Defragmenting Daniel: The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Jason Werbeloff

Autumn seemed to weigh something behind her eyes. Narrowed her brow. Swallowed.

  “I’d like to hear it,” she said, and opened the door.

  Fluorescent LEDs flickered to life as they stepped inside.

  Daniel’s jaw fell open.

  “The walls …”

  “Can I get you some tea?” Her words, snowy white, trailed on their air behind her as she walked to the kitchen. “The food printers this side of Fourth Street haven’t worked for the past month. But tea I can make.”

  The walls were overlaid with geometric shapes. Heptagons intersected and bisected one another in mesmerizing patterns. The snowy words she’d just spoken dispersed through the air, and flew toward the walls. Syllables snapped to the patterns. A line here. An arc there. Forming and reforming the design in an ever-shifting flux.

  He heard the sob of a kettle. The hushed reverence of boiling water poured into a tin cup.

  Her hand cradled Daniel’s elbow.

  “So, what is your story?”

  He thanked her. Took the rusted metal cup. It stung his fingertips. But he couldn’t feel it.

  “I’m looking for myself,” he said, sitting on the only piece of furniture in the living room. A wooden bench.

  Autumn sat beside him. Sipped her tea.

  “I came to the Bubble …” He tried to remember how long he’d been here. The days had merged into one another. It felt like weeks, or a day. It could have been any amount of time. “I came here to find the parts of myself that were taken from me.”

  “The Bubble takes something from all of us,” she said, and gestured toward a broken window that looked out onto the street. The baby somewhere far away shrieked.

  “What did the Bubble take from you?” he asked.

  Autumn looked away. When she returned, her eyes were swollen. She took his hand. With gentle request, she pulled him off the bench, to a room behind the kitchen.

  Daniel didn’t think. Didn’t count the number of floor tiles between the bench and doorframe. Didn’t check whether there were seven teeth showing when her lips parted.

  Daniel didn’t think, as he climbed into the bed beside Autumn. Didn’t remember the look on Ben Stanton’s face when Margaret snapped his brother’s neck. In Autumn’s bed, Daniel couldn’t hear the echo of Daggy Munch’s screams.

  Daniel didn’t remember the last name on the list in his back pocket.

  *

  Autumn mumbled in her sleep on Daniel’s chest. Had been for the last hour at least.

  He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t wanted to.

  Daniel felt the connection between them at his back. A pleasant, thrumming tingle. The tube was heavier now. Thicker than Autumn’s arm. It was hot to the touch. Fleshy. Sweaty.

  He stared up at the ceiling. At the swirls of color that caressed its ridges. Flaking paint had been made beautiful by Autumn’s words. And now that he’d been here, now that he’d spoken too, his words had become part of the effervescent design.

  He wondered whether not just words, but thoughts too, were visible in phase 7049. When he looked up at that pattern on the ceiling above Autumn’s bed, was he seeing the collective pattern of her dreams?

  Without waking her, he replaced his chest with a pillow under Autumn’s ear. Tiptoed to the cracked bay window overlooking the street.

  Sunlight flooded the bedroom. Washed his stomach. Soaked his eyelids in a hot, saffron glow. In phase 2300, this would be prime real-estate. Sure, it wasn’t Bubble Central. But within walking distance of the Promenade’s thousand sins, it was the High Street for students and tourists alike.

  But this was not phase 2300.

  He surveyed the street below. Among the street sweepers, children laughed and skipped along the cracked pavements. Three of them played cricket, using a lamp-less lamppost as their wicket. He’d only played once in his childhood. He remembered it clearly. A cloudy day on the cobbled square outside Administration. Hooplah had thrown the ball. Delighted when Daniel had hit it. But she’d tired quickly running after it.

  Could he make this place his home? He knew it was probably the least desirable phase in the Bubble. Maybe worse than the Gutter. But like the Gutter, it had character. Charm. A lack of pretentiousness. And a magic he couldn’t deny.

  He wasn’t idealistic enough to think he could move in with Autumn. Not right away. But phase 7049 seemed like a sparsely populated landscape. Many of the apartments they’d passed on their way to Autumn’s had been vacant. Would Odin enjoy it here? He could go back to Margaret’s. Collect the cat, and forget all about his last two organs. He could survive without his real liver. Without his amygdala. He could make a life for himself here.

  The child holding the bat swung and missed. The bowler laughed.

  Daniel remembered the way Hooplah would delight in his successes. She’d wanted nothing more than to lose to him when they’d played their game of cricket. He tried to hold her face in mind. But all he could see was her flaxen hair.

  Guilt rose up in him, sharp and sure. What would she think of Autumn? What would she think of his journey?

  Daniel climbed into his boxer shorts. Into his pants.

  “Where you off to, stranger?”

  Daniel sat beside her. Kissed her forehead.

  “I have a cat to feed.”

  “A cat?” Autumn’s eyes widened.

  “His name is Odin.”

  “I once had a cat,” she said. Her words were gray. Specked by flints of orange. “Gave him away when I moved here.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Bubble phase 2300. Born and raised there. It was just mom and me after dad died. And then it was just me.”

  Daniel stroked her hair. Allowed his finger to trace shapes across her chest. He stopped himself when he realized he was tracing the infinity symbol – Margaret’s favorite.

  “I did the best I could to stay in 2300. Tried to find work, but that’s not easy. And …” Her words turned from gray to black. “… when the cancer started, I didn’t have any choice.”

  Daniel had seen his share of cancer at the Organ Farm. At least one in ten organs had it. Nasty blotches. Rough against his fingertips. Into the waste bin they’d go.

  She sighed, deep and alone. Her elfin frame was fragile. Light. Like the Stantons’ lungs. Like the bones of a bird. As though she could drift away on a gust of wind. Something in him wanted to pin that body down. Sheath it. Protect it.

  “What kind of cancer?” he asked.

  A lone tear stroked her cheek. Refracted the sunlight – a lens, within the lens of the apartment window, within the lens of the Bubble.

  “Liver. Caused by a drug-resistant strain of hepatitis. I need to replace my liver once every year or two. And replacements aren’t cheap.”

  An unfamiliar warmth in Daniel reached out to Autumn. Kissed her lips. Held her reedy shoulders.

  “And your story?” she asked.

  “I … I told you. I’m looking for my parts.”

  “Which parts?”

  Daniel stood. Paced at the foot of the bed. As he walked, the connection tugged between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t tell her more. He shouldn’t have told her as much as he had already.

  “I need to go,” he said, and buttoned up his smartshirt. The fabric seemed to pass right through the tubule connected to his back. Different phases? he wondered.

  Autumn nodded. Wrapped the sheet tighter around her.

  “Odin needs feeding,” he explained.

  Autumn said nothing. She watched him dress.

  “I’ll come back,” he said. “Soon.”

  “If you keep leaving like this, you may not have anything to come back to.”

  He’d never seen her words that shape before. Angular edges splintered the air above the bed. And the tube which snaked between the two lovers dulled. Thinned as she spoke.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Soon,” he said, and bolted from the room. By the time he’d reached the front door, the
tingle on his back was gone.

  Smooth on the Inside

  Margaret’s apartment block was twenty minutes’ walk from Autumn’s. Daniel could take a cab, but he’d almost entirely run out of credits. Anyway, he could use the exercise. Since he’d disrobed in front of Autumn, he was aware of lumps and bulges he hadn’t known he had.

  Yes, the walk would do him good. He switched his phase modulator to 2300, and set off.

  Women were hard work, he realized. They tended to ask questions. Autumn wanted to know not just what he did, but why he did it too. Hooplah had been the same.

  He recalled the shape of Autumn’s questions. They’d appeared different to her usual way of speaking. Her questions had sharp corners. Edges. Questions could wound in ways statements couldn’t.

  He liked being alone inside his head. He didn’t want company. Not there. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for a relationship.

  As he walked along Canal Street, he noticed just how different his surroundings were in 2300. Every window was whole. No grime on the buildings. The pedestrians walked upright. Not huddled over a broom or an osteoporotic back. So different from phase 7049. So different from the Gutter.

  But no children played in the streets in 2300. No laughter. No cricket games against lampposts.

  He remembered Autumn’s auburn hair. The way her laughter threw up clouds of rose petals. The curve of her navel, more gentle than a summer cloud.

  And she liked him. Gods, she liked him.

  He touched the scar on his right temple. An angry raised line beneath his hair. If they’d used dermo-regeneration cream, he wouldn’t have that scar. The cream was too expensive to be used on orphans, he knew. But it bothered him nonetheless. They’d taken a part of his brain. Sure, they’d given him a generic replacement, but everyone knew the generics weren’t the same. They’d stolen a piece of him, and not even bothered to cover their tracks. That scar was a reminder of how little the Bubble cared.

  The Bubble – a conscience-free society.

  Daniel’s fingers tingled. He curled them into fists. It wasn’t right. Someone still had that amygdala. And someone else had his liver. What had they done to deserve them? Those organs belonged to him. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t just.

  The street curved to his right. Snaked toward the river, until its gleaming wavelets refracted the dying sun. The sight arrested him. The water was pristine. Clear enough to see the riverbed. The silver scales of fish swayed in gentle S’s, shimmering under the Bubble sun.

  That’s when he knew he couldn’t give up on finding his organs. This water was cleaner than anything he’d seen in the Gutter. And Gods alone knew what it looked like in phase 7049. Yes, the Bubble was a glorious place. Pristine. Gleaming. But only on the back of the Gutter. On the back of the higher phases. By giving the Bubblers his organs, his very cells, his very body, he’d helped to form the trusses supporting that inequity.

  He couldn’t allow it.

  As for Autumn, how could he be a real man to her if he was less than a whole person? He’d explain his actions to her one day, once she’d had a chance to know him. She would realize he was a good person. That he’d never harm someone unnecessarily. She’d come to know that what he’d done was right. She should understand – she was missing her original liver. Autumn knew what it was like to live without a part of herself.

  He remembered the Holey Man from New Settlers Way. What had he said? “The Truth will always win in the face of darkness.” Yes, that was it.

  Daniel tore his gaze away from the river. Resumed his walk to Margaret’s. Two more. Just two more organs. His liver and amygdala. After he’d fed Odin, maybe he’d go find the liver tonight. Then all that was left was to place a call through to Hooplah. Find out if the amygdala had been donated yet, and track down the recipient.

  Maybe he could even do them both tonight? The amygdala and the liver. Get Hal to implant them, and then he’d be done.

  A voice at the back of his mind reminded him that his face was sitting in a jar. This journey wasn’t complete until he wore his own face again. But how could he, with Bubble PD looking for him? And what would Autumn think of his old face?

  He couldn’t worry about that right now. He had to focus on his liver and amygdala. He was so close.

  He felt the strength in his legs as he bounded up the stairwell to Margaret’s. The power in his left knee. His knee. And his lungs. He didn’t cough once. Gods, how good it felt to be himself again. Or, almost himself.

  He was almost at the thirty-fourth floor, Margaret’s floor, when he felt the edge of the torn slip of Bible paper scratch his buttock through the thin fabric of his smartpants. He paused. Reached into his pocket, and unfolded it.

  He rolled his eyes with a delicious satisfaction down the list. Left knee. Left cornea. Tongue. Lungs. All retrieved.

  His eyes happened on the sixth organ on the page:

  Liver – Autumn Beckett

  77 Alderbury Lane

  The moisture drained from his tongue, suddenly raspy on his palate. He spoke the name. “Autumn Beckett.”

  He’d never asked Autumn for her surname. Surely there must be many ‘Autumn’s in the Bubble?

  What gave him pause, however, what stopped his blood, was that the Autumn on his list had his liver. And Autumn had been replacing her liver regularly for years. It made sense. His Autumn could be the Autumn on the list.

  He knew one way to make sure. He called up the tracking application on his overlay. “Locate Autumn Beckett,” he whispered. And there she was, just where he’d left her. Two blocks from Bacchus Mall. Autumn Beckett.

  He couldn’t do it. There was just no way. He couldn’t take her liver. He imagined cutting into her stomach. Her chest. Prying apart the layers of her skin, his fingers bloody …

  He was going to throw up. Right here on Margaret’s stairwell. He was going to –

  A thought struck him cold.

  Even if his Autumn was the Autumn he was looking for, she might not have his liver. Because she’d replaced her liver just about annually. She might have been his recipient, and since replaced the liver with another. His liver might have been thrown out. Probably pulped into compost for the grass by now. Or poured down a drain. Or used as ink for food printers. Gods alone knew.

  He tried to remember when they’d harvested his liver. How long ago had it been? They’d taken his amygdala just last month. Before that, had it been his liver or his cornea? Liver or cornea? Cornea. They’d taken the cornea four months ago. That’s right. He remembered it had been late winter, and the dry, icy air had hurt his eye. And before the cornea … Yes. The liver. When? When had it been?

  Panicked, Daniel ploughed through the hazy memory center of his brain. It had been summer. That’s right. Hooplah had brought him ice cream from the Cafeteria. And he hadn’t been able to eat it. The sludge had come up faster than it had gone down. The cybernetic liver they’d given him could barely process fat. Not enough for an ice cream. Or chocolate. Not then, anyway. It had improved marginally with time. Still to this day, he’d hear a cog in the machine jam in his abdomen, and a wave of nausea would assail him.

  That’s right. They’d taken his liver from him last summer. Roughly a year ago. Autumn might still have it inside her.

  Daniel knocked on Margaret’s door. Stumbled inside.

  “Daniel appears pale,” said Margaret.

  He flopped onto the couch.

  The android sat beside him. “What is threatening Daniel?”

  Daniel ran his hands through his hair. “I … there’s a problem.” When he looked up at Margaret, she still held the same swollen smile she had this morning when he’d left her.

  “Have you stopped smiling since you received those lips?”

  Margaret’s grin only broadened. “Hal says Margaret is glamorous with a smile. Margaret will smile constantly.”

  “It’s unnerving,” said Daniel.

  “Unnerving,” repeated the android, tasting the word.

  “It m
akes people uncomfortable.”

  “Margaret does not compute.”

  “Ugh.” He didn’t have the time or the inclination to educate her on human facial expressions.

  “What is threatening the happiness of Daniel?” she asked.

  When he looked up, her smile was gone, and he found himself speaking before he had time to realize what he was saying.

  “She has my liver, but I don’t want to hurt her. She’s a good person. I … I don’t –”

  Daniel flinched as Margaret reached out an oozing finger. She dabbed the tear that snaked down Daniel’s cheek. Tasted it. “Unusual,” she said.

  “Tell me about it. It’s not every day you like someone who has your liver.”

  “Margaret was referring to the taste of the moisture from Daniel’s eye.”

  “Gods!” Daniel shouted. “Don’t you have any humanity in you?”

  “Margaret occupies the carapace of a Service Bot model A forty-six. Margaret is not made from human parts. But it is Margaret’s Project Alpha to become human.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Margaret does not compute.”

  Gods, he wanted to throw something at her.

  Odin jumped onto Daniel’s lap. Yawned. Nuzzled his chest. The cat was hungry.

  Daniel picked him up. Carried him to the food printer, and replicated some mopane pellets. Odin purred as he ate.

  “Margaret wishes to understand Daniel’s problem obtaining his liver from its owner.”

  I’m the owner, thought Daniel, but he didn’t mention that. He didn’t feel like answering more questions from the android about the nature of ownership.

  “I don’t want to hurt her. But I need to take my liver from her.”

  Margaret stood. Her eyes glazed over. “Daniel wishes not to hurt … not to hurt … not to hurt … not to –”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Daniel has hurt others before. Daniel will hurt the owner of the liver.”

  “Yes, but the owner of my liver is special.”

  “Special? Margaret does not compute.”

  “Forget it,” he said, and slumped back onto the couch. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  “It is time for Margaret to recharge. Margaret will cogitate the problem.”