Chapter 316: Vaccine Development·The Controversy Over Gene Editing

At three in the afternoon, the printer's green light in the church hut was still flashing, and Zhao Jianguo had already taken a seat at the far end of the hearing chamber.

This place can't compare to the mud‑wall huts of Africa; the four white walls are gleaming, the overhead fluorescent tubes hum, and the long table is polished enough to reflect a silhouette. He sat toward the back, his arms resting on the chair back, his trousers still dusted from sweeping the courtyard that morning. In front of him sat a row of people in Mao suits, brows furrowed tight as if someone owed them five jin of grain coupons.

Jia Dongxu stood beside the projection screen, tablet in hand, speaking neither too loud nor too soft: "The vaccine efficacy is 92.3%; animal trials are complete, and phase‑one human trials are done. The technical route relies on gene editing—specifically, using a viral carrier to deliver the repair sequence into the cell nucleus, activating immune memory."

He finished, tapped the screen, and a data chart popped up. A few people exchanged glances; an old man with glasses took off his spectacles and drawled, "Comrade Jia Xiao, I have one question—does your 'gene editing' amount to tampering with the very foundation of a person? The bloodline handed down from our ancestors—you say change it, just change it—is that appropriate?"

No one responded. The air‑conditioner blew cold air, and Zhao Jianguo picked at the peeling corner of the table.

Another committee member flipped through the documents, looked up, and asked, "If this technology is released, could we later pick babies' height, weight, build—keep the smart ones, discard the dull? Wouldn't that turn us into manufactured people? Would we still be naturally grown Chinese?"

Jia Dongxu was about to reply when someone up front interjected, "I think we should pause this kind of research until an ethical framework is in place. Science must not outrun morality."

As soon as those words were spoken, Zhao Jianguo pulled his hands back from the chair back and sat upright.

He didn't rush to speak, first scanning the room. The attendees were men and women, all in their fifties or older—some sipping tea from enamel cups, others taking notes in notebooks, radiating an 'I'm in charge' aura. Suddenly he recalled a dream from the night before: he saw himself posting a notice at the gate of the Siheyuan that read, 'Today's sign‑in reward: antiviral serum,' only to be chased and beaten by an old man with a broom who shouted, 'You're messing with feudal superstition!'

Reality was even more absurd than the dream.

He stood up, walked to the middle of the conference table, and pressed both hands down on it.

"You just said science shouldn't run ahead of morality?" he looked at the committee member who had made the suggestion, "Then let me ask you this: three years ago, when the locust plague struck, grain output dropped forty percent—how many children ended up swollen from hunger? Back then nobody said 'don't use fertilizer,' nor did anyone insist that crops must grow naturally. So why, when it comes to life‑saving technology, do you suddenly start talking about nature?"

The room fell silent for a moment.

"The food crisis in Chapter 313," Zhao Jianguo continued, his voice low but each word striking like a nail, "if we hadn't trial‑planted the pest‑resistant rice, just our three northern provinces would have seen tens of thousands starve to death. Where did that rice come from? It's genetically modified! The rice in your bowl has long ceased to be 'natural.' Today children can attend school and grow up thanks to precisely those 'shouldn't‑be‑used' technologies."

He paused, glanced around, and said, "There's a new virus spreading fast, with high mortality and a mutation rate faster than rabbits breeding. Traditional vaccines haven't even started, yet it's already changed its guise three times. If we don't take the gene route, what will we chase it with? Shout 'please protect yourselves'? Wait for scientists to slowly slog for ten years? By then the grass on the graves will be two meters tall."

A female committee member tried to interject, opening her mouth.

Zhao Jianguo cut her off directly: "Whether you want to say it 'violates the heavenly way' or 'goes against heaven,' I won't argue. I just ask—if your grandson came down with fever and convulsions, and the doctor said only this shot could save him, but it uses gene technology, would you take it? If you refuse, that's your family's business; but if you block others from taking it, you're cutting off people's paths to life."

As he shouted those last words, even he himself staggered a bit.

His hand still slapped the table, his palm going numb. No one in the room moved—not even the sound of turning a page. Jia Dongxu stood there, mouth slightly open, as if seeing this person for the first time.

Zhao Jianguo caught his breath, his gaze falling on the white‑haired elder presiding over the meeting: "You've chaired seven vaccine reviews, and I know you worry for the common folk. But concern isn't about blocking the road—it's about finding ways to let people live better. If we're really talking ethics, what's the greatest ethic? It's to stay alive! Once people are gone, what's the point of discussing rules, nature, or tradition?"

The old man opened his mouth but said nothing.

Zhao Jianguo withdrew his hand; his joints ached slightly. He lowered his eyes to his own palm, then lifted his gaze to the crowd.

"I don't grasp all those grand principles, but I know one thing—if we don't modify genes, humanity will perish. You can hold meetings, argue, write reports to send upward, but don't stand here blocking the way. Time waits for no one."

Having said that, he didn't sit down; he remained where he stood, hands braced on the table, his chest rising and falling.

Sunlight slanted in through the window, stretching his shadow long across the floor like a crack.

The meeting room remained silent. Some lowered their heads to read the documents, some fiddled with the teacup lid, others furtively glanced at their watches. Jia Dongxu clung to the tablet, standing ramrod straight, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was about to speak when Zhao Jianguo suddenly turned his head and glanced at him.

That glance held no expression—it was just a look.

Jia Dongxu swallowed his words back down.

The elder in the chief seat finally moved, picked up his pen, wrote a few characters in his notebook, crossed them out, and wrote again. Someone nearby muttered softly, earned a glare from the person next to them, and shut up.

The air‑conditioner kept blowing, the breeze on the face a little chilly.

Zhao Jianguo stood still, eyes fixed on that row of people, as if waiting for someone to jump out and launch into a discourse on the 'Way of Heaven and Earth.'

But nobody spoke.

Someone coughed once, a dry, rasping sound that stood out sharply in the quiet room.

Jia Dongxu lowered his eyes to the tablet; the vaccine structure diagram still filled the screen, and the lower‑right corner showed the system prompt: "Gene‑editing fragment ×1 issued." He didn't open it, merely set the screen down on the table with a soft click.

Zhao Jianguo's finger tapped once on the tabletop, the beat slow, as if counting seconds.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside—approaching, then fading away. A sliver of light seeped through the gap beneath the door, falling on the floor seam where a little dust had gathered, trembling faintly in the draft.

Zhao Jianguo blinked, his Adam's apple shifting slightly.

He said nothing, did not sit down, and simply remained standing, hands still braced on the table's edge, back ramrod straight.