"Mr. Anderson," the doctor said gravely, "the rescue teams have discovered your wife's body on the wreckage of the Station 12 disaster. They are working on retrieving it now. There is good news, and bad. Technically, she is dead. As you know, life support is only marginally functioning on the space station now, and fortunately, your wife's body, what remains of it, is perfectly preserved by the freezing temperatures. There has been no damage to her brain, although the rest of her body is a loss."
I paused to let all this sink in, the grief and terror which had captured my heart since the disaster occurred was not sure whether to loosen, or tighten it's grip on me with the news. I thought of the disaster. For years, Station 12 had been our home. She worked there as a secretary in the offices, I worked as an engineer in the labs of the outer space manufacturing plant owned by Space Components, Inc. that made perfect mechanical components in the zero gravity environment of space. The "asteroid" that had managed to make it through a small gap in the energy field around the station had been no larger than a grain of salt. And yet it had punched a hole right through the station's outer hull, cut through the softer things inside, emerged out the other side, bounced off the inside of the energy field and punched through again, ricocheting in this manner a few times before becoming lodged in, of all things, the stone of my wife's diamond engagement ring, which was hard enough to stop it, although the force had ripped my poor wife's arm from her body. By then I am sure she, like all else aboard, had already been dead, thank God. The station had folded in upon itself by the time the rescue crews arrived, crushing most of my wife's body, but apparently not her skull. The skull that contained her brain, and everything she knew.
"So what," I cried in despair, "she's dead… oh God! No!" And then I dissolved into sobs. The Doctor's hand on my shoulder stopped me, and I looked up.
"I think there may be a way to save her, Mr. Anderson."
I sniffled, "Continue…" was all I could say, for my heart was in my throat.
"I believe we have the technology to save her, though it is questionable ethically. As you know, we have been growing human body parts from DNA samples, to use as replacement parts, for years." I knew what he was talking about, the DNA came either from the person themselves, or in some rarer cases from close relatives, and the cloned body parts negated the need to operate on donors. There were problems with the technology, as it seemed that cloned parts aged much faster than natural parts, but often it beat having no part at all. And cloned parts from one's own DNA were rarely rejected by the immune system. And by growing only the parts needed, and never growing a brain, the debate over clone souls was avoided. I nodded.
"Well," the Doctor continued, "we could transplant her brain into a new body. Since she is already in her 40's, she shouldn't experience geriatrics any sooner than normal. However, the station is collapsing further as we speak, and unless we hurry we cannot have a new body ready in time. There is too much confusion aboard the Station to have a sample of her DNA sent down, so we will have to look to a blood relative, someone very close. Any suggestions?"
My wife's Mother was long dead, her DNA rotting in an old fashioned coffin, and she'd had no sisters. She had a brother, but cloning him and putting her female brain and identity into his male body would have been unfair. The only logical choice was our 19 year old daughter who I had been visiting at her University when the accident happened.
