"Achilles and many others of those ancient princes were given to Chiron the centaur to be brought up and educated under his discipline. The parable of this semi-animal, semi-human teacher is meant to indicate that a prince must know how to use both natures, and that the one without the other is not durable."
~Niccolò Machiavelli, "The Prince"
"David, I don't want you to get your hopes up, but we may have a cure."
Completely disregarding the first half of that sentence, David screamed into the phone.
Then he ran downstairs to get his mom.
2000. The last summer of the old millennium, if you count right, which a lot of people don't seem to be able to. He's just turned twelve, though he knows by now that the date he always celebrates his birthday is just an approximation. He's adopted, his real mother and real birthday unknown.
"Real" mother. Screw that.
He's sitting on the examining table, and his real mother, the one he knows, the one he loves more than anything, is stroking the back of his head.
"David," she says, "are you sure you want to do this?"
"This" is a careful excision of some of the weird, bony growth that has always covered his chest and back. He has fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, the doctors tell him, a disease that hardens your flesh to bone, gradually mineralizing you into a living statue. His own incarnation of it has been stable, but he's scared. It's not unusual for the petrifying illness to speed up in adolescence. When he learns about it, he's too young to even pronounce it; the doctors tell him to call it FOP.
He buries his face in his mother's stomach, the soft skin, pink under clothes she could go into a store and buy off a rack, and he just wants to be normal.
"You don't have to," she says.
"I want to," he whispers.
In a minute, Dr. Ajeerian comes from the other room. David lifts his shirt, and then his own skin, such as it is, is being cut away.
They know he can feel it. He's never really told them how much he can feel it, how in some ways his exoskeleton is more sensitive than the only-slightly-less-tough epidermis of his arms and legs.
The anesthetic - the tiniest dose; they're afraid of upsetting his endocrine system, already messed up in so many ways no one even understands it - isn't enough. He cries. He tells them it's because he's tired and sick all the time and he just wants a cure.
Dr. Ajeerian packs up the fragment of bone and leaves, more interested in the sample than in David himself. It's always been that way.
"A cure?" Mom asks. She sits at his side, snaking an arm around his waist, such as it is, to put gentle pressure on the wound. It's bandaged, though it doesn't bleed. He's not sure if he can feel his shirt draping differently, or if he's just imagining it.
"I want a cure," he repeats.
"For what?" Mom asks. She's always perceptive that way.
"For everything," he says, and he knows she understands.
They're quiet for a while.
"David," she says, and instantly he can tell she's launching into one of those Mom speeches that she's not any good at. "You're perfect the way you are. You don't have to cure anything. You don't have to agree to any experiments you don't want to do."
All of that was lies. He knew he wasn't supposed to know, but the doctors were paying to do experiments on him, and he couldn't say no, not when money was so tight and his insulin so expensive (other things he wasn't supposed to know).
"Mom." Bone was bone, and the wound echoed through his skeleton, making it hurt to move. But he shifted anyway and looked up at her. "How could anyone be like me and not want a cure?"
2003, and it was finally happening. Ron had refused to tell him anything on the phone; Mom swore he hadn't told her anything either; but he was on his way and there might finally be a cure.
"I think you'd both better sit down," Ron said when he arrived. It was already too many hours later - excuses about a tractor-trailer jack-knifed in the merge that David didn't want to hear - and both Lambs reacted to Ron's suggestion with a cold stare.
"Or not." Ron set his own things down on the counter, then turned to face the mother and son. "First, you both need to understand that this is cutting-edge science. What we're doing is barely within the realm of possibility. What we've found has only become possible to look for in the last couple of years.
"We would never have thought to look for it at all if not for your family's story," Ron went on, referring to the rat-like man and turtle-like boys who had shown up several weeks ago, claiming to be David's father and brothers and telling a fantastic tale about their origins. "And, of course, the TCRI canister they gave us was a key clue.
"The residue on that canister contained a virus, which itself carried human DNA. You might have heard that new forms of therapy are emerging, in which a retrovirus like that is injected into a person with a genetic disorder in order to 'infect' them with a good copy of the genes. It's still highly experimental, though. It's nowhere near ready for use, and no one was doing anything like it in 1988, which is when Splinter said he found that canister."
Ron paused, letting David and his mom absorb what he had said so far.
"After identifying that retrovirus, David, we looked at your genome again and found that you have sequences that exactly match sequences found in the retrovirus. Now," he said, holding up a hand, "that's not unusual. All humans share sequences of DNA exactly in common. That's what makes us all human."
David exchanged a glance with his mom, and waited for Ron to continue.
"Again working from the story Splinter told," Ron said, "we were able to determine that some sequences of your DNA exactly match analogous sequences in the reference genome for a red-eared slider turtle, which is what I initially identified you as when you were a baby." His eyes slid to Mom. "Your mother tells me you've now seen that part of your medical record."
David nodded, his eyes dark.
"But again," Ron continued, "not unusual. As I'm sure you know, because of the way all living things are related, humans share some of their DNA sequences with bananas."
"Well, he's certainly not a banana," said Mom, impatiently. "Get to the point, Ron."
"This is the point," Ron said, and paused dramatically, which did nothing to endear him to his audience. "We could not find anything to falsify Splinter's story." He paused again before explaining. "As unbelievable as it sounds, it could be the case that you began life as a normal red-eared slider, that you were infected by a retrovirus associated with some organization called TCRI - which my colleagues have not been able to locate any record of, by the way - and that the resulting gene splicing turned you into a human-turtle hybrid. This would mean that you don't have FOP, a thermoregulatory disorder, or a problem synthesizing vitamin D. Rather, it would mean you have a turtle shell, an ectothermic body system, and insufficient access to sunlight."
David stared at him blankly for a moment before he managed: "And the diabetes?"
"Does occur in reptiles," Ron replied, "and is probably congenital. Combined with everything else, though, it resulted in serious disruption to the endocrine system, compromising your body's ability to maintain itself." He ran a hand over his head. "Given the nature of the uncontrolled experiment you were allegedly subjected to, it isn't surprising that this happened. What's surprising is that similar dysfunctions didn't arise in 80% of the known cases."
"You mean, Splinter and the guys are healthy," David said.
"In peak condition, even," Ron said. "I haven't gotten that part of the story yet, but they're obviously serious athletes - and their systems are resilient enough to remain healthy despite the fact that they're living in what I understand are quite adverse circumstances."
David looked at his mom, who looked back, not seeming to be sure what to say. "What does it all mean?" he asked.
"What it means," said Ron, "is that theoretically - just theoretically, mind - if a retrovirus could be engineered to infect you with the segments of human DNA that are analogous to the turtle DNA you still have in the nuclei of your cells, you would lose your turtle traits and become fully human. You'd still be diabetic, but the therapy could resolve your other health issues - with luck, leaving you well enough to take advantage of your fully-human appearance."
David swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "What - what would it be like? The therapy?"
"The therapy itself would just be an injection," Ron said. "The effects, likely extraordinarily painful. And possibly fatal."
David felt his mother put a hand around his forearm in a tight grip, but he didn't look at her.
"Like I said," Ron concluded, "we're just beginning to be able to test these kinds of therapies. Successful treatment, in a broad sense, is a long way off. But David," he said, "I will be honest. What we've been able to recover from the TCRI canister is going to put this line of research years ahead. And you can be assured that if this is what you want, my team and I will devote all possible resources to developing a cure for you." He fixed the young man with a serious look. "If you are certain that this is what you want, it would not be too soon to begin doing preliminary work-ups to prepare you for the therapy."
"What kind of work-ups?" David asked faintly.
"You know that you have a cardiac defect and a malformation of the genitourinary tract," Ron said, "which I would now suggest are more accurately described as a three-chambered heart and a turtle tail. Nevertheless, those would be two of the most difficult and risky areas of your anatomy to transition to a human configuration through gene therapy alone. If it is your intention to see this treatment through - and only if it is your intention to see this treatment through - I would recommend reconstructive surgery of your heart and groin to prepare you for the transition."
Remembering the hand on his arm, David looked at his mom. She had gone unusually pale.
"I - I need some time to think about it."
"I should certainly hope so," Ron said, with uncharacteristic force. "You need to think about this long and hard, David, and since you're a minor I would not proceed without your mother's consent." He nodded at Mom. "Emma, I wanted to be sure to talk to you about this in person first. I'll forward you a full plan of treatment later in the week."
From growing up with a veterinarian for a mother, David knew that a treatment plan would include details of the proposed therapy, a prognosis for a realistic outcome, and information about risks up to and including death. He was definitely going to have to make sure his mom didn't try to hide any of that from him.
"Thanks, Ron," said Mom, though she looked more like she wanted to strangle the man for the ideas he had just put in her son's head.
"Thanks, Ron," David echoed, and then they were alone, with a scary new future in front of them.