Defragmenting Daniel: The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Jason Werbeloff

  He whispered for a cab.

  Gangrene. Yaron had sold him gangrenous balls. The calf implants had worked well enough though …

  Kage’s glasses highlighted three oncoming cabs going cross-Bubble, in the direction of the clinic. He winked at the third, and its outline shifted from green to red. The other two disappeared.

  He’d go. Of course he’d go. What choice did he have?

  “Vista Clinic,” said Kage as he sat down.

  The cab lifted off before he’d finished speaking.

  “Your news at four. Bubble Forces establish three new domes in Europe, and fighting intensifies along the Cuban coast. In your sports, Phaseball season kicks off tomorrow night. I’m your host, Trevor Mandelbree.”

  Kage tapped the right arm of his glasses, and the voice in his skull died. He stared out the cab window. Yawned as the cityscape drifted by. A dull, lusterless gray.

  “Pumping iron, and getting no joy?” An image of a reedy black teenager flashed across the inside of Kage’s glasses. Not for the first time, Kage wondered whether his glasses intentionally showed him ads with actors of his own ethnicity. “We have just what you need. At The Big League, we offer celebrity treatment at budget prices.” The teen disappeared from Kage’s vision, and the cityscape shifted. Most of the buildings reduced in opacity, but some glowed an ethereal blue. “We have gyms throughout your Bubble. Book an appointment with one of our personal trainers today.” The glistening arms of an Adonis hovered over Kage’s vision. “Special prices available until midnight tonight.”

  The cab descended, and after a few seconds, the glowing blue buildings disappeared out of sight. Ghostly text at the bottom corner of his vision informed him that the cab ride had cost 12 credits. The cab had interfaced automatically with his glasses or the card in his pocket, and charged his account.

  “Thank you for using Helios Taxis. Enjoy your evening.” The door slid aside, and Kage stepped into the clinic.

  “Kage! You’re here early.”

  He avoided the dealer’s embrace, and settled for an oily handshake instead. Shit. The handshake was already over before he remembered to squeeze. Real men squeeze.

  “Wanna see it?” The way Yaron grinned at him with those perfect carnivorous teeth, the way the dealer’s eyes quietly sized up Kage’s level of despair, made Kage want to take a shower.

  The organ dealer placed an arm around Kage’s shoulders. Led him to a room off to one side of the lustrous reception area. “I can’t keep it much longer, man. I’ve got clients beating down my door to get at this one.”

  The green jar hovered at eye-level. Spotlights above and below bathed the amygdala in an ethereal glow.

  Despite himself, Kage salivated. “Let me see the stats.”

  AGE – 18

  SEX – Male

  RISK:CAUTION RATIO – 9:7

  CONFIDENCE INDEX – 4/5

  DEAD CELLS – 0%

  Kage’s heart leapt. 9:7. The golden ratio for male impulse control. When he’d had his own amygdala profiled, it’d come out at 1:2. Typical female profile.

  He eyed the amygdala in its jar. The pink almond rotated in the avocado spotlight.

  He glanced back at the stats. It had a high confidence index too. What an organ. Yaron may have been greasy, but he was right. This amygdala was what he’d been waiting for.

  “How much?”

  Yaron’s polished incisors gleamed. “You know, I once had an uncle with three thumbs. Yeah, I know right … I didn’t believe it either. And you know what my uncle said when they come out with finger-swap tech?”

  Kage sighed.

  “You know what he said when they offered him a replacement for his missing index finger?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He said …” Yaron shut his eyes, delighted by the memory. Kage took the opportunity to scratch himself. “He said, ‘I would have paid double.’”

  “Uhuh.”

  “Kage.” Yaron gripped his shoulder. “I could give it to you for thirty thousand.”

  Kage almost choked.

  “Did I say thirty? I meant twenty-five. Twenty-five, because of our history together.”

  “You sold me gangrene balls.”

  “Oh that!” Yaron howled a barrel of laughter. The receptionist in the next room glanced their way. “A rare complication,” he continued. “You know how these things work, Kage.” He clasped Kage’s forearm. “Unforeseeable complications. One in a million mishap. You know I would never …” He leaned in, as if divulging a sacred confidence. “… sell you anything other than the very highest quality goods.”

  Kage didn’t blink.

  “You detectives sure know how to get a man’s lowest number.” Yaron’s smile evaporated “Alright. Twenty thousand credits.” He dropped his voice. “I can’t go any lower than that, man. This is the kind of amygdala you just don’t find. Hell, if you don’t take it, I’m thinking of giving it to my son for his birthday. He’s a bit …” Yaron batted his eyelids and flapped his wrist.

  Kage resisted the urge to punch the slimy man in the jaw. He scanned the stats floating over his vision one last time. 9:7.

  He sighed, and handed over his credit card.

  Yaron gobbled up the card with his quick hands. A moment later, the fee had been deducted.

  “Lee-Anne will schedule you in.” Yaron pointed to the receptionist.

  Kage’s feet echoed on the polished concrete floor.

  “Thai or Swedish?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Lee-Anne yawned. “All our amygdala implants come with a complimentary massage. Would you prefer Thai or Swedish?”

  “What you mean, ‘come with’?”

  “We do the implant during the massage. Customers like it.”

  Kage shook his head. “Uh, that’s okay. You can drop the massage. Just need the amygdala.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The receptionist filed her nail. “The computer doesn’t allow for that option. Thai or Swedish?”

  “The computer?”

  Lee-Anne didn’t reply for a moment – something under her cuticle captivated her.

  “Yes, sir. The computer.” She looked up at Kage. Her eyes softened. “Where’d you get that jacket? It’s darling!”

  Kage gritted his teeth. “Thai. Bethany’s on 7th.”

  “Oh, look at that. We’ve got an opening in five minutes in the aquarium.”

  “The what?”

  “Right this way, sir.” She took him by the arm, thumbing the material of his jacket as she sashayed to a room on the far side of the reception area.

  Dappled blue light splashed across his shoes. “Forty percent leather?” she asked.

  “Sixty.”

  The receptionist’s eyebrows shot up above her hairline. “Gutter leather? Bethany’s you say?”

  Kage slid into the dentist chair in the center of the room. “That’s right.”

  “My husband would love one of those. Or he should, anyway. You know how men are.” She winked. “No dress sense at all.”

  Christ. Was she fishing for a gay man’s inside knowledge of the male species?

  Kage didn’t reply. He unfurled his fists.

  “There’s a pair of pants and a shirt over there. I’ll leave you to change.”

  The receptionist swooshed out of the room. Kage was alone. Or, not exactly alone. Surrounding him on all sides was a continuous fish tank. He’d heard about these. Mutant fish. They had scales and gills, sure, but beyond that, nothing else about them was fishy. Their fins had been swapped out for human fingers. Their heads replaced with those of mice. Tufts of fur sprouted from their pig lips.

  A woman, who could easily have been a product of the fish tank, burst through the door. “We do amygdala today?” She shook a massive fist at Kage. “You change first! Quick-quick.” She exited the room in a huff.

  Kage slipped out of his pants. Stepped into the replacements. The calf implants looked good enough, but his thighs were tiny. He looked ridiculous with such massive ca
lves. And then there was his bulge under his boxer shorts. He didn’t even want to think about that right now. No joy at all in that department. Not once had the penis cooperated by springing to attention. He’d need to get another one. Talk to Yaron about that.

  One of the fish blew him a kiss with its bulbous, hairy lips.

  Kage shuddered as he removed the 60% leather jacket. Studiously avoided his stick-like arms in the mirror. Forearm implants were reasonably priced, but a matching set of bicep implants would cost a small fortune. Could he get away with just doing the right arm? Kage had heard stories about amputees. They managed to bend and turn in such a way that they fooled people for years into failing to notice their missing hand. He might manage to pull off just one large bicep.

  The trunchbulled woman blew open the door. “Put on shirt. Quick-quick.” She juggled the jarred amygdala from hand to hand. Its emerald liquid frothed and bubbled. “You thin man.”

  Kage grunted.

  “Lie down. Good. I give you massage. Give you amygdala.”

  “At the same time?”

  “Lie down before you hurt yourself.”

  The woman slotted the jar into a machine at the head of the bed with more arms than the fish had fingers.

  “Good. Need head.” She gripped Kage by his ear and under his molars. “Yes, there.”

  He heard the arms of the machine click and whirr as they extended. Something cold pierced his right temple. The sensation, all sensation on that side of his head, ceased.

  The woman took hold of his feet. “How much you want massage? Soft or hard?”

  Kage tried to answer ‘soft’, but his numbed lips only produced an indecipherable fuffft.

  “Hard,” she said, and began her assault.

  With his head locked in place by the machine, the masseuse heaved. Something in his knee popped.

  He moaned.

  “Leg stiff,” she said. She yanked on the other foot, harder this time. A drill whined in his ear. Then grinded as it found its mark.

  Kage tried to stop her, but it was no use. The anesthetic had worked its magic on his vocal chords. With glorious strength, in a single movement, the woman lifted Kage’s feet off the chair, whipped them over his hips, and then, above his head.

  A series of cracks echoed down his spine.

  “So tight, you thin man.”

  The machine whirred again, and something metallic clanggged on the floor. He confirmed it out of the corner of his eye. The jar’s lid.

  She twisted his legs so that his right knee brushed his nose. “Feel good?”

  Something sloshy, by the sound of it, pressed into his right temple. The woman dropped his legs back into the chair. He bounced.

  “Important thin man be big man,” she said, and seized his right bicep. She yanked at it until his shoulder popped.

  One of the fish glared at him through lashed, mousey eyes. He could swear it winked at him.

  The pressure against his temple lessened, and the masseuse slapped a bandage over his ear. “All done.”

  *

  Did he feel any better? More masculine? Any different at all?

  Kage wasn’t sure.

  The advertising overlay on his glasses didn’t seem to think the amygdala had made any difference. It displayed the same lusterless gray landscape below the taxi, punctuated by the same adverts and news categories. Fitness, sports, dating, and war.

  He blocked the ads, at a credit a minute. Switched to his peace – a recording of Neruda’s poetry read by a voice synthesized from the great poet’s vocal records. Kage allowed Neruda’s cadence to etch into his bones. Neruda whispered of hearts and hair. Fingernails and laughter.

  Before he knew it, he’d arrived at the gym.

  “Shhh. There she is now … Welcome back, Kage.”

  He didn’t like the way the women behind the gym counter stared at him. Like he was an insect in a killing jar. Kage didn’t much like women at all.

  “Thanks, Miranda.”

  “Your head okay? Quite a bandage.” The faux concern in Miranda’s eyes made Kage nauseous.

  “Fine,” he said, and loped toward the change rooms.

  Locker 3430.

  He switched lockers every other day. The gym staff had erected signs saying they cleared all lockers at midnight, but he knew that wasn’t true – there were too many lockers, and not enough (motivated) staff. But they did systematically work through the locker room as the week wore on, roughly a thousand lockers a day, ensuring they were empty come day end. If his calculations were right, they’d cleared lockers 2000 to 3000 last night. He’d have to shift his clothes forward or back a thousand by tomorrow.

  “Time,” he whispered, and a ticking LED display glowed faintly across the interior of his glasses.

  6:32 p.m.

  The party was at eight p.m. “Dating in the dark,” the advert had said. “Meet professionals tailored to your interest profile.” Ten minutes by cab … he had time for a quick workout.

  He winced as he pulled his shirt over his bandaged temple. Lee-Anne had warned him on his way out, “No vigorous exercise for the next few days, darling.” But what did she know? Anyway, he’d read brain grafts were all automated these days – secured by smart tethers. No way the implant would come loose.

  He caught himself in the mirror as he walked by – the white bandage was striking against his ebony skin. A Daliesque figure, Kage looked as though he’d stepped into a flattened vertical plane. Bulging calves, but overall, he was lost in a thin, perpendicular line.

  He inhaled. Puffed out his chest best he could. And made his way to the weights.

  It was just after peak gyming hour, and most of the machines and dumbbells were in use.

  “Hrrrrr,” grunted one of the Hyenas. Technically, that was bigoted. They didn’t like to be called that. And the adverts insisted that just because they implanted hyena jaw muscle into their biceps, their pecs, their thighs, didn’t mean they were any less human.

  “Huhrrrr…”

  The Hyena’s arms were wider than Kage’s torso. He eyed the creature with equal parts suspicion and envy. Sure, its eyes glowed with something approaching a feral cat’s. But what would it feel like to be that heavy? That powerful? Hell, he doubted a hovercab could lift the brute.

  Kage took hold of one of the weights. It floated in the air just below his shoulder.

  The arms of his glasses vibrated above his ears, and a voice in the center of his skull asked, “Please specify the weight of the dumbbell.”

  “Twenty-five pounds,” said Kage. His hand fell with the sudden load. Something in his shoulder popped.

  “Okay, fifteen pounds,” he whispered.

  Biceps, triceps. Pecs and shoulders. Abductors and adductors. Treadmill.

  By the end of it, Kage didn’t feel any bigger. Any butcher. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his skin in the mirror of the change-room, glistening under the high-temperature LED lighting.

  A Hyena stepped into the shower cubicle behind his. Kage glanced down at his own thighs. His own absent chest. Then back at the Hyena’s. He wanted to scream. More testosterone. He needed more fucking testosterone.

  He tapped the right arm of his glasses. No notifications from the post office on the testosterone delivery. ‘Expedited transfer’ my ass. The teller had ripped him off.

  Kage stepped out of the shower. Maybe the amygdala was working after all. Maybe there was a sturdiness in his stride. Something heavy and certain in the way his feet slapped the tiles. He strutted to his –

  His locker was empty.

  Kage yanked open the metal door. Empty. It was fucking empty.

  Kage surveyed the change room. Hyenas. More Hyenas. A handful of college kids, not yet boasting implants. But nobody suspicious. Nobody holding five pairs of pants. Nobody holding a pile of dirty underwear. Nobody stalking away with seven dress-shirts.

  He glanced back at the bare locker. It wasn’t quite empty after all.

  A scrawled note lay on the bottom. />
  Kage Jackson, please see reception.

  Kage’s heart fell into the puddle between his wet toes. Thoroughly deflated, in nothing but a towel and a film of beady moisture, he skulked out of the change rooms.

  Eyes.

  Eyes on the treadmills. Dozens of them tracked him from the aerobics studio. Every set of eyes in the gauntlet of bodybuilders found him. Raked up and down his sinewy limbs. He slunk past the health shop. They looked up from their holo-papers and printed smoothies.

  “Why doesn’t that man have clothes, Mommy?”

  Still dripping from the shower, he arrived at the reception desk.

  “Kage.” Miranda’s smile was reluctant, but hungry. “This wasn’t my idea.”

  She handed him an unsealed envelope.

  We regret to inform you that your membership at Super Tone has been terminated. It has come to our attention that you have been using our facilities as your primary place of residence. We at Super Tone regret to …

  Kage scrunched up the note. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “On the sidewalk outside. Kage,” she called, “you don’t look so good. When was the last time you slept?” Her voice dropped. “I know you’re taking the pills instead. Have you tried rehab? There’re programs that’ll help. You don’t have to carry on like –”

  Her voice faded away as Kage stepped through the turnstile into the evening air. He collected his clothes, donned a shirt, and flagged a cab.

  Programs. What the fuck did Miranda know? He didn’t have money for fucking rehab.

  “Pumping iron, and getting no joy? We have just what you need. At The Big League, we offer celebrity treatment at budget prices.” Kage winked twice, and a sturdy male voice filled his head.

  “This is The Big League. How may I help you?”

  “I’ll need a membership. Twenty-four hour entry. Effective immediately.”

  “Certainly sir. May I have your credit card details?”

  Kage tried to remember how much was left as he recited his card number. Since he’d left his apartment and stopped paying rent three months back, he had more cash to play with. Gym memberships were cheaper than rent. But with the calf implants last week, amygdala today, and the monthly testosterone treatments, there wasn’t much remaining. Not enough for an apartment. Not enough for a bed. For sleep. And certainly not enough for rehab. He didn’t need it anyway. With the amygdala and the testosterone, he’d butch up in no time. Then he’d settle down. Find a place to rest his head at night. He could wean off the Anti-Sleeps when he was done transforming.