TravelingDreamer
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B6—Chapter 9: Mysteries of the Human Genome
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 14:22:17 +0000 UTCWe were just about to head out when I remembered the clutter in my Storage—specifically, the bots.
I glanced over at Mahya. “Where do you want me to put your new toys?”
She tilted her head and gestured for me to follow. “In my workshop.”
I took them out one by one and placed them near her work table. After the third one, she raised a hand, palm flat like a traffic cop. “That’s enough. Otherwise, I won’t have space to move.”
“What do you want me to do with the rest?”
She frowned and chewed her bottom lip. “Give me two more, and we’ll dispose of the rest. I don’t need that many, and taking them apart for melting will take ages.”
I took out two more and asked, “Will it be safe to leave my house open here for Rue?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
I stepped out of the house and collided with Al.
The room Mahya had rented was pitch black. Not just dark, but completely void of light. I’d never seen anything like it. There’s always some tiny light source: the glow from an appliance, a lone star peeking from behind a cloud, something. Here, there was nothing. Just a thick, oppressive black.
Mahya cast a light ball. “Shit.”
Al and I turned toward her.
She tugged at one of her braids. “I didn’t consider that the core would fry the power. My bad.”
“Will the door work?” Al asked, his tone clipped.
Mahya sighed, then shook her head slightly. “I have no idea.”
We got lucky—the door still worked. As soon as we stepped out, Mahya closed it behind us and gave it a shove. It didn’t budge. She tapped her ID against the sensor, and it unlocked. Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a long breath. “Good.”
A group of four men stepped out of a room farther down the hall. The way they looked at us set me on edge. They looked at Al and me like we were speed bumps and at Mahya like she was a juicy steak with all the fixings.
“Oh, goody!” Mahya said telepathically. “I hope they try something. I need to vent.” Somehow, her face remained neutral, but her telepathic voice sounded as if she were grinning from ear to ear. I had no idea how she even managed that.
Much to Mahya’s disappointment, they walked past us and left the hall.
“The marker is three floors down. Do you know how to get there?” I asked Mahya.
“More or less—but before that, there’s something I need to check.”
She turned without another word and led the way down the corridor and along the terrace. We followed her into a restaurant or café that looked like a square cave. The walls were made of rough-hewn stone, dark and uneven, still bearing the scars of the drills. Metal tables were bolted to the floor, surrounded by chairs that didn’t seem designed with comfort in mind. Every few meters, floating screens hovered in midair, displaying news, a sports event, or mostly commercials. The glow from the displays cast a flickering light over everything.
Mahya waved us to a table and headed to the counter. The man behind it was the palest I had seen so far—so pale he made me think of vampires—dressed in oversized, homespun clothes with an indecent amount of metal decorations hanging off them. It looked ridiculous and highly uncomfortable.
Ten minutes later, she returned with a narrow tray and three tall glasses filled with a murky, green liquid.
“What is this?” Al asked, squinting at his glass.
“What passes here for coffee,” Mahya said, shrugging.
We exchanged looks, then took cautious sips.
Mistake.
We winced simultaneously, three synchronized scowls. The stuff was sweet and sour, with a chemical aftertaste that lingered. My tongue prickled and went slightly numb—like I’d licked a battery to make sure it still had juice.
We set the cups down with a dull thunk. Some of the liquid sloshed out at the table.
Al scowled at it.
I gave him a pat on the back. “I’m with you on that one.”
In the center of the table sat a black square of glass. Mahya reached out and tapped it. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft blue glow across her fingers as a grid of icons appeared. She tapped one, scrolled, tapped again, scrolled, and tapped a third time with a bit more focus.
“He’ll see me soon. Good.” She took out a notebook and scribbled something in it.
Curious now, I leaned in and studied the display. Each icon had a different name beneath it, some obvious, others less so.
I tapped News. A video feed opened, with the image sharp and in high resolution. A newscaster spoke in rapid-fire, lips moving fast, but there was no sound. Behind her, the footage showed what appeared to be a protest. People waving signs shouted at bots while sleek black drones hovered above them like silent enforcers.
I squinted at the screen. “I can’t hear anything.”
“Yeah,” Mahya said. “All of them have in-ear implants.” She glanced over. “If it comes up, just say yours got ruined during the transfer here. Happens all the time. Say you're scheduled for a replacement.”
Next up was Jobs. I tapped the icon and scrolled through to see what kind of work people did here. The list was long: mining crews, tunnel maintenance, drone repair, data taggers, inventory sorters, sanitation, water flow monitors, and more of the same flavor. Every listing included a brief description, a pay rate of between 50 and 70 credits per day, and a “General Work” tag, accompanied by a green “Start Job” button.
Further down, the list shifted. These were tagged “Credentials Required,” and the job titles were more advanced: Orbital Drift Engineer, Microgravity Excavation Supervisor, Atmospheric Shield Systems Analyst, Neural Interface Rig Supervisor, Thermo-Optic Tunnel Architect …
I nudged Mahya’s foot under the table. “Hey, look at this—could be useful for your spaceship.”
She waved a hand dismissively without looking up. “Nah. They don’t even have FTL. I need someplace way more advanced.”
The advanced job listings didn’t include general descriptions of the work. Thinking about it, that made sense. If a job required a diploma, it probably didn’t need an explanation. The pay rates were much higher too, starting from a few thousand for something called a “poonk.”
I nudged her foot again. “What’s a poonk?”
“I have no idea.”
I leaned over slightly. “What are you writing there?”
“Questions to the broker,” she said without pausing.
I moved on to Entertainment. That had a lot of cool-sounding stuff. Full-immersion games, layered AR concerts, synced sensory experiences, and cooking shows with simulated aromas. One of the top videos was just a woman slicing fresh fruit—slowly. And when I say slowly, I mean s-l-o-w-l-y. Each slice took her nearly a full minute, her eyes locked on the fruit with the intensity of a surgeon mid-operation.
I stared at it. “People are way too into food here.”
“Processed crap will do that to a society,” Mahya muttered, still not looking up.
The last thing I checked was Transit. A full 3D map of the moon unfolded across the screen, detailed and layered. Tram lines, airlocks, cargo belts, and vertical elevators were all marked, allowing for real-time progress tracking. A blinking marker showed our current position.
“Hey, Mahya,” I said, pointing at the screen. “This shows the whole moon. You don’t need the information broker.”
“I know,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not going there just for that. I want to figure out how to get there—and to the other Gate—without getting into trouble or ending up running from bots.”
“Why would we get in trouble?”
She nudged my hand away from the display, swiped the screen to the floor with the Gate, and zoomed out with a quick pinch. Half the floor was circled in blue, with the Gate almost dead center.
“They know about the Gate?” I asked, frowning.
“Maybe?” she said. “I don’t know. That’s one of the things I want to ask.”
“Why didn’t you ask yesterday?”
“I saw it only after I left the broker.”
While we were talking, Al took over the display, tapping through various icons. It was like playing with an advanced iPad. When he selected one of the advanced cooking shows, a wave of scent rose from the table. It wasn’t precisely appetizing—my cooking was way better. The couple at the table next to us sniffed the air, curious, and glanced over at our display. But when they caught sight of Al’s unimpressed expression, they went back to minding their own business.
"Don’t be such a grouch,” I told him, nudging his arm with my elbow.
“I hate nosy people,” he muttered, eyes still on the display.
I laughed, leaning back in my seat. “As Travelers, I think we’re the nosiest. Kind of a double standard to complain about others, don’t you think?”
“No.” He flicked to another screen, barely glancing up. "I’m curious about the various worlds and their societies rather than individual people. Or not enough to stick my nose halfway to their table.”
“It wasn’t halfway. A third of the way, tops,” Mahya said, sipping from her glass and immediately scowling. “Ugh, for a minute, I forgot how awful this thing is.”
He ignored her and kept tapping, jaw tight, clearly done with the conversation.
One of the flying platforms we’d seen the day before drifted into the restaurant and came to a stop beside a table. The man sitting there picked up a metal box from it, stood, and walked out without a word.
“I wonder how those things work.” I mused aloud, watching it hover in place.
“Yeah, me too,” Mahya said, eyes following the platform. “I plan to snatch a couple the first chance I get. I suspect they run on magnetic fields and might help me figure out how the fliers work.”
“I found the library,” Al said.
We focused on the screen. A long list of books scrolled by in alphabetical order—Advanced Atmospheric Recycling, Applied Probability for Intra-Structure Transport, Basic Mining Rig Maintenance Protocols, Biological Adaptations to Artificial Gravity ... A few titles looked more hands-on, like Crash Course in Structural Welding and Field Repair for Civilian Cyborgs. Some even sounded interesting—Multi-Layer Shielding Theory, Quantum Drift Navigation, and a steady stream of other technical-sounding books. Mixed in were more unusual entries, such as Historical Recipes from Pre-Exodus and The Philosophy of Transit: Movement as Identity.
Each book had a price listed beside it. The technical ones started at 100 credits and went as high as a thousand, while the social-sounding ones—like The Philosophy of Transit: Movement as Identity—were free.
“The free ones are probably propaganda,” Mahya said, leaning in slightly.
“You think so?” I asked.
“Look at the names.”
She had a point. The titles did sound like it. Books like Purpose Through Obedience, Harmony in Labor: Finding Peace Through Assigned Roles, and The Gift of Utility: A Citizen’s Journey didn’t exactly sound like fun bedtime reading. Marduk’s Guiding Light: A Manual for Cooperative Living and Freedom Is a Shared Responsibility continued the list, all suspiciously free of charge. The more I read, the more it felt like someone was trying to sell people on a cage with soft walls.
“If it’s a library, how come the books cost money?” I asked.
“It is common,” Al said.
On second thought, he was right. At the library in Lumis, they’d asked me to pay, too.
“I need to go,” Mahya said. “Wait for me here.”
Al and I scrolled through the books, looking for something that both of us agreed was interesting. It was harder than I thought. He was interested in their chemistry and social books; I was more interested in medicine and history. We solved it by my moving to a different table.
Less than a minute after I moved, the proprietor came stomping over with a scowl. “To hold a table, you need to spend a minimum of ten credits.”
I blinked up at him, taken aback for a second, then gave a quick nod and followed him to the counter.
The counter had the same glass pad as the tables, but this one displayed a simplified menu—mostly snack-sized portions and drinks, all with vague names like Protein Bites (Type 3), Starch Cubes, Raf Substitute, and Tangy Nutrient Pouch. None of it looked promising.
I picked a few random items and paid, then carried the tray back to my table.
The smell wasn’t promising—it reminded me of plastic that had been left too long under a heat lamp, with a faint chemical edge. I tried the Raf Substitute first. Bitter. Sweet. Then bitter again, with a weird aftertaste that coated my tongue like an oily film. It clung stubbornly, leaving a sharp, synthetic tang that reminded me of cleaning fluid mixed with cough syrup.
Next were the Protein Bites. The outside had a weird, slightly rubbery texture, and the inside was that of overcooked tofu—spongy, dense, and a bit squeaky between my teeth. The flavor might’ve once dreamed of being meat, but it landed somewhere between cardboard and concentrated soup powder, with a chemical note that lingered in the back of my throat.
The Starch Cubes were slightly better at the beginning, if only because they didn’t taste like anything at all. Just dry, dense blocks that crumbled into a thick paste, expanding in my mouth like old-school protein bars. Then, they stuck to my teeth and gums, clinging like extra-persistent peanut butter. I chewed and swallowed repeatedly, trying to scrape the stuff off my tongue with sheer willpower. It was so bad, I even braved the pseudo-coffee to wash it down. I understood why they went crazy about fresh food.
I pushed back from the table and headed to the counter. When the guy approached, I cleared my throat and said, “Water, please.”
“What kind of water?”
“Just plain, regular water.”
He gave me the look every Traveler learns to recognize at some point in their journey. I’d first seen it back in Shimoor, my very first world.
I sighed—mentally, at least. Yes, buddy, I’m an alien. But that’s beside the point. Now where is my damn water?
He kept staring at me, clearly waiting for something. I glanced down at the display screen, hoping it would clarify things. It did. There were three listings for water: Recycled – 1 credit, Sourced – 3 credits, and Imported – 10 credits. Mahya said that was the price of a meal!
Yeah, recycled was definitely out. I tapped the screen. “The sourced water. Where is it sourced from?”
He looked at me, even more puzzled than before. His brows pinched together, and I could feel the confusion radiating off him.
“Uh... asteroids?” he said, like he wasn’t even sure himself.
That didn’t sound too promising. “And the imported water? Where is it imported from?”
He jerked his head back, blinking like I’d booped him on the nose. “From Marduk?”
That sounded better. And I always had my healing spells.
“Imported, please.”
He sold me a metallic bottle of water, still throwing confused glances my way every few seconds.
Back at my table, I sat down, reopened the library screen, and resumed scrolling. A few dull entries later, one title caught my eye: DNA Manipulation for Genetic Supremacy: A Practical Guide.
The subject had fascinated me ever since I’d studied molecular biology and genetics in med school. Back on Earth, I’d devoured every professional paper I could get my hands on—mostly from PubMed, Nature Genetics, and The New England Journal of Medicine. I continued to stay up to date, even after graduation, particularly with the rapid advancements in research on gene therapy and CRISPR technologies.
I tapped the book, and the same icon I used for currency appeared on the bottom right corner of the screen. I placed my screen on top of it, expecting some kind of transaction... but nothing happened. For a second, I thought the clash between tech and mana might be the issue. Then I reconsidered, tapped the currency icon on my screen, and touched it to the panel again.
Yep. That did it.
The book opened, and right away I was pulled in. There were diagrams of DNA strands and color-coded illustrations that reminded me of the ones from my old textbooks. At first glance, it looked exactly like the DNA I was familiar with—the same double helix, the same base pairs: adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine.
But the more I looked, the more I noticed the differences.
The people here were unmistakably human, down to the basic DNA structure, but there were slight shifts that stood out. Changes in gene expression patterns, slight differences in mitochondrial sequences, even a few unfamiliar protein-coding genes that didn’t appear in any human genome I’d ever studied. They weren’t dramatic, but they added up. A few had clear links to adaptations: more efficient oxygen usage, increased resistance to local allergens and microbes, and enhanced metabolic regulation tied to the native food sources. Nothing outside the bounds of normal human variation, but enough to remind me—this was a different world, with its own evolutionary pressures, however subtle.
Then came the second kind of difference. These weren’t natural at all.
Some strands showed subtle but deliberate structural modifications. One variation included an added ring on the DNA’s backbone—something the book referred to as pentafused ribose. According to the notes, it appeared in sequences tied to optimized physiological functions in high-performance situations, though the book didn’t detail the specifics. Another alteration featured a fifth base, labeled simply as X. It resembled guanine but was slightly larger and more flexible. This synthetic base had been inserted into precise segments of the genome to enhance long-term cellular stability, slowing the effects of aging, improving DNA repair efficiency, and reducing the accumulation of replication errors over time.
Further in, the book described unusual mutations found in people born and raised on the moons. Not minor changes—whole sections of DNA were different. Instead of small point mutations, they had large segments added in, mostly in areas that controlled lung efficiency, muscle recovery, and sensory coordination. One chart compared oxygen use between moon-born and planet-born workers. The difference was huge—moon-born individuals were nearly 30% more efficient.
The rest of the book broke things down by function. One part explained how different regions of the genome affected memory retention, bone density, or tolerance to low-pressure environments. There were also sections on how they edited these traits, using enzyme systems I vaguely recognized. They weren’t using CRISPR by name, but the method was close: targeted edits, with synthetic enzymes acting like molecular scissors and glue.
But the most fascinating part was how systematic it all was. This wasn’t random research. It was practical, tested, and applied. They weren’t just studying the genome—they were shaping it. Enhancing it. Not just to fight disease but to fine-tune people for life.
Instead of reading the entire book, I skimmed it, mainly looking at the diagrams to visually compare them with my knowledge from Earth. I read the captions beneath the pictures and the accompanying notes, and delved into a few chapters more deeply when something caught my attention. I had no idea how much time had passed—I was too engrossed. But it had been a while.
Mahya still wasn’t back.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. She’d written a long list of questions in her notebook and said she was going to the broker—those kinds of conversations could take time. I told myself that. Once. Twice.
But as the minutes dragged on, unease started to creep in. I kept glancing toward the corridor where she’d disappeared, then back at the book, trying to stay focused. It didn’t help.
Al seemed equally absorbed in whatever he was reading, jotting down notes and muttering under his breath now and then. But I noticed him lifting his head occasionally, eyes flicking in the same direction as mine. No words, just the silent acknowledgment of her absence.
At one point, we looked up at the same time. Our eyes met across the room, and in that brief moment, we both wore the same expression—tense, uncertain, and worried.
Time dragged by more slowly after that.
