Disaster on Station 12 Ch. 1

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“Mr. Anderson,” the doctor said gravely, “the rescue teams have discovered your wife’s body on the wreckage of the Station 12 disaster. They are working on retrieving it now. There is good news, and bad. Technically, she is dead. As you know, life support is only marginally functioning on the space station now, and fortunately, your wife’s body, what remains of it, is perfectly preserved by the freezing temperatures. There has been no damage to her brain, although the rest of her body is a loss.”

I paused to let all this sink in, the grief and terror which had captured my heart since the disaster occurred was not sure whether to loosen, or tighten it’s grip on me with the news. I thought of the disaster. For years, Station 12 had been our home. She worked there as a secretary in the offices, I worked as an engineer in the labs of the outer space manufacturing plant owned by Space Components, Inc. that made perfect mechanical components in the zero gravity environment of space. The “asteroid” that had managed to make it through a small gap in the energy field around the station had been no larger than a grain of salt. And yet it had punched a hole right through the station’s outer hull, cut through the softer things inside, emerged out the other side, bounced off the inside of the energy field and punched through again, ricocheting in this manner a few times before becoming lodged in, of all things, the stone of my wife’s diamond engagement ring, which was hard enough to stop it, although the force had ripped my poor wife’s arm from her body. By then I am sure she, like all else aboard, had already been dead, thank God. The station had folded in upon itself by the time the rescue crews arrived, crushing most of my wife’s body, but apparently not her skull. The skull that contained her brain, and everything she manisa escort knew.

“So what,” I cried in despair, “she’s dead… oh God! No!” And then I dissolved into sobs. The Doctor’s hand on my shoulder stopped me, and I looked up.

“I think there may be a way to save her, Mr. Anderson.”

I sniffled, “Continue…” was all I could say, for my heart was in my throat.

“I believe we have the technology to save her, though it is questionable ethically. As you know, we have been growing human body parts from DNA samples, to use as replacement parts, for years.” I knew what he was talking about, the DNA came either from the person themselves, or in some rarer cases from close relatives, and the cloned body parts negated the need to operate on donors. There were problems with the technology, as it seemed that cloned parts aged much faster than natural parts, but often it beat having no part at all. And cloned parts from one’s own DNA were rarely rejected by the immune system. And by growing only the parts needed, and never growing a brain, the debate over clone souls was avoided. I nodded.

“Well,” the Doctor continued, “we could transplant her brain into a new body. Since she is already in her 40’s, she shouldn’t experience geriatrics any sooner than normal. However, the station is collapsing further as we speak, and unless we hurry we cannot have a new body ready in time. There is too much confusion aboard the Station to have a sample of her DNA sent down, so we will have to look to a blood relative, someone very close. Any suggestions?”

My wife’s Mother was long dead, her DNA rotting in an old fashioned coffin, and she’d had no sisters. She had a brother, but cloning him and putting her female brain and identity into his male body would have been unfair. The only logical choice kushinagar.net was our 19 year old daughter who I had been visiting at her University when the accident happened.

“Our daughter, Lissette,” I said, “would she be close enough?”

“She should be,” the doctor said, “run and fetch her. There is a shuttle on standby in Bay 5.” I was already running down the corridor. About 4 hours later I was back with Lissette. They took various samples of tissue, blood, etc. and then told us to wait. 14 hours more crawled by without a word from the Doctors. Lissie cried almost the whole time, before she finally succumbed to sleep. I must not have been far behind her.

“Mr. Anderson,” I heard the Doctor’s voice, as though in a dream, “Mr. Anderson?” I struggled to come awake. “Mr. Anderson, wake up. We have news.”

“What is it?” I was groggy, at first not sure why I was there. Then, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, it came back to me. The accident. Lorraine. “What!” I demanded, “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine now, Mr. Anderson. She’s resting; we have her sedated for now. Would you like to see her?”

Tears welled up in my eyes, casting the world as beneath the sea, and I answered, chokingly, “Y-yes. Please.”

The doctor led me to a hospital room down the hall. As we walked, he talked to me. “Now, remember, we used your daughter’s DNA for the body, but the brain is your wife’s and that is who she is. At a certain stage in the procedure we can try to influence the facial features, and using some old photos of your wife we tried to make her look as much like Lorraine as we could, however she still bears a striking resemblance to your daughter. Actually, they already looked much alike.”

“I know,” I said, simply.

“Also, to minimize the effect of the premature aging clones experience, we have made her somewhat younger than she was. Actually, much younger, in her teens. This way she should not have problems with arthritis, etc. for some time yet. She will feel young for a while, a few years, but in time her true age will catch up with her. Do you understand?”

I merely nodded.

“Also, this may not be easy for her to adjust to. I’m afraid you will have to help her. We do offer counseling, but of the most help would be if you didn’t treat her any differently.” We had stopped before the door to one of the rooms.

“O.K. Can I see her now?”

“Yes, she’s in here, the sedative should be wearing off very soon.”

I went in to the room, and closed the door. There, lying on the bed, was the form of a young woman, sleeping peacefully. She wasn’t hooked up to any machines or anything, and only a small readout above her bed gave any indication that her condition was being monitored. As I rounded the bed I saw that her hair was in her face, and after pulling a chair close, I reached out a fingertip and brushed it away.

My breath caught in my throat. My God, I thought, she’s the spitting image of herself as a teen, the girl I had first seen in school, belying her true age in her 40’s. But wait, from a slightly different angle she was our lovely daughter, back at the age when she stubbornly clung to me though it was beginning to be embarrassing. But most of all she was alive, and breathing, and healthy. Thank God! The doctors had done a miraculous job.

I continued to brush the long hair aside, noticing for the first time that they had even bothered to have someone cut it in a style popular for girls the age she appeared to be at the time. Tears streamed down across my cheeks, and I couldn’t help but laugh a little as I realized that she would hate it. My wife wore her hair short and simple, she was always a no-nonsense lady. But to me, at that moment, she was the most beautiful woman, the most beautiful anything, I had ever seen.

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