There is a story about fear, drug addiction, and a biotechnologist – and it’s a story not worth telling.
It’s the same old shit. Hotshot geneslinger comes on board, ready to change the world and make new friends, from scratch if necessary.
Works twenty hours a day. Creates new therapies, saves millions. Gets lauded as a hero, a celebrity. Has her face pasted on every screen and her name on the lips of every faceless news personality.
Gets tired. No one can maintain the pace she sets herself, not for long. Not even with the ‘helpers’ she creates for herself in her lab. Flesh and blood eventually hits a wall and in every case leaves a mess for someone else to clean up.
Gets scared. Memory starts to go, thinking gets fuzzy. Helpers aren’t helping, and she won’t listen to those that tell her that they never do. Doesn’t yet realize that they’ve been where she is, splicers at the ready, playing as gods in bondage to the people. Doesn’t see them shake their heads as she brushes them off, knowing that she’ll never listen, not until she’s one of those telling the fresh young meat to slow down, take it easy, Eden wasn’t built in a day. Assuming she lives that long.
Gets herself a silver elbow. Chemtrails streaking up her arm, down her side. Bloodroad becomes too obvious, turns to less visible means of drug intake, but no less harmful. It’s all right, though. She didn’t want kids, anyway. Needs more and more to do less and less. One day, she throws out her chair and starts working standing up. The greyhounds shake their heads, but say no more. There’s nothing more to say.
Soon after, her mistakes get bigger and harder to hide. More cost. More ethically dubious to put down. Start to draw the attention of the exec. Gruesome horrors not meant for the sight of Man tend to do that. Another discussion begins.
And ends in the same way. Fine work in the past, no complaints, but our return on investment is no longer at a level we’re satisfied with. No reflection on yourself. Services no longer required. Redundant. Let go. Please leave your prox card on your desk, and clear out any personal items. Not that there were any. No one watches her go. She left years before.
Another biotech dumped to the curb. Another clean crackerjack swaggering through the door, ready to change the world and make new friends, from scratch if necessary. Just another chapter in a story not worth telling.