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Gordon Sun
* * *
“你好, FU 先生. WELCOME back,” Libby said, firmly shaking her customer’s hand.
“Libby 小姐,” Mr. Fu replied crisply, taking a seat in Libby’s brightly lit, pastel-colored office. Two bald, grim-faced men wearing mirrored sunglasses took up positions by the doorway on either side, hands clasped behind their backs.
With his full head of jet-black hair and tan, elastic skin, the octogenarian Mr. Fu looked half his stated age, the culmination of a decades-long regimen of nanotech, genetic editing, and other routine medical maintenance made affordable by his enormous bank account. Coupled with an excellent diet and a vigorous, healthy lifestyle, the tuxedoed entrepreneur was the poster child for Phoenix Rejuvenative Sciences Center, Libby’s employer.
“Mr. Fu, please confirm that you’re here for cerebral regenerative nanotherapy,” Libby said.
“是.” Mr. Fu smiled. “It’s time.”
“Confirmed.” Libby examined her monitors. “Four months, on the dot.”
“Yes. Pre-paid in cash.”
“Of course.” Libby folded her hands on the desk, giving her most charming smile. “Now, you are aware that given your biological age, we recommend that the frequency of administration be increased to every three months once you enter your ninth decade. The dose will also need to be increased. Cellular damage accumulates faster as you age, Fenixir or no. Our nanobots are working against time to repair everything so you stay healthy and functional. They’re miraculous, no doubt, but they don’t confer immortality. Frailty becomes an issue—”
“Don’t need to hear all the specs, Libby.” The businessman nodded. “Just put it on the autopay.”
“Certainly.” Libby clicked a few buttons, and the PRSC had doubled their income stream from Mr. Fu. Just like that, she thought to herself. “It looks like the regimen’s really working for you, Fu 先生,” she continued, chuckling.
“It is, thanks to you and your team.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m neither the roboticists who developed the nanotech nor the engineers who refined it for human consumption.”
“哎呀, take the credit. You don’t know how much this means to me. Fenixir is well worth the cost.”
“Do tell.”
“Thanks to Fenixir, I literally doubled the length of my career, without the physical and cognitive declines that come with age and that in other times might have gotten a relic like me kicked to the curb twenty or twenty-five years ago. It gives the benefit of being able to think long term, very long term, beyond the day-to-day fluctuations of the markets. Returns multiplied. Fortunes were made, far, far bigger than what I’ve spent here.”
Libby kept her smile on. “Good for you.”
“Also, looking youthful and vigorous is an asset in today’s world, no matter where you work.” Mr. Fu laughed. “Libby 小姐, you are too young and pretty to understand. It’s okay. Need experiences, good and bad, to grow.”
“Hopefully more positive than negative.” Libby adjusted the collar of her white office jumpsuit.
“True. Anyway, thank you for indulging an old man, even if I don’t look it.”
“Of course. Doctor Nimata will be personally overseeing your case, as usual.” Libby’s office door slid open. “Have a wonderful afternoon.”
By the time the last of Libby’s fifteen customers departed, a crescent moon hung in the clear nighttime sky. The Los Angeles skyline glowed with the lights of countless skyscrapers and endless rivers of traffic, saturating her office with a yellowish glow. Libby skimmed her emails, pausing briefly to read the memo announcing her third consecutive quarter atop the regional sales rankings. Finally, she began typing up all her client interaction notes for the day.
As she opened Mr. Fu’s clinical records, her glasses vibrated from an incoming call. She tapped the right earpiece with her finger, and the face of a small girl in a white cotton gown appeared. “Hi, Mommy!”
“Anna!” Libby stood from her armchair and walked away from her desk. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, Mommy. They had to poke my arm again. The IV fell out.”
“Aw, sweetie. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. They gave me ice cream.”
Libby laughed. “That’s good. Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t come by yet today. Mommy had to work late again.”
“It’s okay, Mommy. I know I’ll see you soon.”
“Is your nurse there?”
“Yeah.” There was a rustling sound, and the face of an older woman in light green scrubs appeared on Libby’s lenses.
“Hello?” Libby asked.
“Hi there, Miss Wells. This is Joanna, Anna’s nurse for today.”
“Anything I need to know about?”
“Anna did fine today. We had to replace her IV, as you just heard, but she is eating well and staying hydrated. Her counts are still quite low, and her fever hasn’t come down all the way yet, so she’ll be with us for a little while yet.”
Libby sighed. “I understand. How about the clinical trial? Any word from Doctor Siu?”
“He’s still trying to get your case reviewed.”
“Fine.” Libby paused. “Please tell Anna I’ll be there in an hour or so. I’m finishing up work.”
“No problem. I’m on evening shift, so we’ll probably see each other when you get here.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Take care.” The call ended.
Libby returned to her seat and leaned back, frowning. The clinical trial enrollment process was going way too slowly. Anna already had surgery, radiotherapy, and chemotherapy four months ago, which slowed but didn’t stop the glioblastoma multiforme creeping through her brain, though the treatments did manage to eat through all of Libby’s savings. And even if Libby’s little trooper got into the trial by some miracle, they all knew what was in store: more chemotherapy, more radiotherapy.
More suffering.
* * *
“TOTAL PACKAGE, THEN?” Libby asked.
“Yeah, baby!” the client responded with a desultory wave. Libby bit her tongue. “Brain and body regen, double dose. Plus, the detox module for the liver.”
“I see.” Libby hesitated for a moment. “Well, Mr. Gladstone, it’s your decision of course. That said, there’s no clinical benefit to doubling the recommended dose of Fenixir. The body simply eliminates the excess via urine and stool.”
“Whatever. More’s always better in my book.” The young man smirked, smoothing his red silk tie. “Kinda funny that you’re, like, trying to get me to spend less money.”
Considering I’m half-commission with crappy benefits, yeah, it kind of goes against my revenue model. Too bad I have a conscience. “You need not worry about me. PRSC’s concern is first and foremost for the safety of its clients. Second, exaggerating effectiveness sells our products short and only leads to long-term customer dissatisfaction and degradation of our reputation.” Libby gave one of her patented knowing smiles. “In other words, our high-performance products speak for themselves.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. Anything else?”
“My other question for you is regarding the hepatic detox module. Certainly, the surgical risk is low with our experts over in augmentation, but typically people request this particular bionic implant due to, ah, past health issues related to excessive, chronic consumption of alcohol and/or certain drugs. Your questionnaire indicated no such—”
“Look, Libby, it’s real simple.” Mr. Gladstone leaned forward, his mane of wavy brown hair falling over his forehead. “I run a fast-growing startup soc-tech company—maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s—”
“I see it in my files, thanks,” Libby replied, politely but firmly.
“Yeah, anyway, I’ve got to wine and dine investors, collaborators, that sort of thing, like all the time. Not gonna lie, there’s partying too, lots of it. Sure, I’m not drinking every day, but I’ve got to be able to handle whatever the clients throw at me, like an entire bottle of bespoke bourbon or a whole night of drinking in some sushi bar. It’s happened before.” He grinned. “I mean, it’s a big reason why I’m getting the body regen, also. I hear it’s like an energy boost that lasts an entire damn year. And you know it’s important to maintain stamina. Not just so I don’t, like, fall asleep during boring meetings and crap, but also for more entertaining stuff. You know, like when I’m out with a bunch of wom—”
“I get the picture,” said Libby, swallowing the bile surging in her throat. She pressed the button on her desk to open her office door. “Doctor Simmons will be handling your case, both the Fenixir and the liver implant. The clinic will reach out to you shortly to schedule the intake with him, as well as the required preoperative labs and studies. Thank you for choosing Phoenix Rejuvenative Sciences Center.”
Dr. Ellen Nimata craned her head into Libby’s office a couple of minutes after Mr. Gladstone left. “How are things, Miss Wells?” she asked, her voice brisk.
“Fine. Just got a couple clients left to see.”
“Our star product specialist, working hard as always. Your sales figures haven’t gone unnoticed.” The medical director of the Los Angeles branch stood in the doorway, as other staffers murmured their greetings and quickly passed by, heads lowered. “The director of augmentation just called me. This last guy, Chase Gladstone—how did you get him to buy the deluxe package, with the bionic add-on? It’s usually a tough sell.” Dr. Nimata tilted her head inquisitively.
“I didn’t do anything, honestly. He requested it. Said it was for his job.”
“And double the Fenixir dosage? That’s an uncommon request.”
“He was convinced it would help his...stamina.”
“Of course. No problem. Anyway, twice the recommended dosage is ultimately harmless, if perhaps a little wasteful.” Dr. Nimata shrugged dismissively. “How’s your little daughter, by the way?”
“Anna’s fine,” Libby said quickly. Personal matters didn’t belong in the workplace.
“Okay. Good to hear.” The doctor nodded and turned away. Her voice carried down the hall as she walked off. “Don’t stay too late.”
“Sure, Doctor Nimata.”
Later, on the way out the lobby of the building, Libby noticed that the brawny security guards, both of whom had been out of the office the past several days, were each sporting a new bionic left eye. Their irises glowed a bright blue as they scanned pedestrians and connected to the wireless security cams dotting the building.
Libby puzzled over how the two guards, hardly the highest-paid employees of PRSC, could afford million-dollar implants. It then occurred to her that the company probably paid for the procedures, considering them investments in their assets. She wondered how enthusiastic—or not—the guards were about it.
For a long, lingering moment, she toyed with the idea of pleading with her boss to cover nanotherapy for Anna. But finally, she put the thought aside. Anna wasn’t an asset to the company.
* * *
LIBBY FORCED HERSELF to return to the conversation. The couple that had just sat down in her office had opinions.
“Listen, honey,” the heavyset woman was saying in a syrupy sweet voice, “we don’t do faux. Bionic products don’t last.”
“Absolutely,” her equally obese husband chimed in. “Genzen Technologies had to recall their entire line of bionic hearts because the pacemakers kept getting hacked. And that one company, I forgot the name—they had that contaminated batch of 3-D printer material. People died.”
“So, yeah, that’s why I’m here,” the woman concluded. “I need Fenixir. For my pancreas.”
“Pancreas?” Libby echoed.
“Yeah,” the woman replied, fluttering her pudgy, heavily bejeweled hands. “Goddamn pancreatic cancer, like I was saying. Stage three. They say it’s from the smoking and the drinking.”
“And the diet,” the man chuckled.
“Oh, definitely the diet,” the woman said, snorting. “But, seriously, I’m never gonna be able to lay off the meat and potatoes. And the chardonnay. So, you’ve got it in stock, right?”
“Of course, Missus Smith,” Libby replied slowly. “Every branch maintains a large, customizable pool. It’s refreshed daily.”
“Great,” she said, loudly blowing her nose into a handkerchief she’d pulled out of a pocket.
Libby scanned her client’s records. “Now, are you sure Fenixir is what you’re looking for? Given your—lifestyle choices, you may need more frequent booster injections. In the interest of disclosure, these can add up. My colleagues over in augmentation can talk more about our bionic—”
“Honey, were you listening to a word I said?” Mrs. Smith snapped, folding the handkerchief and putting it back in her pocket.
“Don’t try to upsell us, lady,” Mr. Smith chimed in, fleshy jowls quivering. “We’re small business owners. We know your tricks.”
Libby sighed and started typing the Smiths’ request into her workstation.
“You could be a little more enthusiastic,” Mrs. Smith sniffed. “We could’ve gone to Doctor Gillespie in Beverly Hills for a designer pancreas, with add-ons and everything.”
“Is my wife going to be able to get the injection today?” Mr. Smith demanded.
“Unfortunately, no,” Libby replied. “You’ll need to see one of our doctors first and go through our battery of tests. The nanobots need to be programmed and activated, based on your biochemistry, underlying target condition, and so on. The media gets it wrong a lot; it’s not quite ‘inject and forget.’ There’s nuance—”
“Are you serious?” Mrs. Smith cut in. The blotches on her pockmarked face grew a little redder. “We’re paying top dollar, top dollar. Least you all could do is be a little quicker.”
“The longer we wait, the more that damn cancer’s gonna spread,” her husband said curtly. “If this drags on too long, my wife’s gonna look like Swiss cheese when the nanobots finish eating up all the disease. Don’t want to have to rebuild her entire fucking body. I like it just the way it is.”
“Oh, yeah, I bet you do,” the woman leered, as her husband cackled.
Libby sighed again, fingers flying across the keyboard. “We’ll do the best we can to accommodate your needs.”
“Try to sound like you mean it, honey,” Mrs. Smith replied, rolling her eyes.
Before she could open her mouth and say something she might regret, Libby’s lenses reported an incoming call. She hit a few more buttons on her keyboard with finality. “Okay, you’re set up with Doctor Hernandez. Please check out with our office manager, and she’ll help you set up your follow-up visits. Thanks for choosing PRSC.” Libby nodded her head at the door and pressed her right earpiece. “Hello?”
“Come on, Terry, let’s go,” Mrs. Smith said, glowering as she stood up. “The brat’s apparently got more important clients.” Libby ignored the couple huffily stomping out of her office, trying to hear the speaker.
“Libby Wells?” asked the voice.
“Yes, that’s me,” Libby replied hurriedly. “Sorry, someone was just leaving my office.”
“This is Meghan, Anna’s nurse for today,” the voice replied. “I wanted to let you know that Anna’s been more sluggish than usual over the last couple of hours. Doctor Siu just saw her and is planning to transfer her to the ICU. He’s also ordered a few tests. If you could—”
Libby barely heard the rest of the nurse’s remarks as she bolted out of her office.
* * *
“SO, NOT TO BE TOO PEDANTIC, but data analytics requires both the space for the data and the processing power to crunch the numbers. The cerebral regen from Fenixir would keep my mind sharp, while having the BCI implanted would facilitate—” The speaker paused, a look of concern on his face. “—ah, miss, are you okay?”
Libby was exhausted, despite taking a cold shower at the hospital and drinking two tall cups of espresso. She didn’t sleep at all the previous night, holding vigil as her daughter drifted in and out of a stupor. The ICU room contained more medical equipment than free space, the beeping monitors, robot arms, wires, and sensors swarming over Anna’s small form like a watchful but intimidating electronic nanny. Even with eight years of medical sales experience under her belt and plenty of face time guiding patients through cutting-edge procedures at PRSC, Libby still wasn’t used to being on the other side of the conversation.
“Miss?” the man asked again. “Libby?”
“Oh! Right.” Libby shook her head. Her client’s face was a bit blurry. “Mister Adelson, I apologize. There was...a family emergency last night.” She blinked her scratchy, bloodshot eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear that. However, I do wish to move forward with the purchase, so is there anything you can do to—”
“Yes, of course.” She reached for the cup of coffee on her desk, her hand trembling slightly. “Why don’t I...why don’t I transfer your case to my colleague next door? Natalie should be able to help you.”
“Wait, that’s not what I meant,” Mr. Adelson said, a bit taken aback. “We can still work—”
“I think it’s for the best, sir,” Libby replied, trying to hide her relief as she sent her associate a quick message. “I want to make sure your experience with PRSC...is optimized. Natalie Womack is new to us, but capable.” She entered a few more keystrokes and hit the Enter button. “If you turn right after leaving the room, her office is two doors down from mine, on the right-hand side. Can’t miss it.”
As the office door whirred open, her client stood up, nonplussed.
“Thank you for choosing PRSC for your therapeutic needs, sir.” Libby smiled weakly as he left.
Libby knew her supervisor monitored client interactions like a hawk, so she fully expected Dr. Nimata to angrily burst through her door at any moment, demanding an explanation for the dump-off.
But the medical director never came by.
Maybe the doctor was busy with other things, she reasoned. Maybe Mr. Adelson didn’t complain enough to warrant an intervention. Still, Libby felt only a minimal sense of respite, glancing at the four new consultations remaining on her docket.
Libby skipped lunch, struggling through the rest of her caseload. As soon as the last client left her room and the clock hit 17:30, she dimmed the lights and locked the door. Sliding open a desk drawer, Libby pulled out a small programmable chip drive, about the size of a dime, containing Anna’s genetic information. The drive, no longer needed, had been given to her by a dejected Dr. Siu after his attempt to get Anna enrolled in the clinical trial was rebuffed.
Libby was initially upset, but she recovered quicker than even she would have thought possible. Maybe it was the inevitability of it all.
In truth, few options were left. She could watch her daughter die in pain...or she could intervene.
Libby stayed in her office for the next couple of hours, typing up reports and answering emails, watching the sun set behind the jagged skyline. Once the foot traffic in the hallway had quieted down, she ventured out. Her office badge dangling from a chain around her neck, she walked briskly to the elevators, pushing the UP button.
A few moments later, Libby entered the familiar laboratory, a vast repository for PRSC products taking up the entire floor. One wing of the floor was occupied by the “depot,” where PRSC’s nanobots were locally manufactured and programmed. She could see the watery solution through the faintly tinted glass wall: thin, grayish fluid stored in large vats, pluripotent like human stem cells. Large steel pipes pumped water and coolant around the tanks. Smaller vials and tubes packed in plastic racks on cabinet shelves contained activated Fenixir, a turbulent, smoky liquid churning with the purposeful activity of billions of nanites.
Libby slipped the badge off her neck. Twisting the chain absently around her hand, she stood in front of the depot, lost in thought.
* * *
DR. NIMATA APPEARED at Libby’s office door before the first clients arrived for the day. “Libby, do you have a few minutes?” Her thin frame formed a scarecrow-like shadow in the doorway.
In the dim early morning light, Libby noticed for the first time faint bluish lines flickering under Dr. Nimata’s temples. It seemed like many of PRSC’s employees had undergone the aug knife. She wondered what other upgrades the medical director carried within her body. “Of course. Please come in.”
The door slid closed behind Dr. Nimata as she entered and sat down in the guest chair. She straightened her crisp, long white lab coat. “You called in sick yesterday. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks. Had a really nasty headache. It was hard to think clearly.”
“Hmm. You do have to take care of yourself, of course. I understand. It’s tough having to balance a career while taking care of a child. Even taking one day off can be a big deal.” Dr. Nimata watched as Libby sipped from a cup of espresso. “Anyway, just so you’re aware, we’re impressed with your portfolio of work. You’ve had a few interactions with clients the last week or so that perhaps had room for improvement, but all in all, very strong.”
Libby nodded.
“How is she doing, by the way?” Dr. Nimata’s tone was casual, but her eyes scrutinized Libby’s face. Libby could not meet her gaze.
“Who?”
“Anna, your daughter.”
“She’s better.”
“Oh, was she sick too?”
Libby hesitated. “She’s been sick for a while now. I don’t really talk about it.”
“Sorry to hear that. But she has improved now, yes?”
“Yes, she has.”
“That’s good. What do you think happened?”
Libby was silent.
“Come on, Libby. You were caught on six different security cams even before you entered the depot—using your own badge, by the way.” Dr. Nimata’s smile was frosty. “You obviously knew you would be caught. At least now I know why you did it.”
Libby finally looked up. “She was going to die,” she said quietly. “Weeks, most likely. The other treatments were just a delaying tactic. She couldn’t get into the clinical trial, and even if she did, it would have been more chemo and radiation. I know how effective Fenixir is, at least in adults—I’ve been selling it here for five years.”
“So, you admit to stealing corporate property.”
Libby took a deep breath. “No regrets, Doctor Nimata. It was worth it. I know how cheap Fenixir is to manufacture and how much profit margin we make off it.” The words flowed easily from Libby’s mouth now. “Of course, that high cost is why my lousy insurance policy won’t cover it, and you think I can afford it on a saleswoman’s salary, top performer or no? Here’s my question: why didn’t you stop me?”
“I admit you were quite brazen about it. That said, before PRSC pursued any definitive course of action, I wanted to gain insight into why our star performer decided to throw it all away. Clearly it had to be something important.”
Libby raised her eyebrows. “It’s what any mother would do for her daughter.”
“I completely understand the rationale for your actions, of course. I am still a doctor, even though you probably think I don’t act like one.” Dr. Nimata harrumphed. “What would you do if you were us?”
“Fire me.”
“You would want that, I’m sure.” The medical director tutted. “I’m sure you’d find some bottom-feeder lawyer willing to amplify the optics of a multinational company firing a single mother of a sick child.”
Libby sniffed. “Then I suppose I could resign on my own.”
“Slightly better option, and we could invoke the NDA-NCC you signed upon hiring that would effectively keep you quiet and out of this field—for that matter, anywhere in pharma and biotech—for a very long time. Still, some of our longtime clients, ones like Mister Fu who are particularly fond of you, might ask questions as to why you suddenly left without explanation. Workforce gossip is another issue we’d have to manage. After all, you are the region’s top sales performer. Obviously, discretion is in everyone’s best interest.” Dr. Nimata crossed her arms. “At the same time, our trust in you is severely damaged, and there’s no way PRSC will tolerate theft.”
“Okay, then why not spin this in a way that benefits everyone? Since Fenixir is only approved for adults, you authorized onetime use to help a dying child in an experimental capacity. Anna was the example, the proof of concept in the pediatric population. Sure, the hospital would have appreciated more involvement in the treatment process, but at the end of the day Anna got better very quickly and it cost them nothing, so they can’t complain.”
“You can make a sales pitch, that’s for sure. Your top performance is no fluke.” Dr. Nimata chuckled darkly as the lines on her temples glowed. “However, even though I acknowledge it could be a mutual win, it still lets you off the hook. If you’re going to play these games with us, you’re going to have real skin in the game moving forward. Fortunately, you’ve given me an idea, a way to help pay off your debt to us. A ‘proof of concept,’ if you will.”
* * *
“I’LL BE HONEST, MISS Wells, I’ve already been to Intelid Pharma about my condition. Consider this a second opinion.”
“Sure, Mister Hyung.”
“Call me Albert. Anyway, I’m in the market for a new liver. I’ve got ALD—”
“ALD?”
“Alcoholic liver disease.”
“Oh, right.”
“None of my relatives are compatible, and I hear that the shortage of traditional donor livers means that given my alcohol use, I’m going to be at the bottom of the UNOS list.” The sallow-faced man stared at Libby with yellowed eyes. “Intelid says they can clone part of my liver, grow it into a healthy new one within a few weeks. But I don’t know...”
“What’s your concern, Albert?”
“I’m no doc, but my liver is shot to hell. Wouldn’t cloning it just carry over all the damage?”
Libby chose her words carefully. “It might, it might not. I’d have to refer you to one of our medical directors for explicit medical advice. However, I’ll propose an alternative: our line of bionic livers.”
“Tell me more.”
“Here in the augmentation division, PRSC customizes and builds each device in-house, made to order. Because they are artificially constructed, we can install all sorts of upgrades that make it even more versatile than the original thing: for example, poison neutralization, alcohol detox. Your threshold for alcohol consumption without intoxication would increase to astronomical levels. You’d be unaffected by numerous toxic compounds in case of accidental ingestion or overdose.”
“That does sound intriguing. What’s your experience with this?”
“PRSC has been in the augmentation business for over ten years. Perhaps not as long as a couple of the other major players, but I can assure you that PRSC’s results will exceed your expectations. Let me show you.” Libby stood up and began to untuck her blouse from her pants.
“Um, Miss Wells, what are you doing—”
“Sorry. Bear with me for a moment.” Libby flipped the hem of the blouse up. Several freshly healed linear scars of varying lengths crisscrossed her bare abdomen.
The client’s jaw dropped. “Oh my—what happened?”
Libby lightly traced one of the scars with a finger. The incisions were painless, healing without difficulty. The PRSC surgical team was unquestionably good at what they did. “I underwent implantation of one of our very own customized livers right here at PRSC, with all the upgrades I just mentioned and more. Of course, there’s a recovery period, so you can’t return to work immediately. However, as you can see, I’m doing quite well. The plan is to be here for a very long time.” She tucked her uniform in and sat down. “A compelling argument, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed. Maybe we could talk about some of PRSC’s other bionic enhancements if you have time today?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Hyung nodded in satisfaction. “So, was it worth it?”
Libby thought of her daughter, recovering at home cancer-free, enjoying life, making plans for a far future, and smiled. “Yes. Without a doubt.”
* * *
Discussion Questions
* * *
FEBRUARY 2022 Vol. 3, No. 2
