Carbide Tipped Pens

by Ben Bova

  “This is where I usually make sure you know how this thing works,” Dr. Tehari said, “but given who I’m talking to, I suspect you know better than I do.”

  Indira tried to smile. “I’d say I know the basics.” The tattoo didn’t contain medicine, but rather engineered cells that could produce medicine as needed, whenever needed. Because the cells themselves were never depleted, just activated and deactivated, the medicine could never run out. The diagnostic displays were mostly for reassurance. People liked the feedback so that they knew the tattoo was working.

  The buzzing halted while the doctor switched inks, the sudden silence echoing in Indira’s ears. “I’m just finishing up the display. This’ll show the presence of allergens. Greens are all-clear. You might see some fluctuation in the green, but that’s just cosmetic, like a screensaver when your phone is in standby. Yellows mean a small but not dangerous concentration is detected, brighter toward the source of the concentration so that you know which way to go if you want to avoid it. The deeper autumns are when things get nasty. Red means you’re around a high enough concentration to trigger the drug. Brown means that it’s in your system, dealing with the threat. You know what the epi hit feels like. The color just reinforces that yes, that’s what that flushed sensation is. Then brown will fade back to yellow and eventually green.” She set the tattoo gun down and wiped clear, soothing gel across the angry skin. “There. Have a look.”

  Indira turned her head with mild trepidation, which disappeared as soon as she saw the finished product. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.” A slender green vine wove its way up her inner arm, with four delicate leaves sprouting off it in perfectly shadowed trompe l’oeil. It looked real, and the faint shifts of green in the leaves made it seem like they were swaying in the breeze of a sun-dappled glade.

  The doctor smiled. “Thanks. I like to do work that’s more than just functional. I have an MFA in art, but it didn’t take long to realize that an MFA doesn’t pay the bills, so I went into med school.”

  “Sounds like a perfect career for you, then.” The woman working on her arm didn’t seem old enough to have gone through graduate school and med school, but with the cosmetic implants available these days, you never knew.

  “Well, it rules out the squeamish artists, that’s for sure.” She set the tattoo gun down and wiped clear, soothing gel across the angry skin. “There. All the leaves are keyed to the same readout, but they can be reprogrammed if you get other med tattoos later on. I like to leave room for growth.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Yeah, no pun intended or anything.”

  Dr. Tehari set to cleaning up, carefully sealing the ink pots. They went into a clear box along with Indira’s vial. More quality assurance—if something went wrong, not that it would, the ink and serum would be available for testing. The box was labeled with Indira’s name and patient number, and then sealed with biohazard tape.

  By the time the workspace was clean, the gel was ready to come off. Dr. Tehari wiped it away gently, cleaned the skin again, and applied a few pumps of a fine, cold aerosol mist. “This will seal it up and heal it, so don’t worry about bumping it on anything or getting it wet, but it’ll stay a little tender for the next day or two. We’ll let your immune system recover, and tomorrow we’ll test it out and make sure it works.”

  Indira grimaced. “Yeah. That’s the part I’m really looking forward to.” After her recent hospital stay and the enforced leave of absence from work, the last thing she wanted to do was tempt anaphylaxis for fun.

  Tehari shook her head. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. The cells will be all settled in their new home, ready to pump out antidote before you’ve even realized you need it.”

  * * *

  Indira saw the headline on the flight home: GANNON & PEREZ BEAT RAP OVER DISPLAY SYNCHRONIZATION.

  Dan had lost her case.

  By the time she landed, she had declined to answer five calls from reporters and one each from Dan and Rowan. She returned Dan’s call first, sitting on the bullet train from the airport and staring out the window at the blur of rainy cityscape and gray sky.

  “You heard?” he asked as soon as he picked up.

  “What, no ‘Hello, Indira, how’d it go?’”

  His voice carried the hint of a smile. “Sorry. Motion to note in the record that I asked and you answered, and then we can move on to where you yell at me for losing your case.”

  She was quiet a moment, debating her next words. If she had been about to scream at him—and she still wasn’t sure if she had been or not—his candid invitation had taken away her steam. “So, what happened?”

  He cleared his throat. “The false positives and the false negatives on the displays. We called it the same issue—lack of synchronization between display and implant. Well, they argued that they were different issues with different processes and technologies, and got the case dismissed.”

  Indira took a breath, let it out, and counted to ten. She wondered if Dr. Tehari could implant Ativan without a prescription. Or maybe tequila.

  “They conned you, Dan. They always try to make that argument. If I’d been—”

  “But you weren’t, hotshot.” His voice softened. “I had to cover this one because you were too stubborn to take care of yourself. Yeah, I’ve been hoping you’d get the damn thing, but not like this. You had to make a point about how you had it all under control, and you blew it.”

  “What, so two wrongs make an excuse?” she retorted, and sighed. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m almost at my stop. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The dead bolt lock thunked over and Indira spilled into the apartment. Bail slunk out of the bedroom, a little orange fuzz ball meowing reproaches at her.

  She picked him up, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur. “Yeah, I’m sorry. But I know Mrs. Ming gives you tuna when I’m gone, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” The crisp, faintly metallic smell of the ozonator hung in the air. Indira smiled, carrying the cat with her into the kitchen.

  “I think we can both use a treat, huh?”

  She stopped short at the sight of a huge bouquet of flowers. With her free hand she flicked over the card tied to the vase. It was a generic “Get Well Soon” signed only “G&P.” Well that was … odd. Mrs. Ming must have accepted the delivery for her.

  Setting Bail down on the counter, Indira pulled the milk carton from the fridge, giving it a sniff before she poured some into a saucer for the cat. For herself, she grabbed a spoon and a pint of ice cream. Chocolate, with chocolate chunks.

  Indira settled into the armchair by the window. In the light, the glimmer of the tat caught her eye.

  Pensively, she watched the kids at the park down the street as she opened the carton.

  “Did you know it’s impossible to get good ice cream in the hospital?” she remarked to the cat, who lapped at his milk, ignoring her. “We can put a base on Mars, but apparently hospitals can’t serve ice cream that doesn’t have freezer burn.”

  She sat back and let the first spoonful of chocolate melt on her tongue.

  The inside of her mouth tingled, starting to itch. A jolt of panic jerked her upright before she even had time to think about it. The itch had already spread down her throat, around her mouth. Her hand went automatically to her throat, as if she could stop the swelling that would cut off her air—

  The shock of epinephrine hit her bloodstream with the subtlety of a tsunami. The itching and swelling washed away, replaced by the quivering, twitchy sensation of adrenaline rush.

  She sat back, gasping. Breathe. She clung to the mantra like the last epi-pen in a perfume department. I can breathe. I can breathe. The adrenaline was what was making her heart race. It had been released by the med-tat, just as it was supposed to be.

  The hospital. Her hand twitched at the urge to call 911, but no, that wasn’t necessary anymore. The med-tat would provide all the follow-up monitoring and medicine. And it was self-diagnostic—it would tell h
er if there was a problem it couldn’t handle, or if it was malfunctioning.

  Did that include causing her to react to something she’d never been allergic to before? She shoved up her sleeve. The leaves were fading from brown, to yellow, to green again. Bail jumped up on her lap, pacing back and forth from chair arm to chair arm, seeking the most comfortable spot from which to demand more attention.

  The phantom itch in her mouth was her imagination. “Mrs. Ming must have a new man in her life,” she remarked to Bail, her voice trembling with aftershock. “Probably got new perfume and forgot all about it, right?” She petted the cat, hoping the smooth, repetitive movement would help calm her, too. “Did she smell funny?”

  It was always possible. People forgot when it wasn’t their allergy, their life. And the tattoo had done exactly what she needed it to do, exactly what she’d gotten it for. She was starting to shake—the aftereffects of the adrenaline rush that had saved her life.

  The ice cream went back to the freezer. Indira needed to lie down.

  * * *

  “So, let’s see it.” Dan crossed Indira’s office in three of his long-legged strides, an opened envelope in his hand. Indira turned her arm so he could see the climbing green vine.

  “I was thinking of getting spiders, but I didn’t want to scare you,” she teased.

  He chuckled, hovering his fingers just above the tattoo. He was too polite to actually touch without asking. Dormant, the displays shimmered slightly, making the leaves sway. “Scare yourself, most like. No way you’d get a spider tat.”

  “You never know. The doctor had a snake. It was interesting. And she was cute.”

  Dan snorted and sat back, crossing his arms. As a reflex, he glanced at the open files on her screen, peering more closely when a name caught his attention.

  “Gannon and Perez? You’ve got a new case?”

  Indira collapsed the window. “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  He shook his head. “I thought you’d be less the crusader now. Or that you’d pick a new target.”

  She bit back a sharp response. “I’m not a crusader, I’m just doing my job.”

  “So what’s with the case files, then, if there’s no case pending?”

  “Research.”

  He gave her a suspicious frown. “Why?”

  “Because it’s my idea of a fun time on a Thursday night? Sheesh, Dan. You’d think you caught me mapping out a bank robbery or something.”

  He snorted. “Good luck with that one, hotshot. Stealthy, you’re not.”

  Dan handed her the envelope he carried. For a high-tech company, Gannon & Perez sometimes liked to do things the traditional way. From the envelope, Indira pulled a crisply folded piece of letterhead. It was a smarmy, generic letter, thanking her practice for their concern for the well-being of G&P’s patients, and continuing with an assurance that the problems were being addressed. Indira recognized it as the form letter that was sent to any patient who contacted customer service with a complaint. Rather than bearing the form letter’s usual stamped signatures, though, it looked like it had been personally signed by Gannon and Perez themselves. She returned it to the envelope and looked at the front. It was addressed directly to Dan.

  “Wow. Gloating much?” she asked. “I’m sorry, Dan. They’re bastards.” She returned the letter to him and sat back with a stifled sigh.

  “Thought you’d want to see it,” he said with a rueful smirk. “Enjoy your research. Next time, we kick their asses.”

  He moseyed out of her office and she returned to her screen. She had no desire to share her real purpose, not with Dan or anyone. The details of her first case against Gannon & Perez were exactly as she remembered them. The patient had a bee-sting allergy. The med-tat had seemed a life-saving miracle … until the patient began to react to allergens that had not been triggers for her before, and eventually died of a heart attack after a cascade of allergic reactions, one after the other, and the eventual overdose of adrenaline.

  The lawsuits had come in a flood at first, but slowed in time. After each case Indira won, additional safeguards were put in place to make med-tat technology safer. The monitoring modules were improved so that the tattoo would confirm medicine levels already present in the blood before administering more. The technology was more carefully calibrated to the individual patient’s physiology, their history of sensitivity to medicines, and their past reactions. At least one backup treatment was available if the primary treatment was not advisable. Remedies for a patient’s most likely side-effects or overdose reactions were now coded into every med-tat. And there was a transmitter as a last resort, to call for paramedics if conditions suggested an uncontrolled or dangerous reaction.

  Tens of thousands of allergy patients wore the med-tat now, and there had never been another malfunction that created new allergies on top of old ones, like that first one.

  Like a chocolate allergy, when it had always and only been perfumes.

  * * *

  The chocolate didn’t send her to the medical center, but the next set of symptoms did.

  “Dermatomyositis,” Dr. Haskins said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The doctor took the other chair in front of her desk, rather than the one behind it. “The rashes and the muscle pain,” she said. “It’s an autoimmune disorder that affects the muscles and skin. The exact cause is unknown, but one theory is that it’s a viral infection of the muscles.”

  “I know what it is, doctor,” Indira said, stunned. “Treatment but no cure, right? It was the second case I prosecuted against Gannon and Perez…”

  Dr. Haskins propped her elbow on the thick armrest, chin in hand, as she examined Indira. “Dermatomyositis is pretty surprising in a healthy woman under forty.”

  “Yes,” Indira said quietly. “I know.”

  “You were just in here a month ago. Were you already having symptoms and not sharing them with me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m not sure a natural case of dermatomyositis could develop that quickly. You’ve had the tattoo how long? Two weeks?” She frowned. “I’m sure you’ve already considered the possibility that this isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Of course.”

  “You know I’m going to have to report this.”

  Indira’s mouth twisted. “Maybe you could wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “You know who I am to them. Just give me a few days to consider the legal angle.”

  The doctor was silent a moment, lips tight. “Next week, Indira. I’m going to report this by Monday.”

  “Good enough.”

  * * *

  The restaurant was loud and dim and made the best noodles in town. Sian hailed her from across the room. Indira waved back, weaving her way through the tables to join her in the tiny booth crammed into the corner.

  “Whoa, look at you. You’re a walking painting.” Sian stood to share a brief, tight hug, before sliding back into her seat. Sian was a longtime friend-with-sometimes-benefits, and their Wednesday nights were a long-standing tradition.

  Indira had picked a black sleeveless dress with a thin wavy line of green up one side, leaving her tattoo visible. She found she was choosing her clothing to match it these days, an impulse she didn’t quite understand, considering what it had already done to her—and was possibly doing to her now. It was nice to look at, though. Kera Tehari had turned her into art, and it wasn’t the artist’s fault the paint had been tainted.

  She smiled, holding her arm out at Sian’s prompting so that she could turn it this way and that in the light.

  “Seriously cool. How’s it working?”

  “On my allergy? Well enough,” she answered carefully, avoiding her friend’s eyes as she squeezed into her side of the booth. “It heads reactions off at the pass. And it’s hypnotic to watch.”

  They were regulars at the restaurant, on first-name terms with the chef and owner, a slight Japanese man who looked to be in his early
sixties, but who was rumored to have started the restaurant himself, over a century ago. They didn’t have to order; he would make them something special that wasn’t on the menu. Once Indira was settled in, the chef’s daughter brought them two glazed cups, exchanging tea for pleasantries and leaving the teapot for them in the center of the table.

  While Sian chattered about work and local news, Indira inched her skirt up and dabbed the corner of her napkin to the bandage just below her knee. When she brought the napkin back up, she could see it was stained with a dark spot in the dim light. She shivered. She’d shaved more than twelve hours ago, but the little cut where she’d nicked herself with the razor still hadn’t clotted.

  Slowly, under the table, she pulled a new bandage from her handbag and applied it to her leg, then sealed the overflowing one in a plastic bag and sanitized her hands. She barely heard a word Sian said over the panic pounding in her ears, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, smile, and nod.

  Clotting factors. Her third case against Gannon & Perez.

  “Sian,” she said quietly, closing her purse and bringing both hands above the table to cradle the warmth of her teacup. “Something’s wrong.”

  Her friend glanced around the crowded restaurant. “What is it?”

  “The med-tat is handling the perfume allergy, but … it’s got a couple of hidden bonuses added in.”

  She frowned. “Indi—”

  She laid it out for her: the chocolate, the rashes and muscle soreness, the diagnosis, and now the bleeding. Sian’s frown only deepened as she listened.

  “Do you need to go to the emergency room?”

  Her heart stuttered at the phrase. She’d had enough of hospitals for a lifetime.

  “No. Not yet.”

  Sian gave her a long look.

  “It’s just a small cut. I promise, I’m going back to my own doctor tomorrow.”

  The other woman’s mouth pinched but she gave a short nod. “All right. So what’s the likelihood that G and P knew you were signed up for the tattoo?” she asked.