There was something very satisfying about seeing the project from its very inception as a dusty hole in the dry ground all the way to a fully furnished clinic.
Three years of medical school had drained the enthusiasm with which George had pursued a career as a doctor, endless hours of study had made him forget his original goal had been to help people. Burnt out before he'd even begun to practice, he'd gone against the advice of his peers and taken a year out to try to rekindle the spark. That was how he found himself in Namibia, helping to build a burn ward from the ground up. After years of chasing an ephemeral, ever-distant career, building the breezeblock wall by his own hand was like therapy. Even if he did end each day drenched in sweat, burnt red and peeling, and bitten to pieces by mosquitos, he loved every minute.
Believe it or not, the country had no domestic supply of synthskin. They still used outdated practices, taking skin grafts from elsewhere on the body or relying entirely on imports. Much of their synthskin came from overseas, donated by European and American charities from whatever expiring stock they could get their hands on, and the pale skin tones they provided were badly suited to the baking African sun. They could hardly turn down such charity, and they were useful for treating urgent burn victims, but before long the patient would return, suffering sunburns to their grafted skin that were almost as bad.
The rough shell of the clinic was soon threaded through with electricity, water, and oxygen pipes, which meant the cultivation tanks could now be installed. The final wall was left unbuilt so that the vast 400-liter glass tanks could be rolled in and fitted on the far wall. The technology was little more advanced than fermentation vessels, obsolete by modern standards, but Dr. Uatjiri beamed to see them.
"No more burns. No more melanomas!" he exclaimed, slapping George on the back.
For days, neither George or the Doctor left the room, working side-by-side to bring the outdated tanks to full working order. Long hours were spent wedged together in the sweaty confines of the cultivation tubes, fitting and testing the heating/cooling elements. The fluid in the tanks had to be kept precisely at body temperature if the synthetic skin was to flourish, no easy task in this climate. They worked well together, laughing and joking through the unpleasantness of the conditions. Once they were satisfied with the tanks' ability to hold a stable temperature, they moved on to the internal sensors that would monitor the growth and the robotic manipulators for massaging and shaping the flesh within the sealed tank. Lastly, everything had to be thoroughly sterilized.
It was time for the first test. A collagen shell was 3D printed and then impregnated with cells kindly donated by Dr Uatjiri's wife. This shell was submerged in the nourishing fluid of the tank where it floated like a wrinkled, transparent, human-shaped jellyfish.
They monitored it with bated breath, modulating the nutrient flow as needed. On the sixth day, they awoke to find pink blotches spreading through the collagen -blood vessels!- and hugged each other in jubilation. The cells were growing! Soon the scaffold was entirely covered. The blotches spread and merged, and the intricate web of blood vessels grew into larger veins and arteries, hollow and waiting to be plugged into the circulation of a host. Sweat glands began to form. The lipid applicators painted the interior with a layer of yellow fatty tissue, plumping it out until it more resembled the hollowed-out form of a woman.
The test was a success! And yet...
"You seem unhappy, my friend," Dr Uatjiri noted. He had caught George brooding, staring into the vacant eyeholes of the skin to the organless void within. "After all the work you've done, you should be celebrating."
George sighed. "Everything works. Which means you no longer need me. I'll be heading home soon."
"Why not stay? You are happier here, and we could certainly use an extra hand around here," the doctor offered.
"My visa expires in a few weeks either way. They'd kick me out if I tried to stay."
The doctor stood beside him at the tank, admiring their creation. "It's a wonderful thing we've made. A shame it will be destroyed, being only a trial. My wife, vain that she is, will be sad to see such a beautiful thing going to waste. Unless..."
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The burn clinic of Dr Uatjiri and Dr Uatjiri was soon opened. Even on its first day, patients already remarked how well the married couple worked together, and the female patients were delighted to be treated by a woman doctor, even if her grasp of the Oshiwambo language was rusty, to say the least.
That evening, as Mr Uatjiri locked up, 'Mrs Uatjiri' paused beside the cultivation tanks. From this angle, she could see her excised skin and penis floating loosely in the preservative nutrient fluid in the base of one of the spare tanks, while could also admire her beautiful reflection in the glass, as she stripped out of her medical scrubs. She could even see her 'husband' in the reflection and the way he admired her half-naked body when he thought she wasn't looking. The lipid applicators had been generous with the buttocks, which were fully displayed by a pair of Mrs Uatjiri's panties.
George felt a strange shiver of delight as the man's gaze lingered. The doctor had offered him a bed to sleep in while he overstayed his visa, concealed within Mrs Uatjiri's flesh. George wondered if it was his bed.
"All ready to leave?" Dr Uatjiri asked warmly. "My wife cannot wait to meet her new twin."