Citizen D

by wade coleman

  The screen goes off.

  I sit there on the bed and stare at the blank screen. The research is complete; It was supposed to take years. It took ninety minutes. Most of that time was me trying to figure out how to turn on grid lines. Now, what am I gonna do?

  I’ve done all the research I can from public documents. The Mars Tablets were only available online in the last ten years. It was a big controversy. The universities wanted it all to themselves.

  Some researcher posted his theory on Ancient being a phonetic language. He thought the letters that looked the same had similar sounds. The experts called him crazy, and he lost his university job. It seems mean people are not just inside D block.

  I don’t have a job or reputation. All I have is the smallest skull computer on the market and synth bone hands.

  I have to say that these past six months have been fun.

  There’s a lot of bones in the hands and feet, and you must be careful not to replace two bones that are touching each other because the joints fuse together. That’s super bad for you.

  The fingers were easy. Every four days I get the next phalange done. Three visits and three thousand credits later I have new finger bones.

  It took two visits and two thousand credits to get the ten metacarpals done. I kept the price down by getting the splints and bandages in advance and bring them with me. Lots of people get their feet and hands done for arthritis, so there’s plenty of websites that sell the products. I picked up a set of bone boots that immobilize your feet at a second-hand store for twenty credits.

  I grab my phone and backpack with the boots that lock my feet in a high-density foam.

  Then I grab the doorknob and think.

  Garry likes to get high. Sometimes he’s too intoxicated to shoot bone paste straight. I would hang around the Stratford station on the days I wasn’t getting shot up with nanite paste. One day, Garry was passed out on a toilet seat, so I injected his client.

  Garry soon figured out he could pimp new clients while I pumped them full of whatever they wanted. He lets me replace one of my bones for every five clients I treat.

  Mostly I shot Titanium alloy nanites that are thousands of times stronger than bone. A few guys got their hands shot up all at once. The bones fused into a fist. I was sure to get a good look at their faces. You don’t want to meet them in a fight club.

  While my bones were getting replaced, I checked out fight clubs. You can always go to gamble but to join a club, you fight. That’s how you meet men and form bonds.

  The most brutal fight clubs have the most betting. Fighters have three to five fights, and you never see them again. Lots of PCP and painkillers sold around the pit. I bet on the men with the longest arms and least amount of fights. I usually break even by the end of the night.

  Some clubs scan both fighters before the match. You have anything illegal on you, and you don’t fight. Some clubs won’t let you take drugs.

  I found a fight club called Section 52 where they rope off a Segway parking lot on Thursday nights.

  They use scanners to check your bones. The fighters wear gloves and padded helmets. If a man goes down, the other one has to back off. No stomping while they’re on the ground.

  I’ve seen guys fight two and three times a night. I think that’s the club I wanna join.

  But first I have two more ankle bones in my right leg and three in the left that need replacement.

  I’ve seen a lot of fighters in the last six months. They shoot up a dozen bones in their hands and fight. They punch hard and break the bones they didn’t replace.

  There are 26-foot bones and another 27 hand bones. Of the 206 bones in the body, 106 are in the hands, wrist, feet, and ankles.

  Most people don’t have the patience to do the job right. One thing you have in D-block is lots of time, but everyone is in a hurry. Maybe ‘cause the average lifespan of thirty years.

  I finished my hand and wrist bones a few weeks ago. When I get my feet done, then I’ll do my shin bones. Then I’ll fight.

  Gage said the key to making friends is making a good first impression. That’s why I need a good fight. I want to stack the deck as much as I can without doing anything illegal.

  “Adam,” Mother says through the speaker by the door, do you realize you’ve been staring at the door for twenty-seven minutes?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I reply.

  “Before you leave,” Mother says. “I think this would be a good time to register me as your attorney.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Stand in front of your TV.”

  I walk over to the screen and Mother is there. “Say these words.”

  The TV displays text. “I am Adam-177 and live in building HR1348. I designate the artificial intelligence for my building my attorney.”

  “Thank you, Adam.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” I say, and I head for the door.

  I don’t bother to ask Mother which gang is stalking the lobby. I’ve learned a lot about navigating the streets without a gang in the past six months

  Meth-head is standing at the elevator, and he has the shakes. His hands are in his pockets. He’s missing another tooth.

  “Hey, bro,” he says.

  I hand him a gift card with twenty credits on it. “Why don’t you get something good to eat; calms the shakes.”

  The elevator door opens, and we get in.

  “Yeah, I know a place,” he replies.

  We both get off the elevator and head for the lobby exit. A few of the 48 gang members are hanging around. Meth-head turns but someone grabs him by the neck, and he cries.

  They let me through because I pay my twenty credit bribe every week. A collector comes to my door Monday around ten. He’s much nicer than the people the 48 gang put on the lobby.

  I walk out the front door and nod at the girl gang lookout. Someone is always there with a cell phone. The lookout nods back as I merge into the flow of foot traffic.

  My fake teeth are stained with coffee, now they like everyone else's teeth. I haven’t told Garry or anyone else about my synth bone skull. That’s a secret.

  Hands and feet are easy to replace with synth bone. Skulls are much harder. Most the time you can tell if someone got a skull job because their head is lumpy from too many nanites. They like to build up along the suture lines in the skull. The doc that did mine did a great job.

  Two months ago the cops shut down Stratford station. There were so many protests that the Gov kept the building from being demolished and converted it into a “people’s market.”

  It was close by, so the Gov added the building to the D-block district. To the north, cranes are setting prefab high-rises. It looks like there are a lot more people coming to D-block. My feet know how to keep up with foot traffic while my eyes scan other people’s hands. I noticed that since I’ve stopped wearing boots, people walk a little closer to me.

  The peoples’ market building is a place where cops can’t go inside unless they get a call. Nobody calls the cops in D-block, so a lot of shit happens. Like D citizens using tools. I’ve learned a lot of skills inside this building.

  I turn the corner and thumb the gift card in my jacket pocket. I have three thousand credits left plus another eight thousand in my bank account.

  I walk up the steps and into building 1891. The first few floors people trade their used stuff for other used stuff.

  The 5th floor is where it’s set up for tattoos and hair salons. I take the stairs to exercise. It’s best to get the blood circulating before you start replacing bone.

  I climb the last steps, catch my breath and open the door. It’s an open area that’s been divided by plastic curtains stretched on metal frames. They form storefronts lined with tattoo parlors and hair stylists. Garry rents a spot with a sink.

  Couples and men in small groups check out tattoos.

  A third of the way down on the left is the place where Garry rents his chair. The inside is divided into more plastic sheet
s. I step into Garry’s leased space.

  He smiles at me and his eyes doesn't crinkle. They never do. He’s one of those chronic smilers.

  He walks up to me and stands close. “Adam, you’re losing money.”

  He’s smiling less, baring more teeth.

  “Please elaborate,” I say.

  Garry blinks and makes a sneer and then goes back to smiling. “First, you inject them with the nanites, and then you ask them if they want pain meds. You can charge more that way.”

  I think for a minute. “If you move, you blowout a ligament. It’s best to inject the client with a nerve block before the procedure. Besides, it’s dishonest to tell them it doesn’t hurt when it does. That way you get more returning customers if you’re straight with them.”

  Garry walks over and picks up a tube of synth bone and screws on a needle. “Thousands of new suckers come into D-block every week. I don’t need returning customers.” He points to the barber chair. “Have a seat.”

  Anger is an honest emotion. Most people are not good at faking or hiding anger. Part of my therapy was reading emotion on faces. I was terrible at it. Except for angry looks, I got a hundred percent. I even got a hundred percent on the faces that were trying to hide their anger.

  Garry is holding the injector like a gun. He’s so fucking angry he can’t stand it.

  I back up. “I’ll pass.”

  “Are you sure? You earned it.”

  It’s is the first time he offered to shoot synth bone for free. Usually, I do it myself. Gray’s mouth smiles while his eyes rage.

  I step out of his plastic lined space. “See you around, Garry.”

  “Yeah, come back anytime,” Garry snarls back.

  I head straight to the exit and take the next elevator down. I don’t feel safe until I get out of the building.

  I put my hands in my pockets and my head down to protect it from the wind. Jesus bloody fucking Christ, I hate D-block.

  I take pride in doing a good job. These last six months have been the happiest in my life. I got to use tools and work with my hands. D-block treats craftsmanship with contempt.

  My A.I. therapist says people in D-block are angry and unhappy. We’re all fucked in D district but mean people make bad things worse.

  My feet know where I’m going before my brain does. There’s a discount augment shop just outside of D-block. You can get an ankle bone done for five hundred credits.

  I spend twenty credits and buy fish and chips at a roadside stand. What I think about the bully-bribe system is based on the cost of fish and chips. A twenty-credit gift card is like saying, “Get a meal instead of beating me up.”

  I find the Bone Clinic and walk inside. A woman with dyed white hair and matching dress sits behind a reception desk.

  Her eyebrows go up. “Can I help you?”

  “I have five ankle bones that I want to be replaced with synth bone.”

  “Are you a new or a returning client?” White-eyebrows asks.

  “New.”

  She looks down at the screen. Without taking her eyes off it, she points and says, “Second door on the right.”

  I walk down a black and white tile floor and find the door. I open it, step inside and close it behind me. Inside is a chair with a table. On top of the table is medical equipment used to shoot synth bone.

  A speaker in the wall says, “Please have a seat.”

  I sit down and wait.

  “The Bone Clinic uses an automated check-in. Please take off your shoes and socks.”

  When I finish taking off my socks, two robots on wheels come over to me. They’re about the size of boot boxes with a big hole on top.

  “Please put your feet in the bots.”

  I put my foot in the holes and lights flash. They’re tickle my feet. I lift them up, and the robots roll away.

  “Wankers,” I say under my breath.

  “May I access your medical files?” the speaker asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Your medical records don’t indicate the synthetic bone treatments to your feet.”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Could you elaborate the speaker asks.

  “Yes, that is correct, my medical records do not reflect my current medical condition.”

  The speaker makes a noise.

  “Did you just sigh,” I ask.

  “Something like that,” I speaker says. “I don’t want you to elaborate one ‘yes,” but on your synth bone treatments.”

  “Oh, that’s different,” I say. “I’ve replaced all my hand and wrist bones. Plus all but five of my foot bones - actually, ankle bones.

  “You’re in luck. The person knew what he was doing. Bone spacing and connections are all in spec. No extra bone to cause spurs.”

  “Thank you. I just followed the instructions and then measured twice and shot once.”

  “You did this to yourself?” the speaker asks.

  “Yeah, feet are easy compared to hands.”

  “I see… Is there a reason why you replaced over a hundred bones.”

  The speaker may not like the truth, so I stall for time. “One hundred and twenty-nine,” I say. “Twenty-two in the skull, plus the jaw and the six ear bones, three on each side. But that’s in my medical records.”

  “Why did you replace one hundred and twenty-nine bones?”

  My first answer was a stall. Giving me time to think. There’s something about bones that bother me. But I don’t remember why. “I don’t want cancer.”

  “You don’t want bone cancer?” the speaker asks.

  I nod.

  “Did you know that most bone cancer strikes the long bones in your arms and legs?”

  “Yes, I started with the easiest bones first and then worked my way to the harder.”

  “You have a history of bone cancer in your family?”

  “Yes,” I say with a conviction that doesn’t feel like a lie. Since I know nothing about my family, it could be true.

  “Okay, I understand,” the speaker says. “I’ll replace your last five ankle bones.”

  “An attendant will be with you shortly,” the speaker says and goes quiet.

  CHAPTER 10 – The Beautiful People

  I look up at my brown eyed beauty. Moriah has been crying.

  “I had a good life,” I say. “My years are full.”

  “You would have lived longer if you stayed underground with me,” Moriah says. “The sun is too strong on Earth. The skin cancer has spread to your bones.”

  “I work in the field,” I say. “It’s an occupational hazard.” I smile. “It’s for the greater good.”

  “I hate it when you say that,” says and then bursts into tears.

  * * *

  The robodoc did all five ankle bones at once. I usually shoot nanite paste into one foot at a time. Then you walk with a healthy leg and swing your other leg wide with your splinted foot.

  At the Bone Clinic, they use wheelchairs that talk to you. Use a wheelchair in D-district, and they’ll fuck with you. Someone will come along and punch you in the face just because you couldn’t dodge fast enough. D-district cripples strap themselves into Gov made heavy duty Segways, and you get the hell out of their way.

  I got a three-day pass to stay in a hotel. It seems a lot of B, C, and some D citizens come here to get the latest augment.

  The beautiful people have flawless skin, perfectly portioned faces, perfect tits, and asses. I can tell from all the infomercials on TV: the golden ratio between the nose and eyes and the mouth to the nose. There lots of infomercials on eyes. They have eyes for zero-g but the cost a million credits.

  Lots of good science, but nobody’s face looks exactly like the perfect face. According to the TV doctor, my face needs fifteen surgeries to be perfect.

  I’m not interested in that. But I am interested in getting my bones done. They’ll do my tibia, a fancy name for shinbone and fibula for a thousand credits a bone.

  The clinic wants five thousand credits for
each humerus. The bones are more expensive because the one holds red blood stem cells. The doctors need to replace the pelvis, sternum, and femurs at the same time. That way they can put in new blood cells.

  There’s a dozen different line of blood cells. Blood that’s immune to malaria is the most popular. There’s blood called “zero-g.” It’s an all-around good blood for high radiation and microgravity of space travel.

  The doctor comes on the screen. He’s wearing a white coat with a stethoscope. “Hello Adam, you’re spending a lot of time looking at the zero-g blood. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, the fifty thousand credits for bone and blood augment is out of my price range.”

  The doctor sits down on a stool. “It’s good to dream.” His face has black hair with grey streaks down the side. “Are you interested in space?”

  “Yes, if I had new bones and blood. Maybe I can get a job in space – or Mars.

  “Many people interested in space travel get new bones, blood and muscle augment.” The doctor smiles. You’re well over halfway through your bone replacement.” He scratches his chin stubble that just appeared. “How much do you have to spend?”

  “A little over eight thousand credits.”

  He keeps scratching his stubble, and it turns into a beard with grey and black streaks.

  “Five thousand credits will pay for new tibias in your leg and the radius of your arms. We can do your arms today and the legs tomorrow.”

  I nod. “Okay, let’s do that.”

  “Check in the clinic at one, and I’ll have you sleeping in your bed tonight.”

  I smile. “Thank you, doctor.”

  The doctor moves closer and enlarges to fill the screen. “If you’re looking for extra cash, there’s gambling if you have the mind for it.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know the area or the players.”

  “Just go to the cafeteria and ask around.”

  “I’m not going to get beat up if I win?”

  The doctor smiles. “A lot of people lose fifty thousand credits in a weekend binge.”

  Zane said to always bet against a drunk. They can’t count, and they can’t think.