TRANSPLANT UNLIMITED EXCERPT
Prologue
No one could deny that Walt Bartell was dead.
Of course, in the twenty years that Nelson
Taft had known Walt, he’d seen him dead
before: dead serious, dead certain, dead tired,
even dead drunk, but this was a dead that not
even a stiff Bloody Mary or a twelve-hour
binge coma could cure. This dead was of the
permanent variety.
The police found Walt’s prized possession, a
2008 Chevrolet Corvette with the 7.0-liter, 505
horsepower gasoline engine, twelve coats of OEM Atomic Orange
Metallic paint, and Ebony leather interior at the bottom of a steep
ravine outside the town of Corona, smashed into a twisted, burning
fusion of antique aluminum, magnesium, and fiberglass. Not even
the white historic vehicle vanity license plate escaped unscathed.
Where it once read “ORNGCRSH” in crisp, red letters was now an
illegible smear of blackened, bubbled paint on a warped rectangle of
aluminum. What was once a museum-quality, vintage sports car was
now a smoldering monument to the inherent flammability of
hydrocarbon fuels.
The police found his body—at least what remained of it— amid the
wreckage of the Corvette he loved so much. The personal effects
found at the scene were Walt's, and his wife made a positive
identification of his face, which had, through happenstance, survived
the petrochemical’s thermal event relatively intact. Even the
compulsory DNA testing, performed by police for all questionable
deaths, confirmed it was Walt. No one could logically refute this was
Walt’s corpse, and in fact, nobody did.
Walt’s funeral was moving; a tribute to the impact he made in his
short life. Nelson gave a speech about Walt that was overflowing with
praise, and, yes, even love: brotherly love. Tears flowed in abundance
from those whose lives Walt had touched. He was well known and
well loved for his selfless concern for the clients, and his quirky sense
of humor. He would be missed. Everyone, from his wife, Lillian, to his
life insurance company, accepted as fact, like gravity or string theory,
that Walt Bartell died in that crash.
Yet there he stood, only weeks later, brandishing a pistol pointed
unerringly at Nelson’s chest, and wearing the desperate look of a
strung-out junkie. At that instant, a sick feeling of panic finally settled
into Nelson’s core, previously present, but pushed forcibly into the
background, waiting for this confirmation, this proof, before getting
intimate with his awareness. He knew exactly what Walt had done, to
what depths his best friend would plunge. What he didn’t know,
despite the twenty-year history, was how the next few minutes were
going to play out.
Chapter 1
The small group of doctors stood in the control room at Transplant
Unlimited, and watched the intricate machine in awed silence. They
peered through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall as the delicate, coffee-
cup-sized mechanism traversed rapidly back and forth above the
stainless-steel tank. Accompanying each graceful movement across
was a persistent, high-pitched, electronic whine that, although muted
by the glass, was still pervasive almost to the point of irritation. The
stereo effect from the second machine, located twenty feet away and
running a half second behind in period, only served to increase the
irritation. Intermittent blue light peeked out indirectly from between
the mechanism and the tank, reminiscent of the light emitted from a
welder joining molten metal.
The twin machines behind the glass nearly filled the small room, and
represented the height of modern medical engineering. These two in
particular, built as much for presentation as for function, shined with
gleaming stainless steel, crisp white engineering-grade polymer
nanocomposites, and multicolored medical-grade tubing everywhere
the doctors looked. When he built them, Walt went to great efforts to
ensure the visual presentation of these two machines was every bit
as impressive as the products they generated.
The room, and in fact, the entire suite of offices, conveyed a faint
hospital sterilization smell that was only partially disguised by the
abundant application of cream-colored Steelcase and HON. Dressed
in their stereotypically appropriate white lab coats, the group of five
doctors crowded in front of the glass next to the control console. All
but one watched the flickering blue light as if a religious miracle
would soon occur. A mocha-skinned technician wearing tight-fitting,
navy blue surgical scrubs with the Transplant Unlimited logo over her
left breast sat at the console monitoring the process. She was a
stunning Latina with carefully placed deep auburn streaks radiating
through her long, black hair, currently pulled back into a sensible
ponytail. Next to her stood Walt Bartell in a blue lab coat, similar in
design to the doctors’ but bearing the Transplant Unlimited logo.
“Our timing is good. The heart should be emerging soon,” Walt said.
He gave a quick glance at the stunning technician, attempting, with
limited success, to keep from looking at her chest, which was barely
contained in scrubs at least a size too small. “How long, Erika?”
Erika tapped the screen on the control panel, and gave Walt a large
smile. “Thirteen more minutes.”
“Our timing is not good,” he said, smiling to the MDs. “Looks like I’ll
have to ad-lib for a while. It's not a successful tour unless you see an
organ come out.”
“Said the actress to the bishop,” muttered one of the doctors in a
heavy, French accent. The other doctors in the group attempted to
quell their high-school-like giggles and titters, mostly unsuccessfully.
“I’m sorry, what?” Walt said.
“Oh, nothing,” came the French-accented reply from a short, heavyset
doctor wearing wire frame glasses and a thin goatee. “It is a British
thing. I could not resist.”
Walt’s brow rose in confusion as the laughter faded, and with a
puzzled grin and a slight shake of his head, he removed the tablet-
sized electronic file folder from the control panel’s docking bay. He
tapped the screen a few times and studied the display, his eyes
shifting over the surface.
“Okay,” he said, reading from the screen. “This is the Meir heart being
printed for a thirty-four-year-old woman with advanced extrinsic
cardiomyopathy. She was scanned about a week ago, and is currently
being prepped at St. Joseph next door to receive her heart today at
ten a.m.”
Walt ran a calming hand through his thick head of brown hair, which
fell rakishly back where it started. Although he looked ten years older
than his current mid-thirties, partly due to the slight paunch where
his middle-aged spread started early, he still carried the remnants of
striking, almost aristocratic good looks from his youth. Now,
however, the fine lines on his face and dark circles under his puffy
eyes betrayed his late nights and general lack of healthy upkeep.
He replaced the electronic file folder into its docking station with a
glance at Erika. She looked up to catch Walt staring at her, but rather
than surprise or indignation, she responded with a wry smile. Walt
returned the smile, and turned back to his guests.
“Can I ask a question?” said a distinguished looking, gray haired
doctor.
“Sure, Dr. Abbott.” Walt said.
“How does your technician stand listening to this noise day after
day?”
Walt smiled. “Let’s ask her.” He turned to Erika. “How about it, Erika.
How do you stand listening to this noise all day?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, with a well-rehearsed cadence. “Did you say
something?”
The group was slow to catch on, but aided by Walt’s wide grin and
Erika’s duplicitous laugh, they got the joke.
“Same old Walt,” mumbled Dr. Julie Mills, the only female doctor in
the group.
“The annoyance factor goes away pretty quickly,” Erika said, more
serious this time, “but I swear Walt could turn it off in a second if he
wanted to. I think he leaves it there so people ask that question and
he can make me do that joke.”
“Nope, just a happy coincidence,” he said. “That sound is an
unavoidable part of the printing process.”
“Walt,” said Dr. Mills. “We all have a basic understanding of how the
organic printing process works, but since we have a few extra
minutes, can you go into a little more detail on it?”
“Sure thing,” he replied. “Good idea.” Walt stepped closer to the
doctors. “We begin with—”
A door behind them opened, and all eyes turned to see a man in his
mid-thirties enter the room. He carried a briefcase and wore a wide-
eyed look of surprise at seeing the group of doctors.
“Excellent,” Walt said. “Our resident genius has arrived. Nels, come
and meet everyone. Everyone, this is Nelson Taft, the brains of our
organization.”
Nelson’s look of surprise quickly faded, replaced by a large smile until
his eyes fell on Dr. Julie Mills. Her dark brown hair was much shorter
now, just about shoulder length, but she was still as beautiful as
when they dated in college, perhaps more so, if that were possible.
Gone from her face was the roundness and smoothness of youth,
replaced with confidence and a sharpening of features that only
enhanced her beauty. Hoping no one noticed his faltering smile, he
mustered a new one and stepped toward the group. “Good morning,
folks.”
“Julie,” Walt said, “I think you’ve met Nelson before, haven’t you?”
Nelson looked once again into those gray-green eyes that were so
familiar, made more enchanting by the contrasting black eyeliner
surrounded by that perfect, alabaster skin. “Hi Julie, it’s been a long
time.”
She smiled at Nelson as if they were just old friends from college. “Hi,
Nelson. I see Walt’s still an ass.”
Walt was smiling broadly. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Well, same old Walt,” Nelson said.
She turned to the other doctors and their puzzled expressions.
“Sorry, guys. I’ve known these two for years. We went to college at UC
Irvine together. It’s how I’m able to get these tours on such short
notice.”
“Well,” Walt broke in, “If you’re finished insulting me, why don’t you
introduce everyone to Nelson.”
“All right, but I doubt I’m done insulting you.” Turning to the first
doctor, a curly-haired Hispanic man, she said, “This is Dr. Pena.
Nelson Taft.”
Nelson turned to Pena and shook his hand.
“He's in his first year of residency, so feel free to completely ignore
anything he says,” Julie said.
“Wow,” Nelson said to Pena, “She’s really softened up over the years.”
Pena laughed. “And she’s one of the nice ones.” He shrugged.
“Everyone treats the first-years that way.”
“Sorry, it’s a rite of passage,” she said, smiling. “Have to cull the weak
from the herd, you know.”
“I'm fascinated by your operation here,” Pena said. “Can't wait to see
the finished product.”
Nelson turned to the next doctor, a slight, dark haired Asian man.
“This is Dr. Wong,” Julie said. “He's been at St. Joseph for—” Julie
looked at Dr. Wong for confirmation. “—Five years?”
“Yes, five years. Nice to meet you.”
“He's transplanted quite a number of your organs, but never had the
chance to come over and look around.”
“You're right next door, but I’ve just never found the time,” Dr. Wong
said.
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I know the life of a transplant
surgeon is a busy one.”
Julie shot Nelson a sideways look but continued. “Next is Dr. Abbott.”
Nelson turned to the next white-coated doctor and offered his hand.
“Good to meet you,” he said. Although easily the oldest person in the
room, Dr. Abbott carried a youthful look that made it difficult to
guess his age.
“St. Joseph just stole him from Hartford Hospital in Connecticut,” Julie
said.
Dr. Abbott chuckled, accentuating the crow’s feet at the corners of
his eyes. “The jury's still out on who got the better end of that deal,
but I do prefer the weather here. The higher cost of living I could do
without.”
A chorus of scoffs and catcalls erupted from the other doctors,
leaving Walt and Nelson to look on curiously.
“Nice to meet you,” Nelson said, “what’s the joke?”
“Dr. Abbott’s grandfather was one of the original founders of Intuitive
Surgical, developer of the da Vinci surgical robot,” Julie said. “He has
more money than some small countries. We don’t let him complain
about the cost of anything.”
“Hey,” Abbott replied with a smile, “I told you, it's my parents’ money,
not mine. I don’t get to touch it.”
More catcalls and even a few bullshit-coughs followed while Abbott
fended off the good-natured rich-kid accusations of his coworkers.
Erika’s one speaking role already concluded in yet another parade of
visitors through this place, she focused on the control panel and the
nearly completed heart in the printer. It wasn’t until the mention of
money in the conversation piqued her interest that she took a long,
hard look at Dr. Abbott. For an older guy, she thought, he’s kind of
cute. He was now busily attempting to salvage some dignity from the
situation. Prior to the outburst, she noticed him land a few too many
glances her direction for chance to explain. She’d been attractive all
her adult life, and could always tell when a man thought so, too.
In this case, she was not mistaken, at least not completely mistaken.
While the other doctors were mesmerized by the flickering blue light
of the organic printer, something entirely different was mesmerizing
Dr. Abbott. Yes, this machine was actually printing a human organ for
immediate transplant, and yes, she was a very pretty girl, but there
was something else that captured Dr. Abbott’s attention above all
others, and held it in a persistent, almost primitive grip. Dr. Abbott
couldn’t get past the fact that this company seemed to provide
hospital scrubs to their employees that were excessively small,
especially in the chest area.
“And last but not least,” Julie said, “this is Dr. Édouard Bertrand.”
The short, portly man standing in the rear stepped forward and
shook Nelson’s hand. He wore square, wire-rimmed glasses, and
sported a thin mustache and tiny caterpillar goatee at the point of his
chin.
“Good morning, so glad to meet you.”
Although sufficiently fluent in English, his strong French accent
hinted that he wasn’t a local.
“Édouard,” Julie said, “is visiting from Paris for a few months.”
“Welcome to California,” Nelson said. “What brings you here?”
Édouard smiled widely through his thin mustache. “It is for a
technical exchange program between St. Joseph and Bicêtre Hospital
in Paris, regarding surgical techniques… and, more importantly, I
think, to work with Juliette on her French.”
He gave a nod to Julie to make his reference clear, but it was
unnecessary. Her alabaster face already glowed with a deep auburn
hue at the mention of her linguistic tutoring, and Nelson knew it was
no small task to embarrass Julie. She shrugged it off and said, “Oui,
monsieur, but, I’m a bit rusty since college. I don’t know if two
months will be enough.”
“Nonsense,” Édouard said, “You speak French beautifully.” He turned
back toward Nelson. “Another reason I’m here is—”
“Here we go,” Wong interrupted, smiling and shaking his head.
Édouard cast a peripheral glance at Dr. Wong, but continued
speaking. “Few people are aware that St. Joseph Hospital can trace its
beginning directly to a small group of Roman Catholic women from
Le Puy, France in 1650. So, it only seems right that we come back
occasionally to check up on you.”
“He loves that line,” Pena agreed.
“Well…,” Nelson said to Édouard, not completely certain how to
respond. “That’s interesting.”
“Next he’ll be telling us the French have the best military record in the
world,” Wong said.
“No, no,” Édouard replied, smiling with the thrill of the battle, “I would
never make that claim. What I said was the French have the best
military record in Europe.”
“Okay, guys, quit dog-piling on the foreigner,” Julie said. Turning to
Walt, “Now that the introductions are finished, you were about to
explain how this all works.”
“Well,” Walt said, turning to Nelson, “I was just going to give them my
canned speech, but you know the biology part of the process so
much better than I, would you mind going through it?”
“No problem.” Nelson placed his briefcase on the floor and gathered
his thoughts. Far from looking like an expert who could explain the
complex process of manufacturing human organs, he appeared to be
more like one of the local surfers, with his short, spiked hair, two-day
stubble growth, and outdoorsy color. Like many of the surfers, he
was trim and muscular, making him look a decade younger than his
true age.
“Walt is being very humble when he calls me the resident genius, and
humility is normally out of character for him.” Nelson laughed and
the doctors joined in with smiles of comprehension at the friendly
jab.
“I'm far from the brains of this organization, more like in the right
place at the right time. However, Walt is, without a doubt, the beating
heart of Transplant Unlimited. Starting the business was his idea. He
gutted the entire floor of this building, built all the structures, all the
equipment, and has been tweaking our scanner over the last few
years to give us finer and finer resolution. I'm assuming you've
already been through the scanning room?”
The doctors all nodded in affirmation.
“Well, as you know, human organ donation is fraught with
complications. Not only are donors rare, but they must also be
viable: they must be fairly young, they must be within certain size
limitations, they must be healthy, the blood groups must be
compatible… the list goes on and on. Fortunately, the need for
donors has become obsolete. Thanks to breakthroughs across a
number of different scientific disciplines, instead of harvesting them
from other humans, we make human organs on the 3D printers you
see here behind the glass. These printers are not much different
from the printers used in business offices every day. They are much
larger, of course, and instead of colored ink, we use organic tissue
precursors, but I'm getting a little ahead of myself.”
As Nelson spoke, Dr. Abbott took turns watching the presentation
and glancing at Erika, one of the few women he’d seen who could
make hospital scrubs look sexy. Glancing over at Walt only confirmed
Abbott’s earlier assessment that Transplant Unlimited made a habit
of buying their uniforms too small. Like Erika’s uniform top, Walt’s lab
coat was also too tight for him, except it was around his midsection
rather than his chest, and, in Abbott’s opinion, not nearly as awe-
inspiring.
“There are four other organ printing facilities in the U.S. and only two
in Europe,” Nelson said. “Our franchise owner, the inventor of the
process, has plans for more in other parts of the world as the list of
printable organs grows, but it doesn't take too many of these
machines to cost-effectively meet all the world's current transplant
needs. We begin the process with the complex PET/MRI scan, which,
as Walt probably told you, utilizes the MRI to create a detailed model
of the organ being replicated, and then uses a PET scan to give us a
3D image of the functional process of the organ. Next, we take ten
CCs of adipose tissue from the patient—”
“Fat?” Dr. Pena interrupted.
“Yes, fat, which contains an incredible abundance of stem cells. Using
a person's own stem cells completely eliminates any organ rejection
issues and the resulting need for anti-rejection drugs.”
“Is the fat removal process anything like liposuction?” Pena asked.
“In fact, it's exactly like liposuction. We do it here in our office, but if a
patient wanted to lose some weight along with getting their new
organ, they could get the full liposuction treatment at St. Joseph next
door and we would need just ten CCs of that. So far, nobody has
opted for it, but this is California: it's bound to happen.”
There were chuckles and nods of agreement.
“Speaking of that, it's no coincidence that we're situated right next
door to St. Joseph's here in Orange. Proximity to a transplant center
is one of the requirements of our franchise. Of course, the limited
number of organ printers means the organs must still be transported
to where they're needed; however, as you know, it's always best
practice to avoid any delays.”
Nelson pointed to the multicolored tubes protruding from the rear
wall of the print room behind the buzzing machines.
“Behind the print room is the feedstock room where the adipose
tissue is washed with a proprietary mix of enzymes that breaks down
the scaffolding of the fat and allows the stem cells to be removed. We
perform a rapid culture on the stem cells to produce an amount
sufficient to replicate the organ, in this case, a heart. Just prior to the
manufacturing process, the stem cells are mixed with plasma and
exposed to special laser light to photoactivate the stem cell’s
functionality.”
His outstretched arm and index finger traced a path from where the
tubes entered the printer room on the far wall to where they
interfaced with the nearest printer.
“Next, the feedstock is introduced to the 3D printer where the stem
cells are mixed with the correct type and quantity of growth factors,
enzymes, proteins, and other nutrients under the laser print head in
a bath of proprietary solution. Here, the stem cells are individually
placed and converted to the correct type of cell with the exact
geometry and functionality necessary. Like any 3D printer, the cells
are stacked one at a time until the fully formed organ is complete.”
Nelson paused and looked at the doctors. They were hanging on his
every word.
“Nelson,” Dr. Wong said. “Can you go into a little more detail about
the plasma introduction and photoactivation?”
Nelson gave him a weak smile. “Actually, no, I can’t. Those are
proprietary processes that I’m not allowed to discuss. I guess our
franchise owner doesn’t want any little geniuses out there printing
hearts as high school science fair projects.”
Nelson smiled and the group smiled back. Dr. Wong lifted both
hands palms outward. “Fair enough. How many different organs can
you make?”
“Right now, we focus on the big five.” Nelson began counting on his
fingers. “Heart, kidney, liver, lungs, and pancreas, but the list
continues to grow. It's not exaggeration when I say we can print
anything you guys can transplant.”
Dr. Bertrand half raised his hand. “You are able to meet the local
demand for organs with just these two machines?”
“That’s right. These are our only production units, but we have a third
unit that Walt and I spend most of our time on for development work
and improving the process.”
Walt interjected. “We call it the Skunkworks machine like Lockheed
Martin’s secret jet development program in the 1950s.”
“Thus, proving Walt is an engineering geek at heart,” Nelson said,
smiling, “It's not as compact or elegant as these machines, but does
exactly the same thing.”
“So how long does it take to print an organ,” Dr. Pena asked.
“That depends on the organ,” Nelson replied. “Once we start the
actual printing process, a kidney or liver takes just two hours. A
pancreas takes about forty-five minutes. Hearts and lungs are a bit
more complex, so you’re looking at three to four hours.”
Dr. Abbott, silent throughout the explanation, finally spoke. “How do
you make healthy organs when the ones you scan are, in many cases,
damaged or diseased?”
“Ah, an excellent question that not many think to ask. The scanning
software automatically compensates for nonviable tissue by running
what we call regenerative protocols. For example, when scanning the
lungs of a heavy smoker—for those who can still afford to
smoke—we don’t want to duplicate the damaged cilia or alveoli, so
the scanner replaces it with healthy cells that mimic the rest of the
geometry of the patient.”
Dr. Abbott nodded thoughtfully at this.
“What about the human microbiome?” Dr. Pena asked.
“Another question few think to ask, and from the first year. Dr. Mills
should really be nicer to you.”
Julie feigned a look of indignation.
“I don’t have to tell you how much medical science has learned in the
last few decades regarding the importance of the microbiome for our
very existence,” Nelson said. “What I can tell you is how much
medical science still doesn’t know. However, for the purposes of
printing human organs, the interaction with the microbiome is no
different from when organs were harvested from donors. The body’s
microbiome quickly populates the new organ tissue as necessary.”
“But the microbiome cells outnumber the human cells ten to one.
Don’t they overwhelm the scanning process? I can see the potential
for printing the wrong cells.”
“No, that’s not an issue,” Nelson replied. “You’re correct that the
microbiome cells are much smaller and more numerous than human
cells, but the scanning process works so well that it easily
distinguishes between host and nonhost cells. Plus, there is no
matching genetic feedstock present to make any of these
microorganisms, so the printing process doesn’t attempt to
reproduce them.”
The high-pitched whine of the nearest machine abruptly stopped,
leaving a noticeable and welcomed void in the acoustics of the room.
A moment later, a gentle alarm tone began ringing on the control
panel. Erika tapped the panel once and the alarm stopped.
“Okay, folks,” Walt said. “It appears the heart is done. Next, a
technician will retrieve the organ and deliver it to the hospital, where
the doctor and patient are eagerly waiting for it.”
As if on cue, a side door to the printing room opened, and a stocky
man entered wearing the standard issue Transplant Unlimited scrubs
(also tight, Dr. Abbott noticed), a cap, latex gloves, and a face mask.
He carried with him a rectangular blue and white container, holding a
handle recessed into the top surface. The corners were square, like a
cardboard box, and on the side of the container, in large block
letters, were the words “Human Organ.”
Seemingly oblivious to his audience, he set the container on a small
shelf near the stainless-steel box on the printer, tapped an integrated
touchpad on the side of the container, and watched as a thick section
of the top slid smoothly back to reveal a darkened interior. Next, he
turned to the 3D printer, and set about disassembling the stainless-
steel box.
Small clamps with threaded fasteners held together the corners of
the stainless-steel box, which was roughly the size of a large
microwave oven. Using a battery-operated wrench hanging out of
sight, the technician began unthreading the fasteners. The four male
doctors stepped closer to the glass, and watched with rapt attention
as the technician worked.
“How long will the organ remain viable before it needs to be
transplanted?” Dr. Pena asked.
“Oh, roughly a week chilled and stored in the nutrient solution,” Walt
replied, “which gives us plenty of time to transport it to other
hospitals in our region.”
Julie, having seen this demonstration before, found herself standing
apart from the group next to Nelson. She turned to him. “So, how
have you been?” she asked in a quiet voice, quickly turning back to
resume watching the technician as if she didn’t really care about the
answer.
“Busy, but doing okay. You?” he asked. Nelson also pretended to be
interested in the organ removal process, which he’d seen too many
times to be impressed.
“The same, very busy.”
By now, the technician was removing the first panel. As he broke the
magnetic seal with the neighboring panels, small rivulets of nutrient
bath trickled out into a catch basin.
“I like your hair,” Nelson said. “Short hair looks good on you.”
Julie broke her stare from the deftly moving technician to face
Nelson. “You are a terrible liar. You liked my hair long. As I recall, you
didn't want me to get it cut.”
Nelson turned to meet her gray-green eyes, now suspiciously
studying him under raised brows, and offered a humble smile. “Well,
I was wrong. It really works for you.”
Her hard stare softened into a contrite smile. “Well, it's a little better
now, but just like during my residency, I don't have the time to take
care of long hair, or time for much of anything else, for that matter. I
feel like I've aged thirty years since college.”
“Well, I think you look fantastic.” Although sincere, the compliment
tumbled out before he could stop it, and Nelson regretted it the
second it left his lips.
She smiled at his comment, but her eyes remained suspicious.
“Thanks, but you're still a terrible liar. You, on the other hand, don't
look a day older than when we were in college. How do you do it?”
“Ha, now who's the liar?” he asked with a laugh.
“Seriously, you and Walt are the same age. He looks like he hasn’t
seen the inside of a gym since graduation, but you haven’t changed a
bit.”
“I try to exercise when I can.”
“It shows.” Julie turned to watch the technician again, mostly to hide
the warmth she could once again feel creeping over her face.
Three of the four panels were off, but all she could see was the
technician’s back. She didn’t mind: she had seen it all before. The
technician was visually inspecting the completed organ before
moving it from its home location. The repair of tiny visible
imperfections such as tears in the surface or ragged edges was
relatively simple while the organ remained in the home location, but
once moved, repair became much more complex.
“So, now you’re Juliette?” Nelson asked quietly. “You hated it when I
called you that.”
“Since Édouard found out my given name is Juliette, he hasn’t
stopped calling me that. He says it sounds more French.”
“What it sounds like, is that you have an admirer.”
“He’s married,” she said, “but it is nice to speak French again.”
“That’s right,” he said, nodding. “You spent a summer in Paris
studying abroad.”
She nodded. “Studying? I don’t think I got much studying done, but I
was in Paris.”
They both smiled and pretended to watch the technician.
“You have a good group with you today,” Nelson said.
“Yeah, they’re all great. Most of the docs next door are stiffs, but
these guys get my humor. You looked surprised to see me this
morning. I guess Walt didn't tell you we were coming.”
“Yeah, a little surprised, and no, he didn’t tell me. He's been busy, too,
it seems.”
From the corner of her eye, Julie noticed Walt leaning down to
whisper into the console technician’s ear. She was a pretty Latina that
Julie didn’t know, but she was well-acquainted with Walt’s wife, Lillian.
“I hope you're okay with this,” she said.
Nelson turned to face her and she met his look. “Of course,” he said.
“Perfectly fine with it. I'm an adult. There's no reason we can't have a
working relationship just because we can't have a personal one.”
“You're taking this pretty well. The last time I talked to you, you told
me I broke your heart.”
“Well, I printed myself a new one.”
He managed to keep a straight face for only two or three seconds
before the mischievous grin appeared. The brief confusion on her
face melted into a smile, and she playfully hit him on the arm.
“I do miss that goofy sense of humor, but only sometimes,” she said,
smiling, and then turned serious. “I am sorry. I—”
Nelson interrupted. “Julie, it's okay. I'm okay. It's in the past and we're
friends. I'm good with that, really.”
They locked eyes and looked at each other while all around them, the
minutiae of that moment in time—the incessant buzzing from the
second printer, the group of awe-struck doctors, the technicians, the
freshly printed human heart—all faded into the background. As he
looked once again into those familiar gray-green eyes, he thought he
saw something, something he used to see when they were dating. As
much as he enjoyed seeing it, he knew he could not encourage her.
He kept his eyes passive and lifeless as he stared back at her.
“Okay,” she said finally, “okay.”
She turned back to watch the technician behind the glass, but Walt’s
interest in the attractive girl at the console drew her attention once
again. “Is there something going on there?” She nodded in their
direction.
Nelson shifted his gaze to look at them. Walt said something to Erika,
and she gave him a playful smack to the arm, just like the one Julie
had delivered to Nelson moments ago.
“Funny you should say something, that's the rumor going around,
but I don't think so. He and Lillian are pretty solid. Besides, Erika’s got
to be ten years younger than him.”
“Or more. Maybe she likes older guys,” Julie said.
“Of course. Everyone knows that hot, young, big-boobed girls are
attracted to overweight, out of shape, balding, middle-aged guys. It's
like a natural law or something.”
“Okay, smart-ass, maybe she likes older guys’ bank accounts.”
Nelson nodded in agreement. “That would seem more likely.”
“I don't know. Something just looks out of place there.”
While Nelson and Julie watched, Erika wagged an accusatory finger at
Walt as he held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Poor Lillian,” Julie said. “She can be a little rigid, but she's such a
good person.”
A small commotion from the doctors shook Nelson and Julie from
their discreet observations. The technician now gripped the heart in
both latex-covered hands, and held it close to the glass to afford the
doctors a better view. About the size of two small fists held together,
the freshly printed muscle was pinkish auburn-red with pale white
streaks of collagen running randomly throughout. The superior and
inferior vena cavas, the aorta, and the pulmonary artery all
protruded from the organ with crisp, perfect edges.
“Wow, look at that,” said Dr. Pena. “It looks like it just came out of a
chest cavity.”
“Put a defibrillator on it, and it would start beating,” Walt said
proudly.
“The aorta and pulmonary arteries look out of proportion,” Abbott
said.
Walt said, “Good eye. We print them slightly longer to make the
transplant process easier. The surgeon can use the extra length or
trim them as needed.”
Leaving his audience and turning to the blue container, the
technician lowered the heart down into it and tapped the touchpad.
The lid glided effortlessly back, sealing the heart inside. Glancing up
at a digital clock integrated into a display screen in the front of the
printer, he tapped the screen on the container a few more times.
“Right now, he's comparing the digital time stamp on the storage
vessel with the machine time,” Walt said. “He’s also just wirelessly
transferred all the information from the electronic file folder on the
console to the storage vessel. Before the heart goes to St. Joseph,
he’ll run it through a small MRI scanner to make sure the interior
geometry is correct, but so far our success rate is one hundred
percent.”
Apparently satisfied that all was well, the technician picked up the
storage vessel, and, giving the crowd a small wave, exited through
the same door he previously entered.
“Okay folks,” Walt said, running his hand through his hair. “I guess the
show's over. There’s coffee and doughnuts in the conference room,
and we can answer any other questions you have.”
The small crowd followed as Walt headed toward the exit. He held
the door open as they filed through.
“Do you run these machines around the clock?” asked Dr. Abbott.
“We typically just staff a day shift, although depending on the organ
print schedule, we sometimes stretch that to ten or twelve hours.
The equipment will run twenty-four seven, so we may start a lung at
five p.m., and it will be here waiting for us the next morning. In fact,
we'll be closed Monday for the Labor Day weekend, but the machines
will be humming along while we—”
Walt’s voice faded away as the door closed behind him. Julie and
Nelson stood unnoticed as Erika busily tapped screens on the control
panel. In the print room, a second blue-scrubbed technician was now
cleaning the print platform to prepare for the next job.
“It was nice seeing you again, Nelson,” Julie said. “I'm sorry it worked
out this way.”
“I know, Julie. It was nice seeing you, too.”
She hesitated, as if she had more to say, but looked at the floor and
turned quickly toward the exit. Nelson watched as she hurried
toward the door, the tails of her white lab coat flapping behind her.
As the seconds ticked by unnoticed, he stood motionless, staring at
the door after it closed. With a brief shake of his head to break the
mental trance, he turned, retrieved his briefcase from the floor, and
made his way out of the control room.