13 Degrees of Separation

by Hechtl, Chris

  The Neo tax doubled the life support tax on any Neo, regardless of size, and any large bodied alien. Centaurians were a Major target there. She turned away, now flustered, embarrassed, and upset.

  She turned back slowly, seeing sad knowing eyes staring expectantly at her. Slowly she reluctantly nodded.

  “Fine. I'll do it. We'll get the details down. Don't expect perfection, I'm not, no one is.”

  “We understand that. But each step in the right direction is preferable to stagnation and devolution doctor,” Trenton replied, tucking his hands into his sleeves in front of him.

  “All right. Definitely a change in your next generation, human or as close as we can manage. Plastic surgery and whatever genetic changes we can manage and your bodies can accept. We'll get down to the nitty gritty details in a bit.”

  “I thank you.”

  “Normally I wouldn't bend on this, even with that damn tax. And no, that wasn't what persuaded me Doctor,” Thornby said.

  “Oh?”

  “It's for larger causes. I'll explain some other time. For now, let's get the bureaucrats involved and get this in writing. They'll of course tangle it into a knot of red tape and mumbo jumbo only they can understand just to justify their existence.”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling slightly and then signed off.

  She sighed, turning away as her monitor shut off. “What am I getting myself into,” she murmured.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Doctor Thornby assembled a staff of Anvil medical professionals as well as Trenton and his medics the next day. Together they broke down each problem to turn the Chimerians into humans, one step at a time. They decided to start small, with basic plastic surgery. They would start with ears, faces, and tails. Simply docking the ten tails and ears that hadn't already been docked would be a good faith gesture.

  The doctor had arranged for the equipment to be stored in a nondescript warehouse in one of the storage districts on the station. She had even arranged for Marine protection of the precious cargo within.

  “You mean they cut their tails off?” a nurse demanded, sounding aghast.

  “Some Neo's do. They don't like having a tail, it interferes with sitting on human style furniture. They also dock their ears doctor.”

  Thornby waved an impatient hand. “I know. And piercings, tattoos, liposuction, binding their feet in tight fitting shoes, and such. The list goes on and on. Don't get me started on people's concepts of beauty and how it affects their long term health. I get that. Some human males practice things on their genitals... you know what, never mind, off topic.”

  “Yes, just a bit doctor.”

  “Piercings, implants... oh boy. Okay,” the doctor said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She rubbed her bridge of her nose for a moment to collect her thoughts. Finally she took a deep breath. “Okay, break it down by segment we said. Break it down by existing people and future children. For children it is an easy enough fix, find the gene sequence for tails and shut it off.”

  “Will that stop it in our children?” a female Chimerian asked.

  Doctor Martel nodded. “Yes. No more recessive trait. Removing a tail trigger is a simple fix. You just switch it off. The tails will start to grow during gestation, then fuse together into a stump. By the time they are born you won't see it.”

  “Excellent.”

  Doctor Thornby smiled. “It's actually the reverse of a procedure created to turn chickens into dinosaurs. I read about it recently while exploring the history of genetic engineering. Fascinating really, to attempt to bring back an extinct species, which is what we are trying to do. That was how I found out about the video really, doctor Martel recommended it.” She indicated the geneticist with a hand. Doctor Martel nodded, blushing ever so slightly.

  “I'm certain it is fascinating doctor,” Trenton murmured diplomatically.

  “It's a classic. The outcome wasn't very positive, no happily ever after,” she shook her head and tisked tisked. “When will people realize it's not wise to tinker with predators?” she asked and then sighed. “But anyway, about your project.”

  “I'd like to see if we can make the first changes now,” Trenton said.

  Doctor Martel looked at Thornby in uncertainty. She wasn't happy about delving into such a project so soon. One lesson the Ynari geneticists had stressed was to look carefully and run multiple simulations before you dived right in and started snipping gene sequences.

  The doctor frowned. Slowly she set her tablet down. “Yes, but that opens up other problems doctor, you can't gene sequence this into an adult easily. A Ynari might, but...” she shook her head. “What I'm offering is to change your progeny. Your sperm and ovum will be changed. Unfortunately changing well, you, is out of the question.”

  The Chimerian nodded. “We understand doctor.” Doctor Martel looked relieved.

  “We need to test each change before we make it. Test, simulate, retest. We don't want anything coming back to bite you three generations down the road. And I'd like to phase the changes, checking each phase to make sure it takes before moving on. But that will take time. Each has to be adjusted to the recipient you see.”

  “We understand doctor.”

  ...*...*...*...*...

  “People are always trying to remake themselves. I get that. But this is extreme, I'm sure the Ynari wouldn't mind it, just for the challenge alone. And besides, they had very... limited ethical issues anyway. But the rest of civilization,” she shook her head. She was with her staff, those she'd briefed on the project. Since it was such a Major project, with a hundred patients they'd brought in most of the resurrection staff to handle the gene sequencing, and half the surgical staff to handle the plastic surgery. Keeping a lid on so many people was getting hard. She'd handed off the genetics to Doctor Martel, but she still took final responsibility, which required her oversight and occasional input.

  “What about all the gene sculpts before the war doc?” The Veraxin nurse asked.

  “That's just it, they did it, and when the war hit, they died. Well, most of them. But this is a sack cloth and ashes thing, a scarlet letter they didn't earn and don't deserve. I don't understand the psychology behind it. And for it to go on for so long! Centuries!”

  “Boggles the mind doctor?” the Veraxin nurse asked.

  “In a word, yes.”

  “I see.”

  “People have been modifying themselves before gene sculpting came along. Even before cloning they were using implants and such. Terrans used to tan themselves if you can believe it!”

  “Tan?”

  “Expose themselves to harmful doses of ultraviolet light. Sometimes it was accidental of course, but others sought such things out and even created contests. Some took it to extreme too.”

  “Okay,” the nurse replied, wiggling her antenna in puzzlement.

  Doctor Thornby wrinkled her nose. “It's not just the gold skin. Some humans took that as an indication of good health and mating potential. Think about it this way, ultraviolet radiation. From the sun.”

  “Wait, radiation? Are you serious?” the nurse paused and turned to her boss. A spacer knew the danger of radiation exposure. They were highly aware of the danger one could say.

  The doctor nodded, cold sober. “Exactly. They exposed their epidermis to light radiation. Excessive light radiation. They paid for it later, as the exposure built up some developed tumors and skin maladays. Skin cancers.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah and of course by the time they realized the UV radiation had broken some of their DNA down to form cancers, it was too late to stop it. The damage had been done.”

  “But they did other things too. And you can cut a skin tumor out right?”

  “It grows back. We can treat it now. Then, the only way to treat it was to cut it off. Then you have a massive scar. The body needs the skin to produce vitamin D. Too many cancer cells will cause them to migrate to the interior of the body, infecting the organs. The human can die.”

/>   “Oh.”

  “Right around the time the public realized that, they also found out all their stupidity with pollution had damaged the ozone of the home world, letting in ultraviolet light in great quantities.”

  “That is troubling.”

  “We humans are like that, always learning the hard way,” Thornby sighed, working through the notes.

  “Glad I'm a Veraxin,” the nurse chittered in amusement.

  Thornby looked up and shook her hair out, snorting. “Don't get all high and mighty, you people had your own peccadillo’s and still do. Remember that idiot who used a die grinder to mark his shell up?”

  The nurse chattered in annoyance. Thornby grinned. “Right. Use a die grinder to etch into the shells. Tattoos are the human equivalent. Don't get me started on them.”

  “Yes doctor.”

  “We've wandered a bit off subject,” Thornby replied wryly. “Let's see what else we can do here...”

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Thornby frowned as her second shift assistant came into her office. Miss Ralk was good, she'd been on the administration staff for over a decade so she knew when to barge into her boss's office, and when to back off. Since Thornby wasn't getting far in her research she needed the break, and perhaps someone's head to chew off to relieve some of her tension. “What? Can't you see I'm busy here?” she demanded, not looking up from her tablet.

  “Sorry ma'am, but we've got a paperwork snafu,” Miss Ralk said, sounding contrite.

  “A what?” the doctor demanded, looking up.

  The other woman squirmed a bit, clutching her tablet to her chest before holding it out for her boss to see. “Accounting is balking at allowing the surgeries for your current project.”

  Thornby's frown deepened. “Oh they are? Get them on the phone,” she snarled, drumming her fingers on her seat arm rest as she sat back.

  The assistant hastily tapped at her tablet and then opened a line. “Mister Corona? This is assistant Ralk with medical director Thornby. Please explain to her what you said to me.”

  A voice cleared and then a high pitched nasal voice started in. “Well, you see, it's like this. These people have no insurance and the surgeries you have booked are elective not required to sustain their health. Therefore we cannot in good consciousness permit it.”

  “They've paid for it already. I don't understand the problem.”

  “They have, you have it here as a barter trade. We will need to assess the equipment for resale value and set up a fund from that.”

  “The equipment is not for resale. It is going to us. It is medical equipment, incredibly rare medical equipment I need. We need,” the doctor emphasized.

  “I... see.”

  “Bill me, no, bill the Navy then.”

  “Ma'am, that's not the only issue involved here, the station attorney threw a flag because of the liability issue. The elective nature makes it an issue in case of a lawsuit for malpractice.”

  “We'll have them sign waivers.”

  “They already did ma'am,” Miss Ralk interjected.

  “There! See? So what's the hold up?”

  “I'll need the codes to authorize the exchange,” the accountant said huffily.

  “I have them on file. Send me the paperwork and I'll apply them.”

  “Ma'am, you need Navy authorization for that,” Mister Corona said. “That could take several days or weeks to get.”

  “No, I happen to be a Navy Lieutenant Commander. I happen to be chief medical officer, not just of this station, but also of the Navy. It'll take thirty seconds once you get off your ass and send me the papers so we can move forward with this,” Thornby said in exasperation.

  “Oh, um, sorry. I'll get on that. Corona out.” The line was cut.

  Thornby sat back with a heavy sigh. “Damn bean counters,” she sighed, shaking her head. She realized he probably threw up the wall to inflate his own sense of self importance. Using his right to say no and to drag it out in order to make himself feel good. “Obnoxious twit.”

  “Everyone has to have a purpose ma'am. He's just doing his job.”

  “I know. I just wish he'd bother someone else with crap like that. Why throw up a road block for elective surgery? We've been doing elective surgeries on the fat rich people on this station for seven centuries now! Nose jobs, boob jobs, fat, you name it!” she said, opening her eyes.

  Miss Ralk shrugged. “I don't know ma'am, I just work here. It might have something to do with the station attorney. I don't know. Perhaps you should ask him.”

  “Yeah right. Roland? Are you kidding me? The married letch can't keep his eyes and his hands to himself. He thinks he's god's gift to women. Pass. Besides, the guy has bad breath,” Thornby said shaking her head.

  Miss Ralk blinked at her boss. Most women swooned at the handsome and suave attorney. He was rich, smart, and had a hot body. He had enough salt in his hair to look distinguished, but from what she'd heard he was a real tiger in bed. “Yes ma'am, will there be anything else?” she asked, clutching her tablet to her chest.

  Thornby waved her out with a hand. She sat back and rubbed her temples. “What next?” she murmured as her door shut.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  The problem wasn't quite over as far as the bureaucrats were concerned, much to Thornby's dismay and ire. The station attorney insisted on an inventory and assessment of the equipment in case of theft or damage. In exasperation Thornby allowed him to maneuver her into showing him the equipment with his assistant, and then going out to lunch.

  The attorney, mister Roland was his usually charming self. Thornby knew better, he was a snake in a suit. They'd tangled a few times before, she knew what lurked behind that suave smile. She also knew some of the dark sex practices he tended to occasionally play at, having to patch up his all too willing victims afterward.

  All had signed a non disclosure agreement before hand, and had been paid a great deal of credits. She couldn't understand why people would go through that in order to make a credit. How desperate you had to be to do it, or to go back and do it again. She shook her head as he watched his assistant make notes on his tablet.

  “Security is provided by AI Smithy as well as the Marines since the Navy is involved,” the doctor said, smiling.

  “I see,” Roland replied, nodding. For some reason his eyes narrowed when he saw the Marines on station on either side of the hatch door.

  She could see some of his smirk congeal at that news. So much for him noticing the Marine posted at the warehouse door. She made a note to have the equipment transferred to the Navy annex as soon as she could do so. The adjuster tried to pick her brain on what the equipment was and its' value. He was obviously a shill, in over his head. He tapped out some meaningless notes on his tablet and took measurements. She wasn't sure what he was getting at, she just wished he'd hurry up and finish.

  She didn't like how he went around the room checking it and making notes of the cameras and other things. Of course he didn't know there was a tracking device in the equipment and nano cameras all over the room.

  “The uterine replicators are the big thing. We have a few on the station, but they are all geared for Terran humans, not other species. These are vital for future alien species survival.”

  “I see.”

  “We're hoping to get a lot from the data as well. Centurian Veber is going over that now in his spare time.”

  “I see.”

  “So, you have to secure a loan for the value of these items and then charge the clients against that account? I can of course help with funding and the necessary paperwork involved...” Roland said smoothly.

  Thornby smiled and spread her hands apart. “How do you put a price on priceless? To our knowledge, no one has this equipment. No one left. The only person who can make it is the admiral, and he's not around, so again, priceless.”

  “I see.”

  “Thank you for the loan offer, but the Navy is picking up the tab so that isn't an issue,” she sm
iled politely.

  “I see,” he said, grinding his teeth ever so slightly. He'd hoped to be the guarantor of the loan, using the equipment as collateral. If then something say, unfortunate happened, then he or his associates would get the equipment. That ploy was obviously out. “So, no talking you out of letting us help the Navy out in this instance?” he asked. “I know their coffers aren't bottomless, even though they sometimes seem that way...”

  She eyed him and then smiled politely. “No, this is something we as Federal employees need to take on. The resurrection projects are something the admiral charged my department with before his... departure.”

  “If you do hear from the admiral, please inform him I or my firm would gladly represent him in any court proceedings, gratis of course. He's done so much for this system. It's a pity he has left.”

  “Yes,” Thornby replied, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The man pulled that off with his usual charm, but she knew better. “I'll pass that on, if he ever does return. I doubt it. From what I understand he has no intention of doing so.”

  “Oh?” Roland shook his head. “Such a pity.”

  “Yes. But if and when he does settle, I'm sure he will keep in touch. Are we finished?” She asked pointedly, giving the insurance adjuster a look telling him he'd better be.

  The man looked up from his clipboard and nodded.

  “All right then, let's get out of this young Marines rather short hair and back where we belong,” the doctor said, waving to the Marine carefully watching them. She smiled politely to the young man. “Private Fonzarelli right?” the young man nodded. “What platoon?” she asked, making conversation.

  “Recon ma'am,” he replied proudly, puffing his chest out a bit.

  She smiled. “Good. I hear it is the best. Keep it up young man,” she said, seeing Roland's flash of annoyance and jealousy.

  “I'll try Commander.”

  “If you see Valenko, tell him and Jethro they still owe me lunch,” she said, as they passed him.