shadowrun 40 The Burning Time by Stephen Kenson Page B

Hilda was treating was an ork, and Trouble wondered if his parents were orks, too. A lot of metahumans had felt distinctly unwelcome in the new "paradise" of the Sidhe, and had emigrated to the UCAS. Two of his chummers stood nearby, watching the whole procedure with bored expressions.
    "Hey, Trouble," Hilda said, glancing up briefly. "Have a seat and I’ll be right with you, honey." She finished up with kid in a few minutes, accepted the cred he offered, and sent the three gangers on their way.
    "Looks like business is good," Trouble said.
    "Always is," Hilda replied with a sigh. "We’d be better off if we didn’t have to waste time patching up the gangers, but their money lets us help other people who don’t have any. You wouldn’t believe some of the strange cases ever since the SURGE started. I just hope it’s not some new disease starting the rounds. Anyway, what can we do for you today, Trouble? Aren’t you feeling well?"
    "No, it’s nothing like that," Trouble said. "I just want to talk to Mac if he’s got time."
    "Sure thing. You just wait right there." Hilda disappeared into the back of the clinic and returned a few moments later with Dr. MacArthur in tow. With his receding hairline and the deep creases on his face, Doc looked older than his thirty-seven years. He was still quite fit, though, and carried himself like a soldier. He was wearing blood-stained hospital scrubs—apparently "donated" by Boston General, from the stenciling on them—and he gave Trouble a weary smile.
    "Why don’t we talk in my office," he said, while Hilda went to her desk and began tapping away at the computer.
    Trouble followed Dr. Mac into his office, then perched nervously on the edge of a chair. Dr. Mac leaned back against his desk, looking at her with concern.
    "So, what can I do for you?" he asked.
    Trouble hesitated, not quite sure how to put it. "I’ve got a medical question for you, hypothetically speaking."
    Mac nodded. "Go on."
    "How. . .how involved is a sex-change operation?"
    Mac’s brow furrowed more deeply. "Female to male?" he asked. Trouble nodded, biting her lower lip a bit.
    "Well, it can get pretty involved. Female-to-male changes are more difficult because we have to craft an artificial Y-chromosome for the cloning process. Then there’s growing all the necessary organs, including skin grafts, followed by several surgical procedures and extensive hormone therapy. The whole process can take several months and costs tens of thousands of nuyen. And, of course, it’s still not one hundred percent effective in all cases. I can’t say I get a lot of call for that kind of thing in my practice. Cosmetic work, sure, but not gender reassignment type-stuff."
    "I see," Trouble said quietly.
    "I know it’s none of my business," he said, "and I’ll understand if you’d rather not say, but can I ask why you want to know?"
    "It’s personal, not business," Trouble said.
    "All right, then. I withdraw the question. But if there’s anything you want to talk about. . ."
    "No, but thanks for the info, Doc," Trouble said, getting to her feet.
    "Anytime," he said, moving to open the door for her. "Take care of yourself."
    Trouble smiled feebly. "I’ll try."
    She said goodbye to Hilda and went back to her car. She sat with her head resting on the steering wheel for a few minutes, thinking about her emotional dilemma. She wasn’t ready to go home, and she knew a place where she could actually do something about how she was feeling.
    An hour later, Trouble was sitting at a bar in South Boston, downing the last of her scotch on the rocks. She thunked the tumbler back down onto the bar and gestured for the bartender, rattling the ice in her glass.
    "One more," she said, sliding a hardcopy note across the bar. The bartender poured another and slipped the cash into his pocket. Trouble took a sip from her drink, savoring the burn of the liquor down her throat and the feeling of numbness that followed. It was numbness she was