by Kathryn Hoff
Each of us carries many millions of phages in our bodies. The process of identifying which ones may be helpful is an arduous one: each phage virus devours only one type of bacterium. Identifying phages with disease-fighting potential is a promising area of medical research.
Chimpanzees
Chimpanzees (pan troglodytes) and bonobos (pan paniscus) are humans’ closest living relatives, sharing about 99% of our DNA. They also share with us deep emotions, lifelong family ties, and the ability to construct tools and solve intricate problems. Chimps form complex and often violent societies, having a capacity for cruelty and even for murder. Both species are listed as “endangered” on the ICUN Red List. Abusing them for our purposes is no more acceptable than abusing any vulnerable population of humans.
Zoos
Animals belong in the wild. But the sad reality is that for increasing numbers of animals. “the wild” no longer exists. World-wide, premier zoos now form the “arc” for many animals, housing a core population that may be the last stronghold saving many species from extinction.
Today’s zoos are on the forefront of conservation biology research and conservation efforts in the beleaguered habitats of animals under threat of extinction. I have volunteered at one of those zoos for many years, helping to ensure that the animals under human care live rich and healthy lives, and helping to inform and engage the human public in the desperate need to save animal habitats.
Until humans reverse the shrinking of wild habitats and conflict with human communities, carefully curated and regulated zoos may be the best hope for some species’ survival.
Gene modification in humans
Is it illegal to insert genes from another animal into a human embryo? In many countries, yes, but gene modification technology has vastly outstripped any regulatory apparatus to oversee or control the actions of individual scientists.
Gene modification, whether through cutting out particular genes, gene editing, or inserting genes from other species, is now commonplace in animals and plants. Commercially, this is done to make plants more resistant to disease or drought, to improve their nutritious quality, even to sequester more carbon in an effort to fight climate change.
In many cases, these techniques do little more than accelerate the process of artificial selection that humans have used for thousands of years to grow plants and animals with desirable characteristics—but the same techniques can be used literally to create monsters, with a massive risk of unintended consequences or weaponization.
Recently, in a highly publicized case of genetic modification of human embryos, the scientist responsible was imprisoned by Chinese authorities—but that is only one instance of practices that may be occurring elsewhere without publicity.
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Also from Kathryn Hoff
If you enjoyed Eclipsed, you’re sure to like the Sparrowhawk space adventure series: Bloodstone, Ghost Ship, and Fugitive.
Bloodstone
The Selkid colonists on Santerro made a brandy that, according to the traders’ database, was famed throughout the outer sectors as an exhilarating, carefree immersion in silken texture and enticing flavor.
Or as my half-brother Kojo said: “Quick high, tastes good, headache manageable.”
We ordered enough to fill the cargo holds of our little space hauler Sparrowhawk.
Judging by the level of inebriation on Santerro’s streets, the brandy lived up to its reputation. Selkids the size and shape of walruses lolled happily next to tipsy Terrans, flippers and hands alike in their grip on their precious bottles.
“You know, Patch,” Kojo said as we dodged boisterous tipplers, “maybe we should stay here another night. We could see the sights, enjoy the famous Santerro hospitality.” He pushed his black curls from his face, flashing his cocky grin.
I’d learned to distrust that smile a long time ago.
“You mean enjoy the hospitality of the casinos.” I shoved him toward the spaceport. “Forget it. We leave tonight, as planned. Go oversee loading while I buy the rest of the provisions.”
With a regretful look toward the glittering lights promising food, drink, and other delights, Kojo strolled toward the docks. I shook my head as he left, wishing the ancestors had endowed my half-brother with more caution. He was twenty-eight—eight years older than me—but sometimes I felt like Kojo’s scolding auntie instead of his younger sister.
Recharged power modules, jump cells, food staples, air and water filters, engine lubricant—I’d almost fulfilled my list when my datacon buzzed with a message from Kojo: Delays in loading—new inspection procedures. Found some passengers.
Damn. New inspections, just what we didn’t need. And passengers? Zub blast him, we’d said no passengers this trip.
By the time I got to the spaceport, the gates to the docks were mobbed. Queues snaked out into the street with luggage-toting Selkids vying for position with Terran traders and their crates of merchandise and freighter crews staggering back from shore leave with bellies full of brandy and pockets crammed with extra bottles. And among the screeches, howls, and grumbles, one topic prevailed: complaints about the new inspectors.
Even with my height, I had to climb onto a crate to peer over the crowd. I spotted Kojo in queue, halfway to one of the five inspection stations. He was chatting up a pretty woman. Of course. With his handsome brown face and winning smile, Kojo never failed to find someone to flirt with.
Looking beyond Kojo, my stomach sank. No wonder there were delays. The inspection stations weren’t staffed with easy-going, bribable Selkids, but by Gavoran Corridor Patrol officers. The Patrol employed only Gavs: Terrans’ Neanderthal cousins, sober and dedicated to enforcing the Settlement Authority’s tech restrictions. They were stopping everyone going to the docks, scanning identity implants and scrutinizing baggage, searching for items on the Settlement Authority’s lengthy list of regulated technology.
And somewhere among the docks beyond the inspectors, past the grand passenger ships and freighters, lost among the independent haulers and ragged shuttles, berthed in one of the cheap slips with low-capacity lifters, was Sparrowhawk.
“Burzing Neanderthals,” said the bleary Terran to my left. “They don’t give a damn about holding everyone up. I don’t mind Selkids—flippers out all the time for a little sweetener, sure, but at least they keep the traffic moving. But Gavs—they won’t even take a decent bribe.”
I shot him a glare. Apparently, he was too drunk to notice my own half-Gav features.
At least I had the advantage of Gavoran size. I’d just begun to push my way toward Kojo when shouts came from behind.
“Runaway slave! Halt!”
I froze, craning my neck to see what was going on.
A young Gav girl, furred forearm bearing a slave brand, dodged between torsos in a desperate dash toward the docks.
“Stop her!” Two burly Gavs in the black vests of Clan Enforcers pounded after her. Massive shoulders and long arms, forward-thrusting heads covered with sleek pelts instead of hair, they shoved the waiting crowds aside with the bluster born of centuries of Gavs’ technological domination.
A bystander snatched at the girl, but she darted behind a trio of mountainous Selkids. Terrans sympathetic to the plight of Gav slaves clucked their tongues at the enforcers or cheered the runaway, but none risked breaking the Selkid laws of non-interference between races.
My heart ached for her. With the Corridor Patrol at the gate, she’d need a miracle to make it onto a ship willing to take her to a Terran world where she could claim asylum. And if she were caught, her future would be grim.
Maybe I could improve her chances.
I turned my back on the pursuit and stepped to the right, leaving a clear path on my left for the girl to dash through. As soon as she passed, I
stepped left and quick-turned.
The foremost enforcer barreled into me. Swinging my bag of ration packs and Prestoseal into his knees, I shrieked in Terran, “Watch where you’re going!”
We fell in a tangle. As the second enforcer stumbled over us, I caught his ankle. He was on his feet in a moment, but by then the girl was out of sight, lost in the crowd.
The enforcer grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Filthy Terran! Interfering with Gavoran clan matters is a violation.”
“What are you talking about?” I snatched my arm away. “Burzing gorillas. You ran into me! Go harass one of your own kind.”
The enforcer paused, staring at my mismatched features. Terran father and Gavoran mother—my face fit nowhere. To Terrans, my heavy brow ridge—not quite hidden by my yellow beret—and receding chin suggested brutish stupidity. To Gavorans, I was embarrassingly ugly: prominent Terran nose, ears too big, and bushy orange hair instead of a neat Gav pelt.
For a moment, my heart beat fast. Would he arrest me out of sheer anger? Out of suspicion? Did I face hours in a detention cell while a Selkid official considered the size of the bribe he’d need to confirm my identity as a free Terran?
With a snarl, the enforcer pushed past me to comb through the crowds at the next queue.
I breathed again. Ancestors, grant her courage.
It was only then, after the excitement was over, that I noticed blood dripping onto my left wrist. Damn! The collision had torn the graft that hid my old slave brand.
I snatched the scarf from my neck and stuffed it into my sleeve to hide the blood. Somehow, I’d have to get past the Gav inspectors without them noticing.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a largely solo endeavor, but that makes it so important to have talented people to turn to for help, support, and technical expertise.
There is nothing like objective, constructive criticism to improve one’s writing. I’m extremely grateful to my critique buddies at Critiquecircle.com for their support and suggestions, especially my mentor, Douglas Phillips, author of the Quantum Series books.
Alexandra Ott and Leah Brown were tremendous help in the editing stages.
Thanks to JD&J Design LLC for their fabulous covers.
Finally, as always, an infinity of thanks to my spouse, Ari Patrinos, for science consulting and his unflagging support, and to daughters Maritsa and Thalia for their support and patience with my technical questions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kathryn Hoff has studied anthropology, manned the trenches on archeological digs, penetrated the mysteries of financial statements, and negotiated billion-dollar investments into developing countries. She has now graduated to making up stories. When not writing, she volunteers at a major zoo. Favorite animal: Heterocephalus glaber, the naked mole-rat.