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Chapter 1 - Horizon Burning
The sun was shining brightly that morning as Carlos Donofrio opened up his shop. A creature of habit, for thirty-six years he had opened his shop the same way. Go in through the back door, disable the security system, open the door to his office, get the key for the front door. Set down his Nico-lyte, still hot from the Nicos on the corner of the block. Hadn’t been doing that for thirty-six years, that was true. Nicos was one of those new drink shops that had sprung up coast to coast overnight about five years ago. Their Nico-lyte wasn’t quite coffee, and it wasn’t quite hot chocolate, but since both commodities were unbelievably expensive Carlos figured it was good enough. Besides, it got him going in the morning, and it didn’t taste half bad. Open the gate separating half the shop, and go to the front door. More often than not, someone was waiting. Flip on the Open switch, and unlock the inner door. Someone was waiting. Young guy, a repeat customer. Carlos couldn’t quite remember his name, but he did remember what he was in for. “Come on in,” Carlos said with a smile, “you’re early.” “Mayhaps” the young man said. It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a statement. More an acknowledgement that Carlos spoke than anything. Carlos opened the door to let the man in, and peered outside. Quiet, as usual. Things didn’t perk up on Parson St until at least eleven. He picked up the paper lying beside the door, still wrapped in semi-plastic. He wasn’t going to have time to read it this morning, not if all his customers were early. “Take off your coat if you want, I still have to warm up the machine,” he told the man patiently waiting without a word. He complied, and Carlos remembered his name. Like many paranoid kids, he didn’t give him a real name. Joey Jo-Jo was an overused pseudonym, but Carlos didn’t care. As long as he got paid for his services, why should he ask questions? They weren’t doing anything illegal, as long as the kid was over 15. He could tell though that this kid had been here before. He recognized his own handiwork. And sure enough, the sub-arms grafted onto Joey’s back were done by Carlos. A gifted craftsman knows his own work, after all. A quick comp check told Carlos exactly what Joey was in for. Nothing complicated, just a leg extension below the knee. He went into the Gen room to see if the legs were ready. They were, so he handed Joey a pile of forms to fill out, the typical acceptance agreements. “It’ll be ready to go in a minute or two, you can fill these in the meantime.” Though grafting had been legal for some forty years, you’d never know it by talking to a lawyer. They still feared malpractice, negligence, and any other lawsuit known to man. Carlos didn’t mind too much. You had the patient fill out enough forms, you were fine. The surgery took about half an hour from start to finish. It went smoothly enough, as they usually did these days. Computerized modeling of the entire procedure made sure that it stayed as non-invasive as possible. They didn’t even need an anesthetist, which twenty-five years ago would have been unthinkable. Carlos was happy to use any technological advancement that would make the work easier, cheaper too. When he first opened his practice he had aimed it at the wealthy who could afford the costly grafting. Nowadays though, it was cheap enough so that anyone could afford to have an extra organ grown for them. Liver disease, heart failures, these were all things of the past. He still had a decent profit margin though. The affordable operations meant that grafting became a legitimate kind of body enhancement. Carlos liked his job. He helped people who were seriously ill, and he didn’t bankrupt them in the process. It was a living, and if some kids wanted to add genitalia to their stomachs... well it paid the bills. Over the next few hours, four more customers filtered into the shop. Most of them were just curious, wanted to check out the place. Grafting art still wasn’t mainstream so as a form of personal expression people were still a little hesitant. Parson Street was a good place to have a store, though. Carlos figured a third of his business came from people walking down the street. That, he reflected, was one of the better things about operating in California. People were generally more open to experimentation here, and were willing to spend money even if they didn’t have all that much to begin with. Which was ironic, really. After all, research in the United States was illegal for so long that by the time they legalized cloning and grafting - two completely separate things in Carlos’ opinion - they couldn’t catch up to more progressive countries. Close to 1:00 the store was empty, so Carlos went for lunch. He left the machines on, no reason to have to warm them up again. Lock the front door, flip the lunch sign on, and turn the open sign off. Go out through the back, and lock up. A few doors down, there was a Mr. Yumyum. Some people found the kelp-based food disgusting, but Carlos just figured it was an acquired taste. The manager greeted Carlos with a smile. “Afternoon, Mr. Natashi!” Carlos said returning the smile. Neighbors for years, Carlos was the one who replaced his cancerous prostate. If they had lived in a more barbarous time, he didn’t know what Scott Natashi would have done. Carlos had done the procedure at a significant discount but for Carlos the man’s friendship was ample payment. They did the usual arguing. Scott didn’t want Carlos to pay, but Carlos insisted. Scott won this day, but only by physically pushing him away from the counter before he could swipe his card. Armed with a bag filled with seasoned kelp, rice, and tiny packets of wasabi he walked the block down to the beach. At one end, some kids were playing a game of volleyball. Some of them turned to look at him. He took his shoes and his socks off. No sense being on the beach if you can’t enjoy the feeling of sand between your toes, he reasoned. But the sand was hot, so he ran to the edge of the water. The tide was receding in between gentle waves, softening the sand on the beach. He found a nice spot to sit, put down a small towel and began to enjoy his lunch. Just as he was finishing the rice, something in the sky caught his eye. Out in the distance over the ocean someone was lighting a flare. No, not a flare. For one thing, it was too far away to be a flare. From that distance the flare would have to be huge. Any crafts equipped with a gigantic flare would have more efficient ways to get help. Whatever it was, it was plummeting towards the sea at an alarming rate. It would take a great deal of mass to make something fall that quickly. Strange, really. Ah well, he needed to get back to the shop. Carlos got up, dusted the fine granules of sand off his backside, and flicked the towel clean. As he was leaving, he looked again at the volleyball game in progress. The game seemed to be temporarily stopped, the participants embroiled in an argument. Mind your business, Carlos told himself as he walked back to his shop. That advice had lasted him for many a year, and he wasn’t about to poke his nose where it didn’t belong now.
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