The Human Blend by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

her medogic tucked under one arm she strode toward the front entrance, tiptoeing around the occasional puddle. Dinner was very much on her mind.
    The worried woman who met her obviously had other concerns.
    “I can’t believe anyone does this,” she murmured gratefully as she invited the doctor inside. Her comment was typical of the reaction Ingridreceived on no less than ninety-nine percent of her house calls. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Turning, she led the doctor deeper into the spotless residence.
    “You’re welcome.” Ingrid never said “It’s my job.” If she did, the flow of gratitude tended never to cease and interfered with her work.
    A slidestair carried them to a second floor. The view out a flex window shifted continuously from one end of the property to the other. A few steps down an interior hallway and the mother halted briefly, waiting on a door to open.
    “It’s our daughter, Cara,” she whispered nervously. “She didn’t want us to call you. She doesn’t want to see a doctor. I think she’s embarrassed.”
    According to the stats Ingrid’s office had downloaded and that had been transferred to her medogic, Cara Jean Gibson was a fifteen-year-old girl. Simply
being
a fifteen-year-old girl was embarrassing. Entering the room, Ingrid was mentally primed to confront the expected. Acne, gawkiness insufficiently improved by low-grade over-the-counter manips, badly gengineered hair, failed skin toning resulting in possible fever.
    She was not prepared for what she actually encountered.
    Cara Gibson was lying on a traditional bed. The underneath was fibernet, but from the looks of it the antique feather mattress on top had been lovingly restored and maintained. In contrast, the girl’s head rested on a thoroughly modern aeromuse pillow that had doubtless been programmed to play her favorite music depending on how she shifted the weight of her head against it. For all Ingrid knew it was hammering away right now, transmitting the latest goolmech to the girl via direct acoustic transduction. If it was, the tune she was listening to was not a happy one.
    Eyes widening at the sight of the newcomer, Cara responded to the intrusion in no uncertain terms. “Moma! I
told
you—no doctors!”
    Ingrid put on her most sympathetic girl-girl smile. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”
    The teen grunted, as if the visitor’s identity was the most obvious thing in the world. “Musth! You barely glanced at my face before your eyes went to my head.”
    Ingrid spoke gently as she advanced toward the bed. “May I see your head?”
    Cara Gibson turned over sharply to face the wall instead of her mother and the stranger. “Why not? It seems like everybody
else
wants to.”
    At least with her patient facing the other direction Ingrid did not have to worry about maintaining an empathetic smile. The girl’s turn had revealed what should have been a fairly simple cosmetic meld gone wrong. It was a full quill implant, standard scarlet macaw. Bright yellow, dark blue, and intense red feathers flared in the currently favored Mohawk crest from the top front of the girl’s otherwise shaven skull down to the middle of her back. The meld ensured that the feathers would continue to grow exactly as they might from the body of the bird that had provided the template DNA. Unless the meld was deleted, of course.
    Ingrid unfolded her medogic. “I have to scan you to see what’s gone wrong, Cara. I need your permission.”
    “Like my mother didn’t already give you permission. Oh, go ahead.” The girl didn’t turn to watch. “I don’t care. I’m a mess anyway.”
    “Maybe we can fix that.” When the patient didn’t reply Ingrid proceeded to activate the medogic. “And thank you for giving me
your
permission.”
    The readings were about what she expected based on her preliminary visual observation. Whoever had performed the meld had either used an insufficiency of bonding protein or the wrong one.