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Sometimes as I'm doing my work preparing contracts for LifeCorp to colonies in need of economic assistance, I'm reminded anew about just how "backwater" a backwater colony can get.
But there's something interesting about backwater colonies; people talk with each other. They talk with their friends, neighbors, families, and visiting strangers much like myself. They'll spend hours, maybe even half the day talking about anything that strikes their fancy. All it takes is giving them a reason to start.
"This place used to be a scrapping colony too, pip," Mikayla, a Radanite not much older than I told me, "lots of remnant technology, not too far of a jump from Scrapper Interstellar facilities, an' we even had a bit of a tourist gig. But now it's all gone, an' the money with it. The only people that stuck around were the ones who couldn't pay for the trip-- like me-- an' the sketchy, unlicensed medical practitioners."
It was rather obvious why Mikayla was talking about "unlicensed medical practitioners" when she had ears proportionally larger than a Kniit's. However I didn't have to press for details-- she was quite eager to elaborate. "Lemme give you some advice Pip: if ya ever order a genetic resequencing operation an' the doctor promises that it's a 'revolutionary treatment worth the premium price' you'd better run, an' run fast. These cute flaps of skin kept me in the chamber for six weeks, an' they're a nightmare to manage. Infections, hearing issues, wax buildup an' a near total loss of muscular control. But hey, they actually do help me keep cool out here, an' the piercings are a nice touch too. Small comfort Pip, small comfort."
I asked her what had happened to the person who performed the treatment. "No idea Pip, the bug-boy went an' made himself scarce when System Defense came by on business-- an' not the pleasant 'how do you do' kind of business either, more like the 'hey, there're reasons we have regulations for the kind of crap you're doing' kind of business. So there you have it, I'm six-thousand credits short, may be under penalties for an unregistered genetic modification an' I'm eligible for a disability check because of my hearing impairment..."
I can sympathize with Mikayla; she's not the first I've talked to who ran afoul with a genetic resequencing scam. Some people prey on the gullible, naïve and desperate, promising a permanent solution to some problem and delivering with a cheap, hastily created and uncertified genetic template that can lead to health problems after treatment like neurological defects, rejection of the modified parts and even complete loss of a limb or organ with a clumsy or careless cutting out of crucial genetic information. Many also have the fines and jailtime to contend with for their desperation. As unbiased as my reports and interviews are supposed to be, I think most people share the sentiment that anyone who pins these crimes on hapless victims and gets away without consequence needs to be locked away on a penal colony for a very long time.
I asked her how she would deal with the legal consequences of her treatment. "Pip, don't give me that softy stuff; I did something stupid, you know it, I know it. An' as much as I'd like to have some hero come in an' save me from my stupidity, stupid stuff just happens. Who knows though? I bet you that whatever the lady justice decides, I'm gonna get off this rock one way or another!"
Mikayla's optimism for her future is a trait that many backwater colonists share too in my observations; something that big big cities could use a little bit of. That and the small-town wisdom of not doing something stupid. There are plenty of sources out there for prisoner advocacy though; if you have a concern about receiving a scam treatment, you can tune into your local public channel and make a request to contact a civil advocate for assistance.
In the meantime, "Pip" is going to steer clear of anyone without a diploma on their wall.
A little bit of a writing exercise for The Prospect. The picture itself took comparatively less time! Kinda silly of me.
But there's something interesting about backwater colonies; people talk with each other. They talk with their friends, neighbors, families, and visiting strangers much like myself. They'll spend hours, maybe even half the day talking about anything that strikes their fancy. All it takes is giving them a reason to start.
"This place used to be a scrapping colony too, pip," Mikayla, a Radanite not much older than I told me, "lots of remnant technology, not too far of a jump from Scrapper Interstellar facilities, an' we even had a bit of a tourist gig. But now it's all gone, an' the money with it. The only people that stuck around were the ones who couldn't pay for the trip-- like me-- an' the sketchy, unlicensed medical practitioners."
It was rather obvious why Mikayla was talking about "unlicensed medical practitioners" when she had ears proportionally larger than a Kniit's. However I didn't have to press for details-- she was quite eager to elaborate. "Lemme give you some advice Pip: if ya ever order a genetic resequencing operation an' the doctor promises that it's a 'revolutionary treatment worth the premium price' you'd better run, an' run fast. These cute flaps of skin kept me in the chamber for six weeks, an' they're a nightmare to manage. Infections, hearing issues, wax buildup an' a near total loss of muscular control. But hey, they actually do help me keep cool out here, an' the piercings are a nice touch too. Small comfort Pip, small comfort."
I asked her what had happened to the person who performed the treatment. "No idea Pip, the bug-boy went an' made himself scarce when System Defense came by on business-- an' not the pleasant 'how do you do' kind of business either, more like the 'hey, there're reasons we have regulations for the kind of crap you're doing' kind of business. So there you have it, I'm six-thousand credits short, may be under penalties for an unregistered genetic modification an' I'm eligible for a disability check because of my hearing impairment..."
I can sympathize with Mikayla; she's not the first I've talked to who ran afoul with a genetic resequencing scam. Some people prey on the gullible, naïve and desperate, promising a permanent solution to some problem and delivering with a cheap, hastily created and uncertified genetic template that can lead to health problems after treatment like neurological defects, rejection of the modified parts and even complete loss of a limb or organ with a clumsy or careless cutting out of crucial genetic information. Many also have the fines and jailtime to contend with for their desperation. As unbiased as my reports and interviews are supposed to be, I think most people share the sentiment that anyone who pins these crimes on hapless victims and gets away without consequence needs to be locked away on a penal colony for a very long time.
I asked her how she would deal with the legal consequences of her treatment. "Pip, don't give me that softy stuff; I did something stupid, you know it, I know it. An' as much as I'd like to have some hero come in an' save me from my stupidity, stupid stuff just happens. Who knows though? I bet you that whatever the lady justice decides, I'm gonna get off this rock one way or another!"
Mikayla's optimism for her future is a trait that many backwater colonists share too in my observations; something that big big cities could use a little bit of. That and the small-town wisdom of not doing something stupid. There are plenty of sources out there for prisoner advocacy though; if you have a concern about receiving a scam treatment, you can tune into your local public channel and make a request to contact a civil advocate for assistance.
In the meantime, "Pip" is going to steer clear of anyone without a diploma on their wall.
A little bit of a writing exercise for The Prospect. The picture itself took comparatively less time! Kinda silly of me.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Miscellaneous
Species Mouse
Size 1188 x 1188px
File Size 1.81 MB
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