Collection Day had seemed such a long way off, then, when Emma James was only twenty-nine. Her six-year-old daughter Rosie had been playing in front of the TV when the afternoon advert flashed on, the answer to Emma's prayers:

There must be a catch, she thought.

It would be nice, though, not to scrimp and save, to banish worry. She'd been a struggling single mother, up to her eyes in credit card debt and loan agreements she could no longer afford.

The debt bubble had burst in 2008 and the country never recovered; finance fell into the hands of multinationals, after which everything equalled Credits. Private home-ownership was virtually a thing of the past: you took out an eighty-year loan and repaid in Credits, deductible from your Wage-Credit Quota if you were fortunate enough to have a job.

In three generations, the house would belong to your family, subject to Inheritance Tax. State Aid and Unemployment Benefit were things of the past too; no finance conglomerate would pour Credits down those particular drains. The whole country was run on "live now, pay later."

There was a catch. Just a small one.

"Oh, no, we don't want repaying in money!" explained Grimdike, the bespectacled Sinpal representative.

"Then, what—?"

"Simply this." Grimdike handed over a colourful brochure. He pointed at the pictures above each tabulated column. "We're after something more valuable than Credits, which can lose their value. Limbs and organs."

Emma felt her face drain of blood. "Pardon?"

"Our multinational conglomerate clients pay handsomely for genuine as-opposed-to artificial replacement parts. You see, these men and women have committed their lives to their businesses for long-term projects and want to see them to fruition and have time left to enjoy the life they've chosen to catch up on."

"But won't our limbs be too old in twenty years?"

"No, just right. We tried younger donors, but the recipients felt like fish out of water, incapable of adjusting to or satisfying the younger bodily needs." He jabbed a pen. "Recapture of lost youth just isn't on. Look at the sums we're willing to advance. Take your arm, for instance—see?"

The Credits were high. If she took out a loan with her two arms, a kidney and spleen as collateral, she'd have enough to clear all those terrible debts, with some to spare! No, the thought of bartering over her organs didn't appeal. She would stick to limbs. It added a new dimension to the old phrase, "an arm and a leg," though. They made workable artificial ones these days. She wasn't so particular, and, anyway, it was twenty years away before they'd collect...

Emma obtained quotations from other similar loan agencies. Sinpal was the best. With the advance, she'd enjoy life and, more importantly, so would Rosie. They would be able to take a holiday, then perhaps she'd start up a business.

"Which loan would you like, ma'am?"

"I've settled on the limbs."

"A good decision, if I may say so. Many of our clients begin there." Grimdike smiled kindly; now, he had a tooth missing. Emma wondered if it was courtesy of a customer.

"All you will have to pay is a small insurance premium," said Grimdike, "just to guard against bodily mutilation in a crash or fire, heaven forbid, or loss at sea. Oh, and a medical examination. Just a formality, you understand."

Solemnly, Emma signed away her limbs, shaking off a cold shudder.

The medical was a perfunctory affair. She did wonder about the tiny metal sliver behind her ear. "Just ID," the Sinpal doctor explained. "You'll experience no discomfort." After a while she regarded the small lump as a minor sebaceous cyst.

Then she was the recipient of the agreed Credits, minus insurance premiums. It was a joy to be debt-free. She could watch Rosie grow up without worry.

Emma's small boutique business prospered.

When the Sinpal Collectors called, the pair was ushered into her attractive office. Gaunt grey men in grey suits. The older one introduced himself as Purchase and his companion was Skyrme.

"We have come to Collect on the loan, Ms James," Purchase said. "Your twenty years are up."

For an instant her heart threshed madly, emptiness swamped her stomach and her mind went disconcertingly blank. Slowly she won over the jangling nerves. "Sit down, gentlemen. Let's talk this over." Her knees trembled, she could do with a brandy. "A drink, perhaps?"

In unison, Purchase and Skyrme declined.

"There's nothing to talk over, ma'am." Purchase gave a shrug. "We're Collectors—we've come to Collect."

"If I repay the loan, with interest—?"

"No repayment, Ms James," Skyrme replied. "Our clients need limbs. Good, healthy, clean limbs—like yours, Ms James."

Emma didn't particularly like the way Skyrme eyed her legs. She slid them smartly under the desk. "There must be something I can offer?"

"No." They sounded impatient, eager to take her away.

"But..." Emma stared at her gesticulating arms, lowered them possessively, and her palms gripped her quivering thighs where she sat. "My limbs!"

It didn't seem possible that twenty years had passed. She'd been so engrossed in the business, in living and helping Rosie.

Purchase was speaking. "You keep your torso, ma'am. And your head."

"Keep my head?" Emma shrieked. That's hilarious, that is.

"There are some good prosthetic limbs on the market, ma'am."

As though clutching at a life-saving straw, Emma sprang up. "Then why do you need my limbs, eh? Tell me that!"

"This was explained at the time you signed the agreement, ma'am." Purchase waved a copy. "Our clients, who are all aging men and women, want the real thing, the touch of relatively young flesh, in place of their rather care-worn, sandpapery skin. In short, they want limbs very much like yours, Ms James."

Skyrme leaned forward, peered at Emma's wrist intently. "Just the correct texture, too. You've looked after yourself, I see."

Emma pulled back. Her stomach squirmed at the sound of his slithery voice. "Why don't they go the whole hog, then?"

Purchase nodded. Skyrme smiled knowingly. "Some do... The trouble is, not many borrowers will commit their entire bodies. They're understandably sensitive about certain, ah, parts..."

"I bet they are!"

"As a successful businesswoman yourself, you must appreciate, a contract must be honoured. We have our reputation to uphold." Purchase smirked. "Besides, you haven't enough Credits or assets to compete with our clients..."

"We've checked," supplemented Skyrme.

"Wait a minute, I remember something about organ loans. Could I take out a loan for them?" She could feel her heart pounding—a heart she was willing to pawn.

With pursed lips, Purchase nodded. "Yes, it's done on occasion. It is rather late in the day. We would insist on all your organs—excepting those in your skull, naturally. To cover an extended loan on your limbs. Yes, it could be done."

"Thank you." Emma sank back into her chair, oblivious of the implications, content that she had postponed the inevitable. "Another twenty years, and you can have all of me, head and all!"

Purchase shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am. The loan must be for twelve years—that's the maximum on a second-loan of this nature."

Her heart seemed to falter, but only for a moment. A respite of twelve years wasn't bad, was it?

"Naturally, there are the insurance premiums to be adjusted—plus a special, ah, provision. And you'll require a medical. It may be necessary to adjust downwards, depending on the state of your organs."

Emma brushed these obstacles aside. She was glad to be alive and whole. Let tomorrow take care of itself. "Where do I sign?"

Now those twelve years were up. She had hoped to amass enough Credits to either buy-off the Collectors or to play them at their own game and purchase replacement limbs and organs for herself. But this obsession led her into taking unsound commercial risks and her firm had crashed.

Emma was still a comparatively young woman at sixty-one, in possession of a healthy body many a decrepit old woman would give her right arm for. She smiled at the pun; but the joke quickly soured. Now, she thought, I've got nothing left to barter.

It was obvious they wanted her body in its present peak condition. They preferred her age, for the super-rich had tried younger bodies, limbs and organs, but they didn't prove compatible.

Emma thought about leaving the country, then recalled the implanted "ID disc," a tracer, which could be monitored by satellite. Any attempt at removal of the disc sent out a coded alarm and temporarily paralysed the host.

She'd never analysed her feelings about the actual collection and after; she only viewed it as "the loss," the "repayment," the "limitation." Their technology enabled the donor to survive as yet another talking head.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door communicator hummed.

A clammy coldness spread body-wide.

"We've come to Collect," they said as she let them in.

She had wondered about this moment all day. She had dreaded it, sure she would struggle and shame herself in front of them with an insuperable desire to cry and scream. She wanted to resist, biting and kicking, to fight like a beast. She wanted to hurl abuse, to slash her wrists, to laugh in their deadpan faces, anything to cheat them.

Emma James did none of these things, because they would have Rosie's body by default—the "special provision," the small print she'd never shown her daughter.

Terribly conscious of every bodily movement, she stood on rubbery legs which were in effect no longer hers and faced the Collectors.

The desire to cry and scream had not been insuperable after all.

"Let me redeem the loan," she said.

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Nik Morton