Do No Harm

by Chris Kennedy

  Once Molina implanted the first phase of Roeder’s restorative neural mesh, they booked passage through Cresht to Coro. The dropship was still space worthy, barely, but Roeder’s investment included sufficient credits to renovate the essential drive, navigation, and life-support systems enough to allow them to transit hyperspace attached to a freighter. Since hyperspace generation was more efficient for larger masses, it was fairly common for non-hyperspace-capable ships to hitch onto a larger ship for transition through a stargate. A few more credits registered the former dropship as a yacht owned by an elderly Earth businessman accompanied by his personal physician.

  Before setting out to find Molina, Roeder had done some preparatory work with the help of some of the mercs who visited Cerulean Clinic. He had liquidated his assets in two of his joint-venture biotech businesses with Todd, prepared a cover identity as a wealthy, retired merc-turned-businessman, and located a station with the desired qualities of Human access, graft, and a laissez-faire attitude toward the legalities of biological and genetic self-modification.

  The trip required three hyperspace jumps, the last while attached to a freighter not much larger than Roeder and Molina’s “yacht” eager to have the extra mass to reduce their own costs. The three weeks plus transit time in each system had allowed them to rebuild most of the clinic equipment from the supplies purchased on Karma. It also allowed time for the implanted nanites to mature on Roeder’s motor cortex.

  The brain-to-computer interface, commonly called a pinplant throughout the Union, consisted at its most basic stage of a neural mesh connecting the motor cortex with output control circuits and sensory cortical areas with computerized inputs, along with some co-processing and memory storage. Earth technology had experimented with rudimentary BCIs prior to First Contact, but those devices had been limited to either scalp receptors with limited bandwidth and no sensory feedback, or large invasive electrodes used only in the most restrictive cases. Galactic tech had the potential to revolutionize these BCIs with nanite-assembled connections directly to the relevant brain areas…as long as the Human brain was sufficiently mapped and there were surgeons willing and able to implant the nanites. Nemo and his Human colleague, Sato, had solved the first part; Molina intended to be the solution to the second part.

  So far, Roeder’s progress was demonstrating the Human brain could interface with a rudimentary pinplant. He didn’t have the characteristic pin, a one-centimeter connector behind each ear, but it could be added later. However, given that the goal was restoring function to the elderly Human’s arms and legs, there was additional work to be done at the level of his spinal cord.

  After the first week, Roeder started using the gravity deck of the carrier ship to begin building up his arm and leg muscles while Molina programmed a fresh injection of nanites to rebuild the damaged peripheral nerves. The Bakulu freighter to which they were attached for the final leg of the trip was too small to have a gravity deck, and the slugs generally didn’t care if they had gravity or not. So, for the third transition, Molina used his own flexible arms as resistance bands, along with yet another nanite injection to build muscle mass.

  “You know that burns like hell every time you inject those, right?” Roeder said after the twenty-first consecutive day of nanite therapy.

  “You are planning on playing with that great-grandchild Elly’s expecting, right?” Molina said while giving the Human a break from the six hours-a-day rehabilitation therapy. Muscle growth required biomass, so they’d included supplies of vat-grown steak, chicken, and pork-flavored protein culture. Roeder was a terrible cook, but Molina had picked up a few techniques from his “cousin” who was enamored with Earth cuisine.

  By the time they arrived at their destination, Roeder was able to walk with assistance on the planet’s near-Earth-normal gravity. By the time they concluded their business, Molina had established his clinic and the biochemist had returned to Azure, where he’d be able to function well in that world’s zero-point-eight Gs.

  Molina had his hook, his gimmick, his essential product. Pinplants would still require study and adaptation to each subject, and a universal product would need a lot of development. In the meantime, he could repair and rebuild injured mercs with nerve damage that couldn’t be treated anywhere else.

  All he needed was a clinic.

  * * *

  The Coro region was the armpit of the Tolo Arm, though some would argue the central region, Cresht, deserved that label for the simple fact it was where Earth was located. Still, Coro, outward from Cresht, was a place the Galactics tried to forget. It wasn’t that there were no worlds, or no resources, or even no mercenary jobs; it was just…blah.

  There was one exception to the monotony of the Coro region, and that was the astronomical curiosity of Eta Carinae. The Galactics called it Minkulos, which was surprisingly similar to the Earth name for the Homunculus Nebula. The star was initially thought by Human astronomers to simply be a remnant of the supernova explosion which created the Homunculus Nebula, yet even before First Contact, it was discovered to be an odd multi-sun system with a luminous blue variable and a rare Wolf-Rayet star. Eta Carinae Alpha was worthy of study by itself due to its ultraviolet laser emissions and a supernova-like explosion which somehow left the star intact. EC Beta was even more curious since it appeared to have a bare, metallic helium core that fused elements heavier than hydrogen. At most two stargate jumps from any of the Cresht worlds, it was quiet but accessible, and a prime Science Guild posting.

  To’Os, on the other hand, was a Mars-like world orbiting just at the edge of the life zone around a small orange-red sun labeled OGLE-TR-113 in the Human star catalogs. In fact, the star, planet, and capital city were all called To’Os by the less than imaginative Cartography Guild member who had first charted the system. On the other hand, at 5,000 light years from Earth, it was a logical way-station for the science teams headed to Eta Carinae. It might even have been a strong economic driver for the Coro region, if it hadn’t been for the Tossers themselves.

  No one called them Tossers to their face, since they were most accustomed to being called Master. The Sphen-Eudy had conquered most of their neighboring sophonts before being discovered by the Galactic Union. Even after being admitted to membership, they had attempted to defy Union law, such as it was, and extend their dominion over other systems, Union members or not. Repeated sanction by the Peacemakers had finally broken the back of the Sphen-Eudy Cooperative, and they’d turned their talents to smuggling, gambling, and the black market. To’Os Prime was the primary cross-roads of the Coro region, and in the words of one of Roeder’s favorite Old Earth entertainments, it was a “wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

  Which made it perfect for a clinic offering a service that was still mistrusted by the government of Earth but would be embraced wholeheartedly by mercs. At Roeder’s urging, Molina registered at the immigration control desk using falsified credentials. Given the prevalence of organized—and unorganized—crime in the station, fake names and identities were more respectable than honest ones. A new business license was issued to Squiddy, a Wrogul physician out of Ak’La’Ka—or Orkutt as Squiddy had known it.

  Getting that license would prove to be an education in and of itself.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Roeder chose to stay on the shuttle while Molina set up the first meeting with the local licensing office. The Tossers liked bureaucracy—no, they loved bureaucracy. Every layer of permitting and licensing gave them an opportunity to engage in their real favorite pastime: graft.

  Molina drove his self-propelled water tank to the customs office at the starport, paid his entry fee, then crossed to the local transport station where he bought a seven-day travel pass, paid the non-resident alien fee, the fuel surcharge, the economic development tariff, the tourism fee, and the air tax. The latter was particularly confusing since To’Os Prime was a planetary station with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, not an orbital habitat. It was explained
that the tax was to offset the digestive emissions of the various races visiting their planet. He could hear Roeder laughing over his comm link at the “fart tax” as he called it.

  All the fees gave the Wrogul a card he could use whenever hiring local transport but did not actually pay for the cost of that transport. Or the gratuity. Or the bribe the driver wanted in order to take him directly to his destination instead of running up the fare with detours and delays. To his credit, Molina figured out the last part before the fare hit triple digits.

  After a circuitous trip that would have only taken him twenty minutes in his powered tank (plus pedestrian tax, self-motivated vehicle tariff, environmental impact fee—for transporting a liquid cargo—and driver licensing fee), Molina and his elSha driver arrived at the city administrative center, and he got his first look at the inner city maze referred to by spacers as The To’Os. Again, not too imaginative on the part of those who named it, but that was just fine by the Sphen-Eudy.

  The To’Os natives loved bureaucracy, but they didn’t like to get their actual hands…er, flippers dirty. They employed Lumar at the port, seven-foot-tall, four-armed humanoids. They were the mercs of choice for port and customs security because very few smugglers would risk crossing a sophont that could hold you off the ground with one hand while beating you with three more. During the drive, Molina could see patrols of Oogar in uniforms that suggested a police force. The eight-foot-tall purple bears made perfect sense to police a world owned by organized crime. The Oogar were so loud, even the slowest of criminals could hear them coming and get the evidence cleaned up and out of sight before the Law showed up. Rumor had it there was a special enforcer branch as well, but they were not immediately in evidence.

  The front desk was staffed by a Veech, another 4-armed race with a bird-like head. The eyes moved independently and tracked only the hands on that particular side of the body. The receptionist had two stacks of photo-electric polymer “paper” and two slates, and appeared to be working two tasks simultaneously.

  “Business?” the Veech asked. The translator managed to make it sound bored.

  “I’m here to see about a business license. My name is Squiddy. I should have an appointment.”

  “Credentials.” The receptionist stated, holding out a hand.

  Molina lifted one arm out of his tank, vibrated it to remove the water droplets, then reached into a dry pouch mounted on the side of the powered undercarriage. He pulled out the business card he and Roeder had designed and placed it in the Veech’s open hand.

  The aforementioned hand remained in place. The only sign the Veech even noticed the card was a slight twitch of the eye on that side.

  Molina reached back into the pouch and removed his ship berth license, his non-resident visa, and his transit card and placed them all into the open hand as well.

  Still no reaction.

  It dawned on Molina that he was missing something. He reached again into the pouch and removed a one-hundred-credit note. The eye twitched again, but the hand remained. He pulled out a second hundred-credit note. Still no reaction other than two eye twitches. He reached into the pouch one more time and pulled out a thousand-credit note, placed it in the receptionist’s hand and made to take back the two hundred-credit notes.

  The Veech closed its hand so quickly, Molina’s arm got pulled along until it snapped out of the humanoid avian’s hand with a squelch. A quick flurry of the other three hands, and the notes disappeared, leaving the business card and permits in separate hands. The receptionist held each up to the nearest eye and inspected them, then handed them back to the Wrogul.

  “The Administrator is busy.”

  “But I have an appointment!” Molina protested.

  “He’s busy,” the Veech repeated.

  Molina’s pinplants were a highly advanced design, derived from Todd’s ’plants. One useful feature was totally internal processing that allowed him to use any comm device as a translator, as well as a transmitter for any of his own sensory inputs.

  “What now?” he silently asked Roeder, who was monitoring the interaction back on the ship.

  “Damn, son, you really have lost your mojo, haven’t you? Time for Plan B,” Roeder replied over his implant. “See that office in the back? The door is just open enough to see the occupant. Just as we thought, it’s a Sphen-Eudy. Plan B should work.”

  The occupant of the back office was a one-half-meter-tall avian, with slick, black feathers on the back, limbs, and head, and white feathers on the belly. He had a small beak and bright yellow tufts over his eyes. An Earth biologist would have called it a rockhopper penguin, except for the finger-like nubs on the ends of its flippers.

  Yes, more avians. Plan B should work just fine.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Molina dug an arm into the layer of sand on the bottom of his water tank and pulled out a small vial of bluish liquid. He lifted it out of the water and waved it in front of the Veech receptionist.

  “If you are threatening me with a toxin, you should know there are seven lasers, two slug throwers, and a magnetic accelerator cannon aimed at you,” the Veech said. “We will vaporize your little poison and kill you before you can even use it.”

  “Oh, no. Sngh,” Molina replied. He laughed, managing to make it sound creepy. “You misunderstand. This is not the poison, it is the antidote.”

  A bloodcurdling screech came from the office. The Sphen-Eudy manager came bolting out of his office, shedding feathers as he raced for an exit door in the back of the room. The Veech and other workers in the outer office turned in alarm, but not before the receptionist had several of his own feathers fall out.

  “That is the result of a molt virus, and I have the antidote.” Molina laughed again. “It is fast acting, but I have been told that molting avians are a pathetic sight.” He flashed a complex pattern of light with his chromophores. “Now may I see the Administrator?”

  “I-I-I’m afraid that was the Administrator,” the Veech stammered and clicked its beak. Several more feathers fell out.

  “His boss, then, and hurry, you are starting to look a little…plucked.”

  It took a few minutes for the Veech to contact someone with more authority. Molina was shown to an office where he faced a comm screen with the visage of an older, unmolted Sphen-Eudy. The camera was zoomed in to show it at four-to-five times actual size. It was meant to be intimidating…and it worked. The receptionist had said his name was Don somebody, and mumbled the rest. As the avian left the room, the Wrogul poured a few drops on the end of one of his specialized tentacles and flicked them in his direction.

  “There, that should arrest the molting for an hour or so. The rest is up to your boss.” Molina turned back to the screen.

  “Mister…Squiddy…I suspect you understand why we are not meeting in person,” the senior Tosser said. “After what you did to Lalande, I don’t think he’ll be showing his face in the office for a long time.” Don What’s-his-name didn’t seem all that disappointed.

  “I merely wished to have the appointment that I scheduled and paid for.”

  “Paid for?” The boss raised his yellow-feathered ‘eyebrows.’

  “Well, yes. I paid the reservation fee when I made the appointment,” replied Molina.

  “Ah, I see. Well, I’m sorry, but that was simply a database access fee to confirm there were no other appointments on the calendar. That didn’t mean you actually had an appointment.” The Sphen-Eudy paused to shake its head rapidly from side to side, then continued. “No matter, you have our attention. I must ask, how did you cause your…effect so rapidly? No virus works that fast.”

  “It is simple when delivered as a nanite load,” Molina replied nonchalantly. He had tried to mimic the Human habit of brushing fingertips, but it did not work well with arms and tentacles, so he opted for simply blinking his large blue eyes.

  “What? You released an unlicensed nanite load into my office?” the penguin-like bureaucrat screeched. “I
should have you arrested! Locked away!”

  The Wrogul did not react to the emotional outburst. “And if you do, every single Tosser on this planet will be molting by breakfast. The same nanite load contains virus and antivirus. Which one is activated depends on the outcome of this meeting.”

  The Sphen-Eudy stared for a moment, then snapped its beak several times and shook its head rapidly. Molina had read it was their equivalent of a laugh. “I like you. You have stones. Very well, license granted. The receptionist will collect the licensing fee and the antidote.”

  He was somewhat shocked by the rapid turnaround. “But you did not even ask about my business?”

  The Sphen-Eudy laughed again. “Oh, I know all about your business application. It can’t hurt anything, and the business will be good…as long as you don’t threaten my House again.” There was ill-concealed menace in the statement. “You realize you made an enemy in Lalande? You will need insurance, which I can provide, and security, which you will have to contract yourself. I was never that fond of my son-in-law.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Molina said quickly, then added more slowly: “Would you, by any chance, have a security company to recommend?”

  “Smart sophont!” the boss bureaucrat said. “Call Jack at B’nb’n Security. Tell him Don Torol sent you. Your molting virus won’t work on him, so you’ll actually have pay for his services.”

  “Lizard scales molt, too,” Molina whispered, but more loudly said, “Yes, sir. I will do that.”

  “As I said, smart!” Don Torol said and laughed as his image disappeared from the screen.

  The Veech receptionist came back into the room and led Molina back to the front desk. Despite a few missing feathers, it appeared to have stopped molting. He paid the licensing and insurance protection fees and received both a certificate and a bronze-like medallion to affix to his office door. Once those items were received, the Wrogul handed the Veech the vial of antidote and left the office.