Repurposed 8.0

Interval 8.0
January 21, 1974
1005, Seattle, WA
Armacham Headquarters / Western Division Conference Room



The Aristides sat near each other, father and daughter, looking over the rest of the gathered men at the wide oak conference table. Genevieve noted bitterly that she was the only woman in the room, and she was often looked at either as a novelty or intruder, more likely a secretary that had decided to sit down with the big boys for their discussion. Where was her steno pad, then? They had note-takers. They weren't visible in the room, that was certain. The day before, she had overheard – that was wrong, she had been meant to hear it, her father spoke nice and loud – Stephan chastising one of the old guard, men with old ideas and old cars. 'Why was she going to be at that meeting and not him, she's barely out of grad school?'

'Because', Stephan asserted, 'she's already done more for the company than you have in twenty five years.' That brought a genuine smile to her face. So he had been watching her ideas, approving her plans, because they were good, and not because they were hers.

Even without complaining about the boss' daughter, he wouldn't have been at this meeting anyway. Only the big-wigs here: her father, Stephan, Wooten from Research and Development, that new guy Wade from Genetics, and a few scattered folks from Marketing, Manufacturing, HR… There were others from the legal department, and two more or less 'special guests' seated across from the Aristides, from the Department of Defense.

"So tell us about this project you're working on," one of those two said, he was eager but tired. He'd muttered about plane rides from across the country, Genevieve considered playing nice with him. He was cute, he was powerful. She'd noticed him take off his wedding ring and pocket it when he arrived.

The senior Aristide glanced over to Wooten, who – like most of the older employess of Armacham, had a practiced smile and a good reputation for getting funds. Didn't matter if he was selling cars, pancakes or bone-plating.

It was the last, which he was selling today. Wooten was a good bit larger than Stephan, barrel chested and loud voiced. That might have been very deceptive to most who saw him, too: he was a brilliant engineer, he'd done work in chemistry and rocketry, which led him to Armacham and their projects to launch light-weight satellites. From there, Genevieve had learned, a drunken doodle on a bar napkin was what led them to this day.

The lights in the wide room were dimmed, and the slide projector which had been set up earlier was uncovered by another of the nearly-invisible hosts. They were crawling all over the place, actually; taking notes, delivering fresh water to the table, snapping silent photos, making sure everything went smoothly. If there was one thing that Stephan Aristide liked, it was a smooth operation.

"We have known for several years, from developments at NASA, as well as our own projects," Wooten started with the first slide, of a space capsule that had recently been launched. "That there are certain deficits in the human body, and every launch and mission depends on the health and durability of the men in these capsules." He switched the view, a basic anatomy chart. "Losses of muscle mass, bone density, essential tissues that leave a space-man floundering like a fish when he's come home from a long weightless trip." It was true that there hadn't been many of those yet, but clearly he knew about the experimentation that was done. He'd headed up part of that department.

The slideshow went on, displaying how weightlessness took its toll on everything. But since certain developments in his area of expertise had been made, Armacham was able to show off the first prototypes of a process they called 'Icarus'. Though the legal team remained silent the whole time, simply there to make sure no one said anything resoundingly stupid in the presence of government agents, everyone else gathered there had their role to play. Some talked of the benefits to the economy, the cost of the process was high but manageable, particularly with government funding. Manufacturing and tooling, surgical outfitters – everyone would benefit. Each department involved got a word in.

For more specifics to the process' description, however, only a couple of those at the table had that information. Harlan Wade had been brought on later in the game than most. A geneticist, biochemist, he was genuinely thrilled to be working on such a project, and it showed in his glittering grey-blue eyes. Though they downplayed the somewhat disastrous potential side effects, it was clear that he could dull the DoD men's fears about that.

"We're developing technology in tandem with the Icarus process itself, which can easily be adapted to other projects," he said. He was blonde, hair kept short but laying limply over his head. Like most of the men there, he had a bush of facial hair kept trimmed nicely, a thick mustache over his lips. "There are … certain ways to determine ideal candidacy for the Icarus process," he said, as the slide on the drop-down screen showed a simple DNA molecule. "Once we've determined whether a candidate is appropriate, it's much easier to manage the results."

"You're checking people's DNA?" The younger of the two DoD reps asked, "isn't that kind of… I don't know, science-fiction?"

"Hardly," Stephan chuckled from the other side of the table, "everything we do here would be called 'science fiction' if that were true!" The rest of the men gave their own voiced laughter, and though it clearly did not allay the man's concerns, they went on with the show anyway. If they let more questions like that derail things, there might be an ethical discussion, and that would be too dangerous to risk. DNA testing was in its infancy around the world's medical community. At Armacham, it was already effecting changes in their privacy policies. And their list of patents.

Stephan Aristide blinked and refocused on the projector screen. On it was showing a boiled-down graphic of an injection site. The Icarus process bonded, through a series of injections and surgeries, a form of bioengineered carbon-fiber on and into the bone of a subject. Though they didn't get into the technical details – the law team had already hashed that out with the group – it was clear enough that this process somehow aided in slowing muscle and bone loss. Microgravity such as found in a projected space station or on the Moon, or even during travel to other planets, was the main culprit of such loss.

"The fibers almost literally weave themselves into the bones of the subject," Harlan summed up, "and this has numerous beneficial results." The results not spoken of, however, had very little to do with microgravity and space exploration. Those unspoken benefits were very, very gravity bound.

"And as long as the subject conforms to the genetic norm," Harlan interrupted himself when he saw the faint look of dismay on one of the visitor's faces, "the basic template that suits the project's needs, a… a checklist if you will," the DoD man nodded back, "the process permanently increases the bone's ability to grow and maintain itself. This also extends to muscle tissue, tendons and joints." He paused, the slide changed to show a pair of young men in Armacham jumpsuits, their hair gently splayed around them, their feet not touching the floor. "In our simulators, the first of these prototype Icarus subjects have been maintained in effective 'zero gravity' for the last eight months, and shown no losses whatsoever. They're healthy, agile, and just as strong as when they went in."

This seemed to impress the DoD representatives, they drew the slideshow to a close. The law team would take over from there, presumably, once the lights came up they were already snapping open their briefcases and readying NDA forms and contracts. Before they finished, however, they heard a clearing-of-throat which obviously expected to draw attention.

"What is the success rate?" The older of the DoD reps asked, and Wooten glanced over to the law team. They gave him a simple nod.

"Currently we're looking at a seventy-two percent rate of full plating success," he said and the DoD man deflated.

"What about the other thirty percent?"

"As with any experimentation," Genevieve said, her voice startling the men and drawing a smile onto her father's face, "there is always some chance of failure. However, that doesn't seem to be an issue with most other activities, a thirty percent failure rate has never stopped most baseball players from going to the World Series." She gave a pert little smile and noted the bemused appraisal from the younger DoD man. "The individuals that Icarus has… failed … are being cared for with the best facilities at our disposal."

"Yes but what happens to them?" The man pressed.

"That, my dear Mister Santini, is classified," Genevieve said, making it sound like the cookies weren't done, don't try picking them up, they would burn you. "Suffice to say that they have all entered this project with full knowledge and authorized any treatments themselves."

"They know the risks," Wade added, "and risks are always present. NASA knows that all too well."

They looked to be mulling that over. It wasn't so long ago that a failed venture killed a trio of perfectly sound-minded men in a capsule that hardly made it over the top of the launch scaffolding. The entire avionics industry in fact, was rife with them. Daredevils? Well, according to some. They too knew the risks. They were, in Wade's words, willing to take those risks to further mankind's best interests.

When the meeting broke up, sending Stephan and Wooten with the DoD men for drinks, sending the law team back down to their labyrinth to work on details, it sent the younger members of the teams into a brief smiling high. Genevieve watched as her father walked down the long hallway to his office with the others, only faintly bitter that she hadn't been invited to join them. She smiled and curled her fingers in a 'come hither' manner at Harlan Wade, who took a glance around the now-empty room with an amused look. He strode behind her happily, after all, there was more champagne in her office, they could share it and toast the failures.

For being safely in their cages, two thousand miles away at the Icarus site.