Chapter Text
Biopharmaceuticals Limited certainly lived up to its name. It produced the best drugs, for a price. Treatments of the corporations’ patrons had nearly double the success rates of those performed through city hospitals, a statistic touted on billboards throughout London. Of course, there were the dissenters; rival companies, homeopathic agencies, and human rights activists were always pinning signs up on one streetcorner or another, but the general public paid them little mind.
“I’m sure you know why you’ve been headhunted by our agency, Captain Watson.”
John shifted in his chair, fingering the cuff of his wrinkled suit. The head of personnel and hiring, Dr. Sebastian Wilkes, grinned disarmingly.
“Actually, no I don’t. When I was notified that I was being subcontracted out by the army in lieu of a discharge, I was rather surprised. I don’t see why your company thought I’d be an asset.”
The agent looked surprised. “You’re too modest, Dr. Watson! Biopharmaceuticals Limited is always looking for the best and brightest doctors, and your record shows that you are certainly in that category. Plus a war hero to boot! No, we are very interested.”
John looked him in the eye, skepticism edging his discomfort. “I’m a doctor, not a pharmacist or a medical researcher. I don’t see why you’d even want me.”
Wilkes leaned over the table, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Well, Dr. Watson, you certainly want us. Your psychological profile says you don’t do well when you feel useless, and going back to Afghanistan certainly isn’t an option.”
John bristled. “How do you know—never mind. It doesn’t matter, and I shouldn’t be here.” He gripped the aluminium cane by his side and moved to rise. He’d never have been so insubordinate in the army, but this was not the army. Hell, he didn’t even know it was legal for the army to subcontract out soldiers who hadn’t finished their tours.
“Fine,” the interviewer sighed. “I’d hoped we could leave the messy side of things until later, but if you insist on knowing exactly why we want you . . . ” He rose from his indulgent leather desk chair and, motioning for John to follow, left the room.
He led the limping doctor down a ridiculously modern-looking hallway and to a bank of elevators. To John’s surprise, the interviewer pushed the “down” button.
“Wait,” asked the doctor, “Aren’t we on the ground floor?”
Wilkes looked excited. “Of course, but Biopharm Limited has three different subterranean levels as well as its aboveground stories.” He continued to detail the engineering brilliance that had allowed for this as the agent and the doctor sank underground in the polished metal box.
“First level is the lobby and offices,” Wilkes went on. “Basement 1 is Recovery and Readmittence, Basement 2 is Living Quarters and Surgery, and Basement 3 is . . . well, you’ve trained in hospitals, Doctor. You know these things don’t always go well.”
John nodded. Basement 3: Morgue. To be expected, he supposed.
“Of course, you won’t need to go down there. Doctors stay in Basement 2 with their IPs, Incubator Patients. And here we are now!”
They stepped out of the elevator and into another brushed-steel hallway. Wilkes led John to one of the thick metal doors, looked briefly through the reinforced-glass window inset, and walked into the room.
“Dr. Stamford! Molly! I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Watson, one of our prospective new recruits!”
Dr. Stamford looked up and nodded from where he was drawing the blood of a cheerful-looking young woman. She waved at John with her free hand, and said, “Welcome to the family, Dr. Watson!”
Wilkes went on. “Molly here is one of our best volunteer IPs. This is, what, your fourth round here?”
The young woman smiled shyly. “Fifth.”
“Volunteer IPs are the heart of our operation here at Biopharmaceuticals Limited.”
John looked to where the syringe was drawing blood from Ms. Hooper’s arm. The skin there was pockmarked from where it had been done before, scars upon scars. And he saw other telltale signs of repeated trauma: IV marks on the back of her hand, shaved patches on her scalp, and odd lines and raised sections in her hospital gown that spoke of multiple surgery scars. In the old days, this woman would have been diagnosed with Munchausen’s Syndrome and given psychological help. Today, she was a model volunteer.
The doctor was overcome by a sudden wave of disgust and only just managed to stumble from the room. The agent, alarmed, followed.
“No,” said John. “I can’t. I won’t hurt people like her, even if they don’t think they mind. I’m a doctor, and I made an oath to do no harm.”
Wilkes put an entirely unwanted hand on John’s arm. “So, you don’t want to do implantation support. So fine! Most of our doctors don’t do that anyway. Stamford in there, he just does supportive care—keeping the IPs as healthy as possible until their surgeries, when the synthetic organs are removed and they go back to the outside. You can even do the surgeries if you’d like.”
John looked up, suspicious and angry. “Your doctors—are they all like me? Subcontracted against their will?”
For the first time in their interaction, Wilkes looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Well, most of them are subcontracted. Though almost all of them are thrilled to work here, the pay is better than overseas. And we do good work, our drugs help to save—”
Just then, a scream rang out from one of the doors on the hallway, and a nasally-voiced man in a nurse’s uniform came flying out into the hall, where he made a beeline for Wilkes. A second look at the man showed John that he was sopping wet.
The recruitment agent sighed. “Anderson, I’m with a new doctor. Someone else can deal with it.”
But Anderson wasn’t showing signs of giving in. “Exploding saline bag. The third exploding saline bag this week. Something has to be done about him!”
Wilkes sighed and, in a hissed whisper, asked “Can’t you deal with it? We’re nearly as low on non-drowsy IPs as we are on doctors, so we can’t exactly get rid of him. Especially not in the middle of a round.”
“But he’s a menace! I refuse to work with him.”
“In which case he’ll be left without any physician and we could lose the drugs for good. And the cost will be coming out of your salary.”
At that, Anderson bit his nearly nonexistent lower lip and stormed off, leaving a wet trail of saline solution in his wake. As soon as the nurse rounded the corner, violin music started to flow from the open door he’d left behind.