Lyn jumped off the bus a stop early and ran into the Tesco on Chase Side to pick up the new edition of New Scientist. At Southgate station she conceded a seat to a stone-faced commuter who refused to make eye contact and resigned herself to standing all the way to Kings Cross. No - all the way to Old Street. There was no chance of getting a seat at Kings Cross.

They had used her favourite of the proposed headlines for the interview, 'Open Source Your DNA - How 'Know Thyself' is taking on new frontiers'. It was much better than some of the alternatives she had noticed scribbled in a notebook during a break for coffee. One of the options, 'DNA Rights Management' made it sound like the article was about a music label, not one of the UK's pioneering biotech firm.

But where Lyn had expected to read a glowing exposé on the work she was doing, the article had instead focused on the risks and potential negative consequences of her research. She muttered the words out loud as she read, as if giving them life would somehow remove their power.

"Speaking anonymously, a senior researcher at the NIHR Oxford Biomedical Research Centre questioned the wisdom of Miss Asmera's decision to commit to open sourcing all results from the trials her firm conducts. 'Our concern is that by releasing all her work into the public domain she will destroy the commercial incentives which drive investment in the biotech sector, putting jobs at risk and jeopardising Britain's lead in the area of DNA and fertility research.'

Some of the country's top universities have echoed these concerns, including University College London, an institution who had, until recently, provided the young start-up their full cooperation and significant financial support."

"And that's why we need to secure a new round of funding, you bastards," Lyn hissed into the magazine.

She slapped the magazine shut with as much fury as she could express in a packed carriage, and then realised too late that her train was pulling away from her stop at King's Cross. She groaned inwardly and vented her frustration with the journey and the article by rolling up and strangling the defenceless magazine in her hands.

After changing trains and waiting impatiently through two typically unexplained delays on the Northern Line Lyn emerged at Old Street station. She walked south along City Road before turning into Leonard Street. She paused at Pret to pick up her usual coffee for herself and her assistant, threw away her copy of New Scientist in silent, pointless protest, and walked up the steps to the building where Zoi Technologies leased the third floor.

Zoi Tech shared the building with an investment research company and a handful of other tech startups. Perfect synergy she was told when she signed the lease on behalf of her firm, but the relentless increase in demand for office space in the area, particularly from tech companies, was forcing rents up, and with no significant income stream Lyn was worried that soon her little company would start to feel the squeeze on their already tight budget.

Lyn balanced one cup on the other and fished her access card from her pocket. She waved it at the automatic turnstile before tugging the lanyard around her neck. A handful of people were already gathered around the elevator. Anyone not staring at their phone was staring at the changing numbers above the elevator door, as if enough willpower could bring it sooner. Investment analysts exchanged wan smiles with coders as they waited.

"Three, please," she said to answer the unspoken question of the man hovering his fingers over the buttons once they were inside.

The elevator and stopped, rose and stopped and moments later the doors parted for a third time, and Lyn stepped into the lobby of her company.

A curved desk of frosted glass greeted her, and she was pleased to see the receptionist, Iain, the only man she knew who wore a waistcoat, was looking as smart as ever. The grey outline of a world map filled the wall behind him and overlaid in a stark black type was a series of repeating letters. GACC GTCC GTTA ATTT CCCT TGCA TATA CAGC TTGC. Here and there groups of four letters were highlighted in a bold, bright red. It was odd to come in to work every day and see a tiny part of yourself waiting for you.

"Good morning, Lyn," Iain said warmly.

"Morning, Iain. Alice here yet?"

"She's in your office."

"Thank you."

Still holding a coffee in each hand Lyn had to dance and twist by the next door until the access card hanging around her neck swung close enough to the door sensor for the embedded RFID chip to trigger the lock. When she heard the click of the lock releasing she backed into the door to open it, and ignored the amused look on Iain's face.