Spare Parts

Everything would be fine.

Roughly pulling on a pair of powdery gloves, Tomas yanked a bungee light across to illuminate his workspace, the halogen bulb sizzling as dexterous fingers butterflied across Dart’s shoulders, as if poised to deliver a soothing massage.

“Is there … any more … anesthetic?”

Tomas tapped a finger against one of the many drips encircling Dart, ensuring a lug of dark, viscous liquid plummeted down the tubing and into the man’s bulging veins.

It was lubricant solution. Team budget wouldn’t run to any more NSAIDs, and besides, they were banned. The RFC was so hot on doping these days, they couldn’t take any chances.

The race was being shown on seven of the eight monitors, each tracking a different stat of lead rider, Andy, David’s brother and teammate.

A silent nurse was sat wearing wired headphones over in a corner: perm frayed, eyes glazed, fingers typing mechanically.

Tomas ripped off a length of green paper towel and grabbed a metal bowl.

“What’s going on?” Dart groaned, unsure as to why he’d gone from a cool hospital bed with champagne and fan mail, to the garage.

Tomas’ breathing grew louder.

He needed a new resp filter.

Andy had broken down at the side of the track. Every timer was blaring red, counting down the seconds to when the next rider would catch up with him. CORE TM would be off the podium for sure at this rate, unless they could get a repair sorted.

“…Tomas?”

The mechanic pressed down against Dart’s back. As the pressure increased, a waxy pus began to seep out of the crack forming along the other man’s spine. He squirmed uncomfortably, sobering quickly, eyes widening as his gaze fell across the only monitor not showing the race.

Blue latex squeaked against metal.

Tomas dug his fingertips in a little deeper, flesh parting easily, dabbing away blackened gunk with a wadge of green roll.

“What … what are you doing?”

Dart attempted to struggle but was restrained by a repurposed bike lock, the plastic casing about his wrists digging in tightly. He craned his head upwards, back to the monitor, disbelief reflecting in red, watering eyes.

The first links of a chain were being eased out of his shoulders, popping through greased muscle like a cooked fish’s backbone. The rest followed easily, every vertebra giving birth to a perfect derailleur chain.

An echoing scream tore itself from Dart’s mouth, oil-like drool dribbling from his lips, down his chin, splashing the grey-matted floor.

His back was now an exposed length of bloody road. A gaping, open chasm.

“I can’t feel … I can’t … feel my…”

Dart sobbed as a black-helmeted courier walked in and placed a padded case on the bench, glancing at their wrist. Tomas was already drying off the chain, tenderly, like a newborn. The clasps of the case clicked open, and he slid his precious extraction into a soft, fibrous gel, nodding his consent.

“Excellent work, Tomas.”

The courier strode out, past a smart-suited figure who was dabbing his perspiring forehead with a CORE TM Merch handkerchief.

“Director Aisling. What … what’s happening?” Dart rasped.

“You were always the supportrider, David. You signed a contract.”

“But-”

“What use are you to us now with a broken leg? I mean, except for spare parts, of course.”

“Spare … parts?”

“There’s a reason why CORE TM has revolutionized the sport; led the way these past few years. It’s all about connections, David. One of the reasons why we always win, and why we always sign twins.”

“But I didn’t sign up for this.”

“I can assure you, you did. Small print, David. Devil’s in the detail. Your application was actually one of the reasons why we picked you. Desire to win at any cost. You didn’t question the medicals or object to the drugs. Your bike was infused with your DNA… while you were busy lapping up the acclaim and posing for shaving commercials, it became … an extension of you.”

The director shook his head.

“Millions, billions of pounds worth of biotech and you wrote yourself off, David. That’s why this hurts. A part of you is already dead. But you can still live on, be the legend you always dreamed of.”

He bent down and patted David’s clammy cheek, flecks of his beard falling out. “There’s still seven races left in the season, and look...”

Between a thumb and forefinger, he turned Dart’s chin to the screen.

CORE TM support crew had arrived with Andy out on the shimmering track. Without the drone of commentators, it looked more like surgery than a simple repair. Dart’s spine was lifted reverently out of its container and reattached to Andy’s bike, fusing biologically with the rest of the frame.

“No …”

“Yes, David.”

Dart glanced down in horror at his shaking hand, the skin turning grey and rubbery, fingers beginning to crack and elongate into spokes.

“Just in case your brother gets a puncture,” Director Aisling uttered, but Dart could no longer reply, the smooth, leathery hide of a saddle starting to grow across the thickness of his tongue.