Five more reps, and I should be done with this body for
good.
I pull the weight bar down to my chest, working my
biceps. Here I am, flat on my back once more, communing
with my old buddy the Fluid Resistance Machine.
Twenty-six…twenty-seven.
Man, I can’t wait to get back into my own body and be
myself again. Hanging out with my friends, spending time
with my family. Dancing. Urban paintballing. Messing
around with kinetics experiments at the Catalyst Club.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the jog-pump-stride
of other Reducers toning and slimming. Hard workers,
these ladies: 100 percent keyed in to their jobs. Above
us on the third floor, I’m sure a bunch of men are
exercising just as hard in their own gym.
A chirp signals the end of my programmed reps. I ditch
the machine and do cool-down stretches while it resets
for the next victim, then take a brisk shower and head to
the first floor for my weigh-in.
I shake a rush of tingling nerves from my fingertips. If
my stats are on track this morning, I can finally check
out of the Clinic. I’ve toned up Shelby Johnson’s body,
plus kept her weight stable this past week. Imagine—fifty
whole pounds, sweated off in three months. Soon, Shelby’s
Before and After images will spring up in vidfeeds
everywhere, peddling the Institute’s new client group,
teens fourteen to eighteen.
Put an end to obesity before you reach adulthood, the ads
will shout. Look fabulous in three to six months!
I’m happy to say I’ve made important progress for Shelby
and the pilot program.
The scanner in the Weigh Center doorway blinks as it
reads the ID chip in my hand. This early, the garish
green waiting chairs hold only a few Reducers. I nod to
another arriving worker, a guy who has about ten pounds
left to lose. Before I can start up a conversation, an
electronic voice near the ceiling intones, “Morgan Dey,
report for weigh-in.”
In Admittance, I step toward an available tech. “Hey,
how’s your day going?”
He grunts and barely looks at me as he waves me onto the
scale, like Reducers are a bunch of faceless cogs on an
assembly line. “Morgan Dey in the body of Shelby
Johnson,” he verifies for the data streamer. He records
my vitals and steps to the wallscreen readout. “Your
assignment is complete. Restoration is scheduled for oh-
nine-forty-five today in the administration building.
Arrive at least ten minutes early at Mr. Behr’s office.”
A wide grin takes over my face. In one short hour, I can
shed my Loaner body and go home. I exit the Weigh Center
and take the stairs two at a time back to the second
floor. With a hasty handprint, I access my dorm room.
After I dictate a log entry of my morning workout, I grab
my Institute phone so I can send a voice-to-text message
to Mom, Dad, and Granddad. I word the message carefully,
since Leo Behr, the director, screens everything a newbie
Reducer sends.
Or so he says. Personally, I think it’s a bluffy scare
tactic he invented to keep his workers in line.
