Defragmenting Daniel: The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Jason Werbeloff

  Daniel blinked away the images. Focused on the blog posts and Wikipedia entries.

  Daggy Munch. 2010 – . Performance artist. Founder of the Hypo-Post-Deconstructionist Feminist Movement. Came to fame after her success in Seneca Close Body Corporate vs Munch (2058).

  Tweets flashed across Daniel’s vision.

  @DaggyMunch. A woman ahead of her time. You have #myvote. #MunchForPresident #KippleIsKing #HypoFem

  I ate a #BadBurrito, and the resulting mess was gorgeous compared to @DaggyMunch. #AnythingButDaggy

  “Zey tells me zat I cannot sing my songs. Zat I cannot have mine art. Zat I cannot be za voman I am. Mine munchkins, mine lover, mine Strauss, he said zis too. He said I cannot keep mine kipple. I cannot keep mine art. But now, mine Strauss, mine munchkin, is no more. He vas –”

  Daniel wasn’t too sure what Hypo-Feminism was. And he didn’t know what Daggy Munch was talking about. But the way she’d anointed herself atop a pile of shoes, the way her mouth flapped around the microphone hovering before her lips, the way her face seemed to morph between rotten cheese and mopane worm puree as she spoke, made him distinctly uneasy.

  Daniel’s tongue was in that mouth.

  And it wasn’t helping matters that Daggy Munch was a personality. Her apartment was open for all to view. Cutting out Daggy’s tongue, never mind skinning her and harvesting her cornea, was not going to be easy.

  And the number of her apartment was 8023. Not a multiple of seven.

  Demotivated, Daniel ordered the cab to deliver him back to Margaret’s.

  “Daniel found Margaret a onesie?” asked the android, as Daniel dumped the duffel bag on the kitchen table.

  “Not yet,” said Daniel.

  Margaret’s left eye twitched.

  He flumped onto the couch, and instructed his glasses to call up as much information as they could on Daggy Munch. Countless episodes of Law and Order had taught him one thing. Don’t strike until you’re ready. And Gods, that wisdom had been confirmed with Lincoln Russell. He’d been an idiot to act so swiftly. It had cost him Thomsin’s apartment. Now he’d have to make do with Margaret’s.

  He glanced back at the android. It sat at the kitchen table, examining one of the fingernails on its gangrenous hand.

  Daniel returned his attention to the research on his glasses. Daggy, according to one of the many fan-blogs that shadowed her movements, proclaimed that she hadn’t left the apartment since the death of her late husband, Strauss Munch. (The article hyperlinked to various rebuttals of the allegation, raised after Strauss’s sudden death, that she’d poisoned him.) “Her grief is her art,” declared the blogger. “Her art is her grief.”

  Daniel wasn’t too sure what art was, but he needed his tongue back. The thought of it sitting in that … woman’s head made him queasy.

  “She never leaves the apartment,” said Daniel eventually.

  Margaret glanced up at him. It had taken to studying the cat. From a distance. Odin was still fascinated with the fingernail, chasing it between the legs of the kitchen chairs.

  “Then Daniel will have to enter the apartment.”

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “But how?”

  Margaret looked past him, to the window. “It is dark. Margaret must recharge. Margaret and Daniel will discuss tomorrow over Daniel’s meal.” And with that, it trod off to the bedroom.

  The machine was right. He was tired.

  Daniel lumbered to the kitchen. Blew the dust off the food printer’s forcefield, and ordered up a plate of steaming mopane worms.

  The printer grinded a little, but the food tasted good. Tasted right. Tasted like home.

  At least, he imagined it did. His generic tongue was as numb as it had always been. But he took the imaginary taste of home to the couch with him that night.

  “Daggy Munch can wait until tomorrow,” he said to Odin, who snuggled under Daniel’s leg. The animal’s purrs echoed through the springs of the furniture, humming Daniel to sleep.

  Daniel was so tired, he didn’t cough at the dust in the stale cushions. Didn’t dream. Didn’t think.

  He didn’t notice Margaret watching him from the doorway.

  Private Dicks

  “You done yet, Kassandra?” called Shoulders from the living room.

  Kage didn’t answer. He’d found something.

  A blob. Milky chocolate brown. Gooey. The size of a teardrop. It was perched on the gleaming porcelain rim of the shower. The blob sat inside a grout line, of the same color. He’d almost missed it. But his glasses, augmented by the crime scene app, had flagged it just as he’d been about to leave the bathroom.

  Kage ogled the blob. Brought his nose so close, it skimmed the shower forcefield. The blob seemed to reflect the bone-white light in the bathroom.

  “Analyze composition,” he whispered. His glasses flashed a faint spinning circle of light, and then pinged as they brought up the results.

  Sodium hydroxide and degraded organic material.

  Kage removed a swab and an evidence bag from his jacket. With luck, there’d be intact DNA in that organic material.

  “Wikipedia sodium hydroxide,” whispered Kage.

  “Principle ingredient in lye,” said his glasses. “Used in the manufacture of pre-Bubble-era soap. Before the invention of forcefield hygienics, lye-based soap was commonly –”

  Kage tapped his glasses to pause. Soap. He hadn’t used the stuff in decades. It formed one of the only memories of his mother. She bathed him as a child in a material tub. What had the tub been made of? Iron, maybe. Gosh, that memory must be old. It washed over him now.

  The feel of the iron tub beneath his elbows as he sloshed around in the water. His mother smiled down at him as she dried his toddler frame. The plaintive notes of a piano had drifted through the tiny window above the toilet.

  A memory from a time long-gone. A time before he’d been shipped off to the Bubble with his mother’s last credit. He hadn’t reached the Bubble, though. Border patrol had placed him in the Orphanage instead. Entry to the Bubble had come later for Kassandra Jackson.

  “Look, I don’t know what you private dicks do all day, but us police detectives actually work. Need to get back to the station.”

  Kage ignored Shoulders. His mind was preoccupied with another memory. Soap. The boy posing as Thomsin Sparling – his hand had been slippery when Kage had shaken it that morning.

  Lye.

  “And I’m taking the warrant with me,” continued Shoulders. “You can’t be here without –”

  “Degraded organic material,” said Kage.

  Shoulders screwed up his face. “What’s that?”

  “The swab that girl in the morgue … Jaclyn. That swab Jaclyn took from my palm. Also had degraded organic material on it. Degraded by soap. Just like this blob.”

  Shoulders squinted. “Blob?”

  “There. Look closer. Yes, there. See that.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “It’s high-concentration lye,” said Kage. “Contains degraded organic material. I’ll bet you …” Kage pulled up the Wikipedia page again. “… I thought so. Lye can be used to dissolve a body.”

  “Whoa! Back it up a second,” said Shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I think Thomsin Sparling was murdered in this bathroom. His body dissolved with lye.”

  “You private dicks are a dramatic lot. Kass, look, I –”

  “My name is Kage.”

  “Whatever. Look, thing is, you’ve got no evidence. Nothing but some wishy-washy facial recog, a blob of something that looks like shit to me, and a theory with no evidence to support it.”

  Kage stood to his full height – a good head shorter than Shoulders. “His nose was different. It didn’t look like Thomsin’s. I’m telling you, the boy I spoke to in this apartment this morning wasn’t Thomsin Sparling. It was someone else. Someone who –”

  “I’ve heard just about enough of this,” said Shoulders, turning to leave.

&nb
sp; “We need to get forensics down here,” shouted Kage. “Now.”

  Shoulders spun on his heels. Stepped so close, Kage could smell his cologne – something between the scent of a pear and the cycling class at the gym.

  “You want to bring in another team of people, and for what? For a nose and a blob of shit? Look, Kassandra. I’ve been patient. But only because Weeks wanted you in on this. My patience stretches so far. I’m done.”

  “But Captain Weeks –”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Shoulders. “Weeks will hear all about this little mess of yours. Doubt you’ll ever find work ‘round these parts again.”

  Kage stared up at the man. Opened his mouth. The nose, he wanted to say. The soap. The lye. It was all so obvious. So clear. The boy he met this morning was an imposter. He’d killed Thomsin Sparling and dissolved him with lye.

  Instead, Kage said nothing.

  When he saw Shoulders tap his glasses and order a patrol car to pick him up, Kage ordered a taxi.

  Shoulders didn’t look back as he stepped out of Thomsin Sparling’s apartment. Not even half an antagonistic glance.

  “Please state your destination,” said the taxi.

  Where would Kage go now? He’d been cut out of the investigation. He might be able to fight his way back into Weeks’ favor, but he doubted it. And anyway, he didn’t have the energy right now.

  He checked his bank account. Weeks’ payment had cleared. One good thing had happened today, then.

  What day was it anyway?

  He checked the date on his glasses. Well that had happened quickly. Six days without sleep. He was stretching the Anti-Sleep tablets to their max. Seven days, and brain damage was a real risk.

  He reached for his jacket pocket, for an Anti-Sleep. But he’d left that jacket at the station with Una. This was a Kevlar vest. Standard police issue.

  The cab’s leather softened under the crooks of his knees. Against the nape of his neck. He blinked. Slowly. Thought about –

  “… your destination.”

  “What? Oh. Umm. Just fly.”

  “That destination is unknown. Please specify –”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he grumbled. “Just fly. Anywhere.”

  Kage shut his eyes.

  A mountain of bodies. Kage was naked. Climbing. His toes found purchase in their eye sockets. His fingers scratched and gouged their cheeks. Their eyes tracked him.

  One of the mouths opened, and vomited a cloud of moths. Black. Darker than Kage. They fluttered around him. Their wings scratched his ears. Their probosces unfurled in his nostrils. And he heard them. “It’s him,” they whispered. “It’s him. It’s –”

  “… have reached the maximum duration for travel.”

  Kage opened his eyes. The sun boiled below the distant western horizon of the Bubble. He’d slept … he’d slept the entire day.

  His tongue tasted like arsenic. “What’s the charge?”

  “Two thousand, six hundred and fourteen credits,” said the cab in the same monotonic drawl.

  “Shit, shit. Shit.”

  “That is not a known destination. Please specify.”

  What was the name of that gym? “The Big League,” snapped Kage.

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  Kage sighed. Let it pass.

  *

  He paid the taxi charge with his heart in his hands. Then the joining fee for The Big League. And forked out for new clothes from the men’s apparel shop above the gym.

  He arrived at the change rooms with as few credits as he’d had twenty-four hours earlier, when he’d received the call from Weeks. He was in the same situation, albeit with slightly newer clothes – jobless and broke.

  He was about to remove the pants Una had lent him from Bubble PD storage. Was about to don running shorts for the treadmill, when –

  Una. Shit! He had a date with Una in … five minutes ago.

  Fuck.

  “Una, this is Kage … Yes, I’m so sorry … I know.” A Hyena stalked into the change room. Eyeballed Kage’s tiny chest. “The investigation took longer than … Yes, I’m so sorry. Can I still pick you up? Twenty minutes?” Another Hyena. Face – a cubic block of granite. It tossed Kage a filthy look. “I – oh, thank you, Una. Yes, entirely my fuckup.” The first Hyena harrumphed. “I’m so sorry. See you soon.”

  Kage shimmied into the best pair of pants he’d bought at the apparel store upstairs. Picked one of the shirts. Matched well enough. New leather jacket. New moccasins. He stuffed the remaining clothes into the locker, and darted to the mirror.

  The white of the bandage over his left temple glowed, wrapped around his ebony skin. He peeled it away, afraid to see what was underneath – who knew whether Vista Clinic was careful about infections. But no. Not a scratch. Not a trace of the operation. Impressive. He might use them again. He tossed the bandage in the trash.

  Kage sniffed his armpit. Thought better of it. Sprayed more Deo-Killer. Took another breath. Better. Mouthwash. And he was done.

  “Taxi,” he whispered.

  Where would he take Una tonight?

  Ads cascaded across his vision as he pondered. From five-star restaurants hovering at the top of the Bubble, to submerged pubs on the Promenade.

  He remembered her leather pants. Her cigarette. Her fuck-you smile. Una was the kind of girl who’d want something different. Something grungy. Something fun.

  He knew just the place.

  The cab hovered just outside Una’s apartment. Border of Bubble Central. Seventieth floor. Pricey.

  “You’re late,” said Una.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Una puffed on her cigarette.

  “This is a no-smoking area,” chimed the cab.

  Una let out a long, smoky sigh. Took another drag.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

  “Oh yes?”

  “Smoking fine levied. Please state your destination.”

  “Phaseball,” said Kage.

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  Kage blushed.

  Una swung to look at him. “You going to let it talk to you that way?”

  “It’s nothing. They’re still processing the gender change at Bubble Registry. Hasn’t filtered down to Helios yet, it seems.”

  Una looked away. Slurped so hard on the cigarette, it looked like it might bend.

  “Have you been there before?” asked Kage after sixty infinite seconds of silence.

  “Been where?”

  “Phaseball.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re missing out,” said Kage, offering a smile.

  Una’s lips compressed into a tight line, before she resumed her stare out the window.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” pinged the cab. Mercifully.

  In his haste to be chivalrous in opening the door for his date, Kage reached over Una, and grabbed for the handle. But Una got to it first. And instead of the taxi’s plastic, Kage’s hand closed around Una’s cool flesh.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Kage, and yanked his hand away, but in so doing, drove his elbow into Una’s nose.

  Blood sprayed down her chest.

  “Sanitation fee levied,” chimed the cab.

  “Oh shit.” He reached for her nose, trying to hold it, caress it, do whatever he possibly could to stem the torrential bleeding. The blood streamed down Una’s aquamarine dress in rivulets. It came to rest in a growing pool on her lap.

  “Just … leave it … alone,” said Una between bloody snorts.

  Kage recoiled to the opposite side of the taxi. “I’m so –”

  “Please, shut-up,” mumbled Una, grasping her nose. She fumbled for the door handle, and lifted herself, head cradled in her hands, into the lobby of Phaseball.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” sang the cab.

  *

  “You’ll need to wear the glasses to see what’s happening,” said Kage, offering her a pair. “The players will be out of phase
most of the time.”

  Una’s eyes watered as she looked up at him. “Does it look –” She sniffed experimentally. Adjusted the crimson tissues clogging her nostrils. “Does it look like I care?”

  Kage swallowed. Retracted the hand offering her the glasses.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the game begins in just ten minutes. If you’ve never …”

  Una placed a hand on Kage’s knee. “Look, this wasn’t such a great idea. I’ll get a cab back home. I should probably stop by an ER on the way. I think it’s broken.” She rose from her seat.

  “Let me take you.”

  “Thanks, but you’ve done enough.”

  Kage sank. “I’m so …” But Una was already out of earshot, hobbling between the rows of seats to the exit. “… sorry,” he finished silently.

  “Bad date?” asked a voice beside him.

  Kage turned.

  Blond hair, streaked with shocking lime. Enough cleavage showing above her smartblouse to make even Shoulders blush.

  “You have no idea,” said Kage.

  The girl thrust out a hand. “Kekiokolanee.”

  Kage shook the hand. Delicate fingers. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You apologize too much, man,” said the girl. “My name. Kekiokolanee. But most people call me Keki.”

  “Kage,” he said. Her hand was warm. Warmer than Una’s.

  “Weird name!” She laughed too loudly. Kage would have taken offense, if she hadn’t had such perfect dimples.

  “‘Kage’ means ‘shadow’ in Japanese,” he said. “It’s the title given to the leader of a band of ninjas in –”

  “Ninjas, huh?”

  “Yes. The name denotes power and –”

  “Very cool, mister.”

  The girl reached into a bucket of popcorn on her lap. “Want some?”

  “That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I mean, Keki.”

  She laughed again, that embarrassingly loud laugh. “Would you listen to that?” She puckered her lips. Narrowed her eyes. “Ma’am,” she mimicked him in a faux-deep voice.

  “Uh, I’m sorry if –”