SOLD!
40 – Decommissioning
James
Earlier the same day.
At 08:10, attendants escort James and a dozen relinquished manupartners from the recycle station garage in M Quadrant to a lobby where dozens more are lined up in neat rows, grinning and blinking. Unaffected by the holding pattern they’re caught in. He joins them, taking his place among them. He tries not to fidget or let his thoughts spiral as he waits for Sable to come collect the day’s first batch, which, with any luck, will include him.
Every couple of minutes, the garage attendants walk another group through the building, past the full lobby he waits in. Movement down the hallway grabs his attention—a man in an oversize green jacket whose insignia he can’t make out greets another man in a sleekcobalt three-piece suit. The material of the suit looks like a synthetic Napa leather; its luxurious quality signifies the vaguely familiar blond man’s financial status. Maybe he’s one of the two owners of GROW here to oversee the inspectors. James might have seen his face in a news article or on their website. As the men pass, the blond man eyes the rows of manupartners. James’s heart jumps when his honey-colored eyes snag on him, then narrow. He holds his grin, willing his gaze to go distant. Eventually, the man moves on.
An agonizing twenty minutes later, Sable appears with two technicians beside her. “We have a lot of work today, so let’s make this quick.” She counts off the first thirty manupartners, of which he’s one, then commands, “Follow me.”
The group shuffles forward, falling in line behind her and the female technician. The male tech, whose name, Sable told him, is Nixon, takes up a position at the rear of the procession. He’s the one who will take James’s place on the table.
Sable leads them to a large stark space that reminds him of an operating room, but ten times the size. Three rows of metal tables stand neatly in the center of the room, and there are dozens of what he thinks are steel refrigerator doors along the back wall.
“You have five minutes to disrobe,” booms Nixon, who is about James’s height and build. “Place your discarded garments in the bins at the front of the room.” He points at the row of bins already piled half full of fabric and footwear. “You’ll find a biodegradable gown at the foot of each table. Please put it on and lie down atop the table. At the end of five minutes, we’ll begin the procedures.”
James notes his voice, wondering if he can mimic the slightly nasal baritone. He plasters a dumb grin on his face and complies as the female lab technician approaches Sable, who nods, giving her instructions he can’t hear.
Nixon taps his stylus on his tablet as he looks on. His hand is trembling slightly, and James can only hope he doesn’t withdraw at the last moment. Plan B is dependent on him. James glances over at Sable, who now leans against the wall by the door, appearing unconcerned.
Quickly, James takes off his garments and tosses them in the bin. He has to weave through a sea of nude and partially clothed manupartners to get to the agreed upon table labeled Fifteen.
A woman on the other side of the room is whimpering slightly. He glances at her. Her dishwater blonde hair is disheveled, partially obscuring her red-rimmed eyes. She lifts her gaze and they make brief eye contact. He wills his expression to become dumb and glassy. To his relief, she looks away. Of all the batches, there has to be a reincarnate in his.Fuck.
He slips on the paper-thin pale blue hospital gown they provided, then lies on the table, which will be the last of the first tray of injections. The crisp metal bites into his skin and the bright overhead lights make him feel like a cadaver. The sensation makes the wordsI don’t want to dieecho like a memory in his mind.
You screamed that once before, the overhead lights say.Care to recall the memory?
The dread that hits him is nearly enough to make him convulse. This is not the time to have a mental breakdown, and he’s fairly certain recalling his death in this circumstance would cause one.Not now. Not now. Not now, he mentally chants.
A few rows down, the woman is quietly repressing sobs. Quick little gasps of air slip out as the seconds tick by. “He said he’d come,” she mutters.
Her distress is enough to distract him from his devolving thoughts.You can’t save her. If he were the hero, he could. But James is no hero. Yet the thought occurs to him, if this works and they can figure out how to solve people’s identity problems, isn’t that precisely what he’llbe doing? Granted, they’d have to initiate some type of background checks to make sure they aren’t helping actual criminals.
Criminals like you?the lights question, and a part of him wants to correct them. Technically, nothing he did in his past life was illegal, but he gets their point.
As he lays there waiting, he wonders about the woman and the rattling table that he assumes is her doing. Who was she in a past life? Was she a good person? Did she have children or a family? Will she freak out when her turn comes? Will someone, like she says, come to save her?
A third set of footsteps enter the room. Everything in him wants to lift his head to look. To discover the person’s identity. They take several steps followed by creaking wheels before both sounds stop.
“Let’s begin,” Sable says loudly, possibly for his benefit.
There is a rustling, then a tablet says, “Identity Confirmed.”
“The top row is injection one. The second—”
“Isn’t it always like this?” The ice in Sable’s voice sends a flood of warmth through him as she reprimands her charge. It’s oddly endearing witnessing her be unapologetically herself, and somehow it makes him confident Sable is going to come through for him. She has to.
The technician must have nodded because Sable barks, “Then why are you wasting my time telling me something I already know? Get moving.”
He knows she’s hurrying to get the batch completed before the inspectors show. God, should he be nervous? No, she assured him she had everything on her end taken care of. But this is his life that hangs on her word. Nerves in a situation this risky are perfectly reasonable.
He hears Nixon sigh, saying, “Time of decommissioning, 08:45.”
Time passes like it’s being dragged through thick and sticky tar. Still, he lays there not flinching at every clink, scrape, breath, or footstep. Nor when the tablet repeats, over and over, “Identity Confirmed.”
