by Carol Riggs
I fumble near Mr. Behr’s door. The scanner confirms my ID, and the door opens.
“There you are,” Mr. Behr says from across the room, glancing up from his deskscreen. “I trust you’re feeling all right.”
“I’m fine.” I step inside and let the door close behind me. I do feel fine, despite going fuzzy brained from seeing that hot dimpled guy. “Did I help Shelby lose weight, Mr. Behr?”
He gives a triumphant smile. “You certainly did. I knew I’d spotted a winner when I saw your application last fall. Have a seat and I’ll show you the vid. And please, call me Leo, like you have been for the last three months.”
“Okay…Leo.” I can’t believe I called this brisk, intimidating man by his first name. A lot can change in three months, I guess.
I sit as his screen flares to life with footage of what must be me inside Shelby Johnson, while Leo calls me Morgan and I respond. Hard to believe that’s truly me, talking in a different voice, moving around in another body. Fascinating. The scenes change as I exercise and transform Shelby’s body into one that’s slender and toned. My Shelby self asks Leo questions before Restoration, and the images vanish.
“Nice,” I say with a laugh. “I’m impressed with myself.”
“You should be.” Leo whisks a finger across his screen. “Nevertheless, when you see the promotional ads, don’t forget you’ll be subject to a fine if you publicize that you were part of Shelby’s weight loss. You’re only allowed to say you’ve been working for us in general. Contact between Loaners and Reducers is forbidden, and any focus should be on the client, not the Reducer.”
“I remember that,” I say, even though I’d love to be able to tell my friends and family.
Leo swivels the screen to face me. “Your parents are standing by, ready to sign off your contract after they confirm you’re alive and well.”
Of course. The parental stamp of approval, since I’m not eighteen yet. Too bad Mom and Dad couldn’t take time off to be here in person as I’m checking out, but oh well. I’m a big girl and don’t need them to hold my hand. Besides, they have to work and keep earning those credits. I wave my fingers at the images, which show a pleased Dad and an enthusiastic Mom.
“I’m done with my Reducer job,” I say. “Back to the normal me.”
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see your face,” Dad says. “I was beginning to think all those texts and emails were from an automated system.”
“An auto-system can’t fake my thoughts and personality, Dad.”
“You look super, honey,” Mom says. “I’m glad you’re done. I can’t wait to see you after rehearsal. Are your muscles weak from being in suspended animation for so long?”
“Nope,” I say. “Animation’s more like being flash-frozen. I’m the same as when I went in.”
“That’s a relief.” She looks around for Leo. “We’re ready to sign, Mr. Behr.”
“See ya, kiddo,” Dad tells me. “I should be off work by the time you get home.”
Leo takes care of their bio-signatures. When he returns the screen to me, Mom and Dad have vanished, replaced by a lengthy page of legal jargon. “Your turn.”
The computer scans my ID chip, and I press my hand onto the bio-pad.
“Your earnings have been deposited,” Leo says. “We’ve also already removed Shelby’s temporary ID authorization from your personal and email accounts. They’re all yours now, and you’re ready to head home.” He rolls his shoulders a little, as if he’s tense. “As you leave the grounds, steer clear of the protesters from WHA by the front gates. The past few weeks, they’ve been gathering to discourage people from joining the program. If any of them tries to engage you, say ‘no comment’ and keep going.”
By WHA, I assume he means the Warriors of Humanity Alliance. But I don’t know why they’d object. “What’s the Institute have to do with human rights violations? Did I miss some big newsflash?”
“It’s just an unfounded rumor.”
“About what, exactly?”
He throws me a stony look, similar to the kind my science teacher gives me when I ask too many questions. “That the Institute was involved in an identity situation. The WHA is simply inventing lies and exaggerating them.”
I have no idea what an “identity situation” means. I start to ask, but the preoccupied look on his face stops me. Obviously he has other things to do and doesn’t want to elaborate. I’ll check it out later online or ask Granddad. He keeps up with conspiracy-type news like that.
Leo grips my hand in a vigorous shake. “It was a pleasure working with you. You’ve helped make the teen pilot program a roaring success. We need more driven, strong-willed people like you in the world.”
My face warms with a pleased flush, even though I know he’s overdoing the praise. “Glad to help out.”
“This teen program will increase our need for Reducers. If you’re interested, we can contact you for future work.”
I shrug. Why not? This seems easy enough, and besides, being on the list doesn’t mean I’m locked into it. “Sure, although I have to study and get back into my classes first.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’ll easily resume your schooling, since you were ahead of most other students. That’s why you were a perfect candidate.”
I reclaim my bag and move to the door. “Thanks for everything. See ya.”
“Stay fit,” Leo says.
As the door closes behind me, the lanky guy in the waiting room rises to his feet.
“All done?” he asks.
“Yep. Going home now.” A powerful warmth races through my veins as he hovers near me, and I don’t think it has anything to do with my circulatory system still gearing up. Our glances lock and stick as if instantly melted, fused into one gaze. Gorgeous. He has a pair of infinite-soul, puppy-dog eyes. “Is this your first Reducer job?”
“Nah, this will be my third.”
“Sounds like you really like the gig.”
“I’m thinking about making a career of it. The pay’s good, too.”
I tilt my head. “You want to spend your whole life in other people’s bodies?”
His half grin makes the corners of my own mouth go up. “I know, it’s strange,” he says. “But I love helping people lose weight.” He takes on a dramatic pose, pressing one hand over his heart. “I’m helping eliminate obesity in the masses, slowly but surely, one person at a time.”
I laugh because he’s making it sound melodramatic on purpose, yet deep down I know how he feels. It is for a good cause. We’re improving the world, helping people become healthier. He understands.
“How much weight did you lose for your Loaner client?” he asks.
“Fifty. You?”
His expression goes a little shy, which is utterly endearing. “Fifty the first time, seventy-five the second. Aiming for fifty again this round.”
Awesome. He’s good at this job, and not bragging about it, either. “Sounds like you’re an ideal worker.”
“Yeah. Leo can’t wait to Transfer me again.” His voice is lower now. Softer.
We mirror another inexplicable grin. He moves closer, and my face just might crack from smiling so hard. Not that we’ve said anything earth-shattering, but there’s an undercurrent in the space between us, as if we’re talking about more than we’re really talking about. A hidden beat, a yearning kind of rhythm.
My phone blings in my bag, cutting through the thick fog in my brain. I wrench my thoughts back to reality. “Sorry, I gotta go,” I say without much breath left in my lungs. It’s time to leave, head home. “Have fun with your body-snatcher career.”
“Wait.” He reaches out and touches my forearm. His fingers press against my skin, soft and sizzle-electric at the same time. “If you’re on TeenDom, we could chat there.”
A powerful gust of surprise and delight blows through me. He wants to connect on Teen Dominion? How totally sly. “Sure thing. I’m on there. We can do that.” I try to stop sounding like I’m babbling
. “My handle’s @geektastic007.”
The dimples appear again. “Cute. Don’t laugh, but mine’s @superguy.”
“I’d never laugh at something that serious.” A chuckle tickles its way up my throat and tries to escape through my teeth. “Chat to ya later.”
“Sure thing. Enjoy your real life.”
His gaze follows me out the waiting room. It gives me a surprising tingle, the wake of something warm and extraordinary.
Whew. I pull out my phone and bring up my text. It’s from Blair.
Yay! Got your own phone back yet? About time you finished that job, Morg. Let’s hang out SOON.
Excellent. I can’t wait to do exactly that.
I cruise out the main doors, humming a song and squinting up at the warm June sun. A perfect day—and even better, no one’s around to hear me singing off-key. It was a terrific idea to put my name on that Reducer candidate list last year. I may seriously think about doing the job again if Leo calls me. It’s hard to beat winking out of consciousness one moment and bursting back into life the next with loads of credits and praise.
Not that I want to do it as a career or anything, like Superguy with his intriguing dimples. I can’t imagine that. Being someone else for months or years, not able to live my own life. No thanks.
My song fades as I approach the Institute gates and find myself near a group of six determined-looking men and women carrying signs. These must be the WHA protesters.
A balding man with a fringe of stringy gray hair spots me as I pass through the gates. His flashing e-sign reads: Put an end to goverment control. I avert my gaze from him and his poor attempt to spell “government.”
“Are you a Reducer?” the man asks me.
“No comment.” I keep walking.
“You have to be a Reducer,” a stout, wavy-haired woman says. “I bet you let the Institute use you for the new teen program, to help the government force people to be thin. And I bet you don’t even know what they had you do.”
A skinny girl, not much older than I am, steps closer to me. “Last year I was a Reducer. When I was done, I had no idea what my Loaner body did. They showed me a vid, but that didn’t prove anything. Someone could’ve pretended to be me while they recorded it.”
That’s crazy. I give a terse exhale and dodge a bearded man. His sign flashes at me.
Reducer, where is your SOUL?
All at once, the sun doesn’t feel as warm or bright.
“No comment,” I say again. “Just leave me alone, please.”
The protesters crowd around me, scowling, following me. The stout woman almost bumps into my arm. Words from their signs flash in my face.
ERT: future assassins and immortal-wannabes.
Brain swapping: a crime against humanity.
Put an end to identity shuffling!
Stop body theft.
I slow down. Okay, what’s their deal? From their signs, it doesn’t sound like they know what they’re talking about.
No matter what Leo advised, I have to take a few minutes to set them straight.
Chapter 3
I point to the brain swapping and body theft signs, and catch the balding man’s eye.
“What’s that even mean?” I ask. “ERT doesn’t swap actual brains, just brainmap files. And with the clients’ permission, so there’s no ‘theft’ going on.”
“Close enough,” he says. “It’s not natural to separate people’s minds from their bodies and mingle them with someone else’s. We don’t know if those things can be separated cleanly. It’s like dissecting a person when we’re not sure where the cutting lines are.”
I shake my head. More ungrounded fears than science, just as I thought. “Our minds are different from our bodies, and our brain waves are easily extractable. Obviously the Institute is separating the two cleanly, and it has been for the past four years.”
The stout woman grunts. “You’re brainwashed. You have no idea whether it’s clean or not.”
“I’m done with my assignment, and I have all my thoughts back. I’m totally me again.”
“At least you think so,” the balding man says with a stern look. “Even if that’s true, you’re involved in a program that throws a giant wrench into the security of ID chips. It’s not right for people to become each other and have access to someone else’s identity.”
“I’m the only one who was in my Loaner’s body,” I say. “To help her lose weight. Period. And now her ID belongs to her again.”
The stout woman jabs a thumb toward the ex-Reducer girl. “How about what she said—maybe it wasn’t you doing the assignment. What if someone else lost the weight instead, and used the Loaner body for an assassination one day?”
My patience is fading fast here. “That’s ridiculous. We’re busy at the Clinic all the time. We’re on constant camera. We dictate daily logs of what we do.”
The bearded man speaks up. “They could replace your mind in the middle of the night. The new person could commit murder, then your mind could be put back in to do the weight loss before you woke up.”
I laugh. “Seriously?” I’m wasting my time with these people. Leo was right about their claims being way off base. A person has to have an IV and be unconscious to undergo a Transfer. Sensors, monitors, everything. These people have no idea how ERT works.
Time to head home. I pick up my pace and hear scattered grumbles behind me.
“We’d better not see you back here,” the stout woman yells after me. “Don’t be a part of the problem!”
I stride away down the sidewalk. Man, for a human rights group, the WHA should be thrilled about the Institute improving people’s quality of life by helping them lose weight and be healthier. Apparently not. The world is a baffling place sometimes.
At the sleek crimson overhang of a Metro-Transit shelter, I scan the onscreen schedule. The next Metro-Transit Express to the Yellow Zone arrives at 1420. Great timing. As Dad predicted, he should be home when I arrive in an hour. When the MT pulls up with a low thrumming noise, I sit near the window. I scan my email on my phone, catching up with what’s gone on for the past three months—messages I’ve sent as well as received. It’s spooky, since I can’t remember any of them. It’s like reading someone else’s mail.
I relax in my seat. It’ll be great to hang out with Blair and Krista, especially with my account so nicely padded with credits. Most of that will help pay Gramma’s never-ending hospital and funeral bills, but I can spare a bit to do fun things. Like treat my two best friends to a game of paintball. Or I could finally get that Ultimate Tech subscription I’ve been wanting. It’d also be amazing to stash a few thousand toward attending the Pac-West Technical Institute someday, but with the government grant I applied for in January and will hopefully get, I shouldn’t need to.
I scroll through the rest of my messages, hoping for an email from the grant program. I see nothing. So frustrating. Government bureaucracy works slower than a one-armed robot.
My TeenDom message board pings. The tightness in my chest fades as I tap up a chat request.
Accept @superguy as Link?
Well, well. Mr. Mesmerizing didn’t waste much time asking to connect. I smile and tap “yes.” Almost immediately, I get a message back.
@superguy: cool to link with ya! off to be briefed by Leo. ttyl
While I stream music and enjoy the perma-grin on my face, the network of transit rails crisscrossing the city whizzes past my window. High rises and megacomplexes flash by, the vidscreens on their surfaces strategically placed to flaunt ads to MT commuters. Crimson shelters give way to the dull mustard shelters of the Yellow Zone. All is peaceful—until the zealous faces of the WHA protesters buzz back into my mind’s eye.
Reducer, where is your SOUL?
I shift in my seat, chewing my lip. That sign was the only one that really bothered me. My soul…good question. Well, if a soul equals the core of my being, my guess is that during ERT it hitched a ride with my brainmap, transferred into Shelby’s
body as a unit. Wherever my consciousness exists, my soul has to exist. Right?
I did the research before putting in my application. ERT didn’t work until the Institute scientists realized they had to cancel the brain activity in the original body before inserting the brainmap file into another body. Maybe because the brain waves in the map are connected to a non-replicating soul.
I snort. That guy with the fringe of hair and his “goverment” control sign. I don’t get his problem. The government manages everything from health care to transportation, and it all works fine. It’s great the president and the lawmakers care enough about their citizens to fund businesses like the Institute. The protesters are as paranoid as Granddad, who’s always insisting things like public security cameras and ID chips violate his freedom.
A minute later, the MT arrives at the Yellow Zone shelter nearest home. I hurry to my megacomplex, which rises fifty floors upward, jutting into the sky as though straining to reach a section of unused airspace. The ground-level autodoor opens and sucks me into its vast mouth of recycled air. I skirt the outer aisles of the superstore on the first floor, but a few holo-ads find me anyway, springing up to advertise glow-in-the-dark hair color and pedometer shoes. Neat stuff, but right now I don’t have time to look.
“Later,” I say, dodging them and taking the first available elevator pod to the seventeenth floor. I press my hand onto the ID pad by my apartment door.
“Welcome home, Morgan,” it greets.
At last. Now I can relax and be me, 100 percent.
The door slides open to reveal Dad, his long legs stretched across the couch. Granddad sits in a nearby recliner, his wiry arms folded and his eyes closed as a snuffling, holographic water buffalo stampedes across the TV viewing platform.
