Transplant Unlimited

TRANSPLANT UNLIMITED

Kyle R. Fisher

Transplant Unlimited

Kyle R Fisher

Smashwords Edition

Revised 2021

Text © 2015 Kyle R. Fisher

Book and cover design by Kyle R. Fisher

Front cover photograph © Kyle R. Fisher

Logo Design by Kyle R. Fisher and Vincent Kline-Parker

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchase for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

My sincerest thanks to the people who helped make this novel a reality:

First, thanks to my beta readers, in alphabetical order, for their editorial assistance:

Alexis Fisher, Courtney Fisher, Kerry Fisher, Kevin Fisher, Lori Fisher, and Mark Young.

Next, thanks to Vincent Kline-Parker for his invaluable assistance with the design of the Transplant Unlimited logo.

Last, thanks to my wife, Lori Fisher, for putting up with the countless hours I spent with my face buried in a laptop finishing this novel. She is a much more incredible wife than I deserve.

Connect with the Author

www.krfisher.com

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Connect with the Author

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.

One

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