for holes, as always. There is one. A tear, just below the index finger. He stares at it, uncomprehending.

    Then panic hits. He drenches himself in alcohol, strips off the gloves and douses his hands in concentrated hypochlorite. In a mad rush, he bathes himself in chemicals, the fumes stinging his eyes. He stumbles into the next chamber and slams the UV lights on.

    As he waits, clarity returns, just for a moment. It’s too late, no one can help him now, not even himself.

    But there is hope. His clients will come. When they find his body, they will carry his perfect creation.

    It will live on.

    He will live on.

    And Earth will finally be free.