Excerpt from The Mother Code by Carole Stivers, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Head down, he hurried past colorful displays filled with beautiful faces, all calling him by name. "James," they crooned, "have you tried our brave new ExoTea flavors? Queeze-Ease for those high-altitude jitters? The new Dormo In-Flight Iso-Helmet?" He hated the way these new phones broadcast his identity, but such was the price of connectivity in public spaces.

In line at the coffee stand, he refreshed his phone feed. He smiled at the sight of his mother's name.

The harvest is in. We are ready for the New Year. When will you arrive?

Swiping the phone's small screen with a long index finger, he located his airline reservation and tacked it onto a reply.

"See attached," he dictated. "Tell Dad not to worry about picking me up. I'll catch an autocab. Can't wait to see you."

He scrolled through his mail, filing his engagements in the online calendar:

- Faculty Luncheon. Jan. 8.

- Graduate Seminar, Dept. of Cell & Developmental Biology.

Topics due Jan. 15.

- Annual Conference on Genetic Engineering: New Frontiers,

New Regulations. Jan. 25.

James frowned. He didn't always attend the annual conference, but this year it would be in Atlanta, just a few blocks from his Emory laboratory. He'd been invited to talk about his work engineering genes within the human body, this time with the goal of curing cystic fibrosis in the unborn fetus. But these government-sponsored conferences tended to focus less on the science than on the policy-including the ever-shifting landscape of government control over the novel material that made his work possible.

Over a decade before, scientists at the University of Illinois had developed a type of nanoparticulate DNA called nucleic acid nanostructures-NANs, for short. Unlike native, linear DNA, these small spherical forms of synthetic DNA could easily penetrate a human cell membrane on their own. Once inside the cell, they could insert themselves into the host DNA to modify targeted genes. The possibilities seemed endless-cures not only for genetic abnormalities but also for a whole host of previously intractable cancers. From the moment that James, then a graduate student in cell biology at Berkeley, had first learned about NANs, he'd been bent on getting his hands on the material that might make his dreams a reality.

Genetic engineering of human embryos prior to implantation had become a mature science-carefully regulated, the tools well characterized and virtually free of the off-target effects so often encountered in the early days. Likewise, tests for diagnosing fetal defects later in development, after implantation in the womb, had been available for decades. But once a defect was detected, there was still no way to safely alter a fetus in the womb. James was convinced that by using NANs, faulty genes could be reengineered in utero. Gene-treatable diseases like cystic fibrosis could be eradicated.

But there were hurdles to overcome, both technical and political. This was a technology that might prove dangerous in the wrong hands; the University of Illinois had soon been forced to hand over all license to the federal government, and Fort Detrick, a Maryland facility northeast of D.C., held the bulk of it in strict confidence.

He missed California. He missed Berkeley. Every day, he had to remind himself that coming to Atlanta had been the right thing to do. The Center for Gene Therapy at Emory was the only public institution that had been allowed access to NANs.

In the waiting room, he slouched into a seat near the boarding gate. He'd once been a spry, athletic farm boy, the captain of his high school baseball team. But he'd let himself go-his straight spine curved forward from years of hovering over laboratory benches, his keen eyes weakened from staring into microscopes and computer screens. His mother would fret over his health, he knew, plying him with plates of spiced lentils and rice. He could taste them already.

Excerpted from The Mother Code by Carole Stivers. Copyright © 2020 by Carole Stivers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.