“Executed by a blade purchased by his own men?”
“Yes.”
“But how did they avoid the CNS scarring in his spinal cord? My lower torso was viable and the surgical site did not get infected. But the regenerating nerve fibres could not get past the scar.”
“His team used CNS Sealer, fast-setting emulsification of embryonic brain cells that heals the wound three times faster than normal scarring. The Sealer is from embryonic carbon copies grown from human ova after your nuclear material is added. The ova have their own nuclei removed so that the only genes present are yours. The only antigens present are yours—no transplant rejection.”
Larry shuddered. “Embryos?”
“The CNS Sealer has extracts of pituitary and thyroid so it matures—sets—before the usual wound scar forms. Embryonic maturation rather than gliosis.”
“Well…” muttered Larry. “I suppose it is the only way. Sounds simple enough. Let’s get back to the mausoleum and check on my lower torso. I want to make certain it survived Suspension OK. My vital organs, you know.”
Jen-W5-Dever shook her head. “No. Your lower torso was not suspended. It wouldn’t have been suitable, anyway. Too much tissue was lost in the crush and surgical attempts. The skin and muscle were already degenerating from neural loss. Inflammation and fibrosis were too extensive.”
“But where will we find a… ?”
“Now you mustn’t be concerned about that. Clinics supply us with the transplant organs we need. Your torso has already been ordered, years ago, with tissue antigens that match perfectly.”
“Like the glial glue—the CNS Sealer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Amazing.”
“I know,” she said. “The graft will be done high in your thoracic cord. You’ll keep your diaphragm and its phrenic nerves, but all your abdominal viscera will come from the CC donor—strong, young organs from a ten-year-old.”
Larry felt weak. “A ten-year-old what?”
“Donor. Grown from your nuclear material. A Carbon Copy.”
“A live human?”
Jen noticed his agitation. “I’m sorry, Larry. But I keep forgetting you’re from an era before budding. Your bud child is not considered a human being—just a donor. Business ethics require that a donor live only long enough to donate. Of course, if the donor is viable after the organs are taken, that is a different problem. But there is no question of viability in your donor’s case. The anastomosis will be too high.”
Larry slumped into his mannequin.
“My bud child is to die?”
Jen didn’t answer. She was hoping that the mannequin would administer a tranquillizer. Larry’s vasomotors were too strong so soon after his rewarming; his blood pressure fluctuated wildly.
“I don’t think I can go through with it,” moaned Larry. “Isn’t there some other way?”
She patted his slumped shoulder. “We’ll see. Let’s have a talk with Ira-M17. OLGA wants you to be happy.”
The greying Project Director listened patiently and then took them to the wing of the Clinics near the playground.
“I understand your concern, Larry, but there is no need. The donor is just that—a donor. It has had no real contact with humans, so it probably doesn’t even know what it is. The attendants do not speak when they service the grounds, so it has no vocal skills.”
They watched through the one-way. A half-acre enclosure contained a dozen fruit trees, a fodder-feeder, and four fat goats—bucks. A teardrop-shaped wicker nest hung from a pin in the high wall surrounding the little garden. A few dried strips of partially eaten fibre protein dangled above the nest.
“We use the area for fattening meat animals,” explained Ira. “It gives the donor a little company. Let me turn up the audio.”
Bleats and clucks filled the observation room. Larry glanced around the feed-lot playground—puzzled.
Ira grinned. “We have no fowl right now. There usually are a few. That’s where the donor picked up the “chicken talk”. He competes with the birds for his food.”
Goats gambolled, butted playfully, and nibbled on grass, leaves, and bark. Occasionally one would nudge the bottom of the nest.
“Where is he?”
“Napping in the wicker basket. Like the animals, he likes his midday rest. Here comes his feeder. He’ll come out.”
The attendant carried a heavy bushel to the nest and placed items on a nearby shelf: coarse dark breadloaf, wet raw vegetables, and wrinkled dry fruit. The goats crowded their knobbly heads into the feeder as he dumped in the variegated, damp, brown grain. “Buck, buck, buck,” he called. Larry watched the naked figure emerge from the nest—same shock of yellow hair, same angular cheekbones—a Carbon Copy of himself.
“That’s me!”
“Just your donor,” Jen reminded him. “Same genes and antigens, but no human traits—no culture, no speech. Listen to those sounds it makes—buckbuckbuck—hardly intelligent.”
“I just can’t think that way.”
“Times have changed, Larry,” said Ira. “You will have to adjust. OLGA has ordered you repaired. We have our mission to Procyon. Your genes are scheduled in the Implant.”
Jen took Larry’s hand and led him down the hall. “We all were counting on you. We’ve been working with your CC donor for over ten years. It would be a shame to waste all that effort.”
Larry blinked back a tear. “I tried. I really tried to think of him as a project for a few moments back there. I know you have grown up with the idea, so you accept it. But I can’t accept that.”
“But the Implant Starship?”
“Let OLGA take the donor. He has all my precious genes.”
“And you?”
“I’ll return to Suspension. Time will bring a new solution—one that doesn’t require the loss of a life…”
OLGA’s voice was more feminine than Larry had expected. She explained again her logic in repairing Larry for the Implant. He just shook his head slowly as she spoke. “I do not want to force you,” said the cybervoice over the screen. “I see by your Bioelectricals that you are truly concerned for your donor. If at some future date you adjust to the repair techniques, we can give you a complete body then.”
Jen-W5 grinned and tugged his elbow. “Come with us in your mannequin. An Implant Starship can be fun. A new planet—starting a human colony…”
“Would there be research to find a new way of repairing me?”
OLGA was silent for a moment. The screen flitted from chart to chart. “My probes indicate that the Procyon System may be quite hospitable—perhaps under three point zero on the Determan scale. However, the Implant may well be on a level between Upper Stone Age and Early Rural for some generations. No, I don’t think there is any likelihood of a break-through in your lifetime.”
Larry shrugged. “Well, I might as well stay here and wait. Bio is still operating on a good budget, isn’t it?”
“The highest, but my intuition tells me it will be a long wait.” Larry set his chin. “It’s what I want.”
“Fine. You are very important to me. You may use what time Ira has before shipping out to make tapes for your donor. Your genes will be making the trip. Let’s see if we can capture some of your personality, too.”
Larry nodded. OLGA signed off. He gazed blindly at the blank screen. The decision to remain on Earth was another gamble for a complete body. After all, the new planet would probably be no more interesting than Earth with a few bizarre molecules—new life forms, maybe—a stimulating challenge. Well, he had all the challenge he needed right here—trying for a new body. Earth was where the research was. He’d stay home.
Ira and OLGA monitored the donor’s progress with the teaching machines. Language skills were slow in coming.