…continued from Parts 1-5
Amanda eyed the park bench. The disheveled man sat in the middle. If she joined him, they’d be shoulder to shoulder. She remained standing.
“What’s the big scoop?”
He looked past her then around, like he was determining something. There was a wariness she couldn’t attribute to his impact with her car. A haunted look crept over him.
“Something happened to you, didn’t it?”
He nodded then slid over to make room. She kept a hand close to the shock spray and carefully took a seat with the Go-Pak between them.
“Record this now,” he said. “You may not see me again.”
Amanda felt her eyebrows rise and quickly schooled her expression into a professional mask.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ll understand after I tell you my story.”
She pulled the Go-Pak onto her lap and leaned over the casing to keep the worst of the rain out. While keeping a corner of an eye on him, she slipped a protective cover over the palm-sized vid recorder. Newer models didn’t require such care, but she didn’t mind. The routine linked her with the past.
He didn’t move while she readied the recorder. In fact, he seemed frozen until she cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad memories.”
“Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me in your own words what happened. I might ask a few questions in case something needs clarified.”
She started the recorder.
“This is Amanda Hughes, NVI correspondent.” She gave the date, time, and location. To her subject, she said, “It’s all yours.”
He took a slow, deep breath.
“My name is Michael Tanner.”
He gave his date of birth and other identifying information. He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, Amanda saw the calm intensity had returned.
“Up until five years ago, I was a researcher at StarMed. My work impressed my bosses, and they invited me to join a special project. They warned me I couldn’t go back if I changed my mind. Thing is, I did. I hated what I was doing, but it grew obvious that the program would continue if I didn’t act. I started gathering evidence. It’s the kind of information that could destroy StarMed, but the entire industry.”
“You were going to be a whistleblower,” Amanda said, not quite believing the scope.
Michael’s brow creased, reopening the wound. He pressed a sleeve to it and continued.
“I didn’t get the chance. One of my sources, someone I knew for years and trusted, sold me out. One day I get home, and they’re waiting for me.” He glanced away for a moment, swallowed.
“Who?”
“Hired thugs. It… it wasn’t pleasant.” Another steadying breath, then he continued. “They took me to a prison. The very place I was about to expose.”
Amanda was dying to hear his claims. Years of training, however, helped her to keep silent, to let Michael tell the story the way he needed.
“The evidence was of a program that harvests human tissue from living donors.” He stared into her eyes. “Thousands of prisoners are kept in underground facilities all over the country. When citizens need new tissues, collectors take samples from the prisoners.”
Amanda’s breath caught in her throat. Living donors? Impossible.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why do that when doctors can use Psuda-Flesh?”
Michael’s laugh had a bitter edge. “There’s no such thing as Psuda-Flesh. It’s real tissue collected from real people aren’t given a choice.”
He shoved a coat sleeve up his arm. Amanda gaped at the even rows of abraded skin, each section at a different point in the healing process. The mismatched squares looked like fields as seen from the air. The wounds were definitely not from being hit by her car.
“They did this to you?”
“Yes.” He let the sleeve drop back into place. “Something within the process eliminates the risk of host rejection, so it’s safe for the patients.”
“Why don’t they sample the patients themselves?”
Michael shook his head.
“Two reasons,” he said. “One, patients are already weak, prone to infection by the time they need the tissue. Why risk anything from a bad scar to death when it can come from somewhere else?”
It seemed a stretch to Amanda. “What’s the second reason?”
“In a lot of cases, skin samples aren’t specialized enough. Someone who needs a heart can’t use their own tissue. It’s too dangerous when the heart’s ready to quit at any minute. This process improves upon the old transplants because it removes the risk of rejection. The replacements also last longer than sticking in someone else’s organs. It used to be that transplant patients often had to undergo the procedure only ten years later. Now, these organs can last a lifetime.”
“So they get what they need thanks to another person and build new body parts.” She shuddered. “One person’s pain is another’s cure.”
“It gets worse. Direct organ collection kills about half of the donors. Others survive, but most of are never the same.” He put a hand to his side. “They sampled my liver. Lucky for me, it grows back.”
Amanda shivered as though ice water was dumped down her spine. Move on. Move on, she told herself. Think about it later.
“Where do they get all these prisoners?” Surely they weren’t all snatched off the streets like Michael.
“Most are convicts. StarMed pays prison officials to hand over Death Row and lifer types. They fake their deaths.” He slowly shook his head. “Maybe they enjoy the irony.”
“How do they get away with it?”
“A long time ago, when inmates were executed, their families and the families of their victims were allowed to watch. Did you know that?”
She nodded. “We covered it in the History of Modern Civics. That was before the National Moratorium.”
“Have you ever wondered why it was rescinded?”
A nauseous feeling settled over her stomach. “I can guess.”
“You get the idea, then. StarMed, Hixon Research, and a few others bribed enough politicians change it back and look the other way when bodies weren’t produced. The official policy is that dead prisoners are cremated. The families thought they were getting their loved ones. Mostly like, they got a mix of dead animals.”
Amanda swallowed several times. She moved on before she got sick.
“You said that ‘most’ of the prisoners are convicts. What about the others?”
“Homeless folk. People who pissed off the wrong bosses. A few others like me.”
“You’re not in there anymore. I doubt they just let you out.”
“No. My cellmate and I escaped this morning before dawn. He was able to get a few items smuggled in. Holo-minis, cash, clothes. He wouldn’t say how, other than to hint he had an inside man. Probably bribed a guard. You know that New Alcatraz story today?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s gotta be a cover for the manhunt. The public needed some explanation for why the cops are going door-to-door in some areas.”
She mulled it over. If Michael’s story was even halfway legit, the story could boost her career. Or end it.
“Do you still have your proof?”
He looked down to his knees.
“I don’t know. I hid it pretty well, but five years is a long time. It’s possible.”
Amanda felt the seed of hope grow.
Michael stiffened. He lowered the brim of hat over his eyes and spoke without moving his lips.
“Don’t move. We’re being watched.”
… to be continued
Well, I think I’m going to give “Donor” its own category. I might assign mini-chapters. We’ll see.
Filed under: SS-Science Fiction | Tagged: dark science fiction, donor, explosion, futuristic, identity shaper, jail break, journalism, MJ Twain, prisoner, reporter, rig, short story, writing
