18 – ID Fixer

  Lemon seemed to take the hint that Hector wanted to be alone, so he stood by himself, hunched against the wind, watching the occasional truck pass. He had only a few minutes to contemplate his suddenly sour mood before a boxy, rectangular vehicle hummed up to the curb. A chime sounded, and a sign on its roof flashed green and yellow, illuminating the cab company name: Helio Rydes.

  The storefront door opened behind him, and Lemon said, “That’s us.”

  Hector followed her to the cab. As they approached, a side door slid open, and they climbed in, sitting in two of the four seats. A disembodied masculine voice said, “Please make payment to begin your service.” A silvery disc on the console between their seats flashed with blue lights, and Hector reached forward to tap his ring against it. “Thank you for your fare: 22.33 bits.” The narrow, boxy vehicle surged into motion, and Hector leaned back, glancing at Lemon.

  She caught his look and smiled. “Feeling stressed?”

  He tilted his head, realizing she was giving him an excuse for being rude. “Yeah. Lots on my mind.”

  “I figured. You’ve been through a lot, after all. You’re still up for—”

  “I’m up for it. We’ll get food after the ID fixer.”

  Lemon nodded. “I’m pretty hungry.” As the cab made its plodding way through the light traffic, she asked, “What about tomorrow? Grando have more fights lined up for you?”

  “Nah.” Hector had a second thought and added, “Well, I don’t know. Supposed to look into getting me rift access.”

  “A rift? Seriously?” When Hector only nodded, she said, “I’ve just never seen one—never knew anyone who went into one. Honestly, they seem made-up to me. Sure, there are plenty of vids about them—action serials and whatnot, but…” She trailed off, having run out of words to express her disbelief.

  “They’re real.”

  “Have you ever been in one before? In the serials, they make them seem really dangerous. I saw one about a miner who won a lottery to get in, and pretty much everyone on his crew got killed.”

  Hector smiled, clicking his tongue. “That’s drama for you. They aren’t that bad.”

  “Is that how it works, though? You have a crew of, like, miners and, um, environmentalists and fighters, and you split the take?”

  Hector realized he didn’t know the answer; the crews sent in by the Empire were surely run differently than those made up of citizens. It made sense, though. By way of answer, he just said, “I’ll be looking for potentia.”

  “Oh!” Lemon grabbed his knee in her excitement. “I remember that! It comes from spores, right?”

  “Blooms,” Hector corrected, using the term he’d learned in his previous life. “They look like flowers.”

  Lemon narrowed her eyes. “Well, I’m pretty sure the serials call them spores.”

  Hector scowled but didn’t respond. Of course terms would change in two-hundred years. Even so, it irritated him that people would think of the beautiful potentia blooms as some kind of fungus. They’re not goddamn mold.

  “When do you think—”

  “No idea.”

  It was Lemon’s turn to frown, but she stopped bugging him and looked out the window. The cab had a transparent front screen that stretched over most of the roof, too, so they had a good view of the gigantic buildings ahead. When a huge, square, yellow-plasteel one came into view, with massive red letters painted on the side reading, “Lefty’s Bazaar,” Lemon pointed and said, “That’s us.”

  Hector nodded, leaning forward to peer through the plastiglass at the throng of people gathered around the massive bay doors. Despite the cold, they were lined up for half a klick. “Fee to get in?”

  “Yeah, but it’s worth it. Everything’s cheaper in there.”

  He smirked. “Probably stolen.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “And the PKs?”

  “They tend to look the other way. Grando says it’s because places like this make it possible for people to survive in the Empire’s broken economy.”

  Hector didn’t argue; he’d had no problem making money since waking up, but then, he wasn’t average—he’d taken his due from people who’d tried to rob him, and then he’d won a fight. The poor, malnourished bastards huddled in their thin jackets up ahead couldn’t earn that way.

  The cab let them off near the back of the line, and they waited, hands in pockets, as the people were let in at a steady rate. Hector kept his duffel slung in a way that kept it more in front of him than on his side; the many hungry, desperate eyes glancing their way made him nervous of thievery.

  At first, he wondered if they’d even let him in the building with a bag, but then he saw how many other people were hauling sacks and boxes. “People sell and trade in there?”

  Lemon nodded. “You name it.”

  Hector scowled at her. “Why didn’t we buy my augs here?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Because half this stuff is fake, and I’m not good enough to know who’s selling the real deal. Are you?”

  Hector couldn’t argue, so he just grunted.

  The ticket for entry was only fifteen bits, but considering the size of the crowd inside, Hector had a feeling the merchants—if they got a cut—were doing all right. There were two levels, and each was lined, wall to wall, with hundreds and hundreds of stalls, tables, and even prefab structures where people sold everything from antique books to clothes to electronics to soup.

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  “Phil says the guy is on the second floor in the back, left-hand corner if you’re looking away from the escalator.” She pointed to a large, two-way set of escalators at the center of the building.

  “Okay.” Hector worked his way through the crowd, trying to keep from drooling at the many scents of food that hung thick in the air. One place was selling hot dogs, and the sign read, “Real pork!” He had his doubts, but the smell was enough to make him want to risk it. At the top of the escalator, he realized the building contained three stories, but the third was more of a galleria balcony that ran around the perimeter. The shops up there were more permanent-looking.

  “That way,” Lemon said, tugging his sleeve and pointing. Hector grunted and followed her through the crowd, down an aisle leading to the building’s corner. It turned out that the ID fixer operated out of a three-room stall made up of old cubicle partitions. The outside advertised “Legal and Tax Advice,” and it seemed like that was what was actually going on in the first cubicle space.

  While Hector looked on from outside a beaded-curtain doorway, Lemon poked her head through, interrupting a young, purple-haired woman who was going over a document on her crystal-glass display with a hollow-eyed man. He was barely looking, though, as he struggled to contain an unruly toddler. “Excuse me?” Lemon said, clearing her throat.

  The woman looked up, frowning. “I’ll be about twenty more minutes.”

  “Oh, um, I just want to make sure I’m in the right place. I’m looking for Kuroda.”

  The woman’s scowl deepened. “Who sent you?”

  “A mutual friend.” Lemon shrugged.

  “Through the curtain.” The woman jerked her thumb toward another beaded curtain behind her. “Now, I’m busy.” She gestured to the crystal-glass. “Sorry, Elmer—” she stopped short as Elmer cursed, failing to keep the toddler from wriggling off his lap.

  Lemon caught Hector’s eye and motioned for him to follow, and they hurried through the little space, ducking through the next curtain. The next cubicle was lined with folding chairs, and a sign on the opposite wall, beside an aluminum door, read, “Sit and wait.” Hector and Lemon sat down, and he rested his duffel in his lap.

  “Kind of sketchy, isn’t it?” Lemon whispered.

  He shrugged. “It lines up.” He wouldn’t expect an ID fixer to advertise openly, even in a place like Lefty’s Bazaar.

  Surprisingly, they didn’t wait long before the door opened, and a short man with a sizeable paunch peered at them overtop a pair of designer, multi-lens specs. The fancy glasses seemed out-of-place once Hector got a better look at the man’s wardrobe—coffee-stained khaki pants and a short-sleeved button-up shirt with noticeable sweat stains spreading from the pits. The little fellow rubbed his stubble-covered chin, cleared his throat, peered at Lemon, and asked, “You’re looking for Kuroda?”

  Lemon nodded. “Um, yes, sir. Well, my friend is.” She nodded to Hector.

  “Come in.” He pushed the door wide and then turned, walking back into his office. Hector got up, and he and Lemon followed him in, finding themselves in a cluttered office—electronics, filing bins, and a large, tower-like “Versa Tech Business 980c” machine. Kuroda took a broken-looking data deck off one of the two chairs in front of his desk and said, “Sit.”

  “Thank you, my friend is just looking for—”

  Kuroda held up a finger, said, “Shh,” then plopped into his chair behind the desk. “One minute.” He turned to the shelf behind him and flipped several large red switches on a plain black electronic device. It whined, then faded to a sound that reminded Hector of a bad case of tinnitus. “Jammer. In case you’re trying to entrap me.”

  “We’re not,” Hector said, sitting down.

  “Never know. The Imperial Registry’s always poking around…not that I’ve said I’ll do anything that isn’t strictly legal, by the way. Now, what were you two looking for?”

  Hector looked around the dirty little office. He could still hear the clamor of the crowd outside in the bazaar through the thin walls, but it was muted and impossible to discern any distinct words. “I need a new ID.”

  “Oh?” Kuroda chuckled. “And who told you I could help with something like that?”

  “We promised not to tell!” Lemon said.

  “Hah! So, I’ve got a rat among my regulars? Or maybe I don’t! Maybe some unhappy client is spreading rumors about me!” He tilted his specs down and winked. “I don’t do that kind of work. I’m just a tax advisor.”

  Hector felt his neck getting hot. He leaned forward, grabbing his duffel from where he’d set it on the floor. “Let’s go, Lemon. I don’t have time for games; Grando can get me an ID.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked, and apparently her genuine concern was enough to call Kuroda’s bluff.

  “Wait a minute now.” He motioned for Hector to remain seated. “I’m just being careful. Did you say you know Grando Scrim?”

  Hector nodded.

  Lemon grasped at the opening. “Grando owes Hector money, so he’ll probably help with—”

  “Settle down now! Why didn’t you say so? I don’t want to get on the wrong side of Grando, and besides, I don’t think any stiffs from the Registry would know to drop his name.” He frowned. “Though, if Grando didn’t send you, it certainly makes me wonder who’s talking about me out there. I bet—”

  “Can we get on with it?” Hector tapped his ring on the desk. “I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”

  “You know about my fees?”

  Hector shrugged. “Not exactly.”

  Kuroda’s lips pressed together in a grimace, and then he turned to the jamming device and twisted a knob until the ringing in Hector’s ears grew almost painful. “Sorry, but you’re making me nervous.” Turning back to them, he said, “I have two packages: recycled IDs and fresh IDs. Recycled will cost you 3500 bits. A fresh one is 9k.”

  “Why so much?” Lemon asked, her voice rising an octave.

  “Because I have to use up one of my official registry keys to make a new ID, and those don’t come cheap!” He chuckled. “It’s easy to find a corrupt ministry employee, but they all think they’re rare, so they charge through the nose. A recycled ID is easy, though—I buy IDs from morgues and, uh, other places where you might find a fresh corpse, and then I doctor them.”

  Nine thousand bits would just about drain Hector’s stash, but he didn’t care; he wanted a good ID that would stand up to scrutiny—one he could use for off-world flights and registering for things like rift dives. “I’ll take a fresh one, but—” He leaned forward, glowering, locking eyes with Kuroda as he growled the rest of his statement. “—you had better not try to screw me over.”

  “Not to worry. By the way, along those lines and just so we can trust each other going forward…” He tapped his fancy specs and grinned, exposing a wide gap between his two center-bottom teeth as he leaned back in his chair. “I scanned your retinas and ran your IDs against my database of Bureau employees. It’s a week or so old, but you don’t strike me as new, so—”

  Hector stood, his fists clenched. “Delete—”

  “Already done! Already done! I don’t keep any sort of record of my clients—bad for business!” When Hector unclenched his fists and sat down, he added, “Suffice it to say, I can see why you need a new ID.”

  “So? How long is this going to take?”

  “Not long, not long. I’ve got all the equipment. We’ll just need to come up with a bit of a backstory for you—some history I can put into your travel records so it won’t look like you just appeared here on Mars out of thin air. I recommend people to pick one of the Old-Earth cities because they’re notorious for records gaps thanks to the wars, and, besides, nobody’s going to go to the trouble of requesting a data packet so long as your digital passport looks legit. I’ll make sure it does.”

  While Hector absorbed all that, Kuroda unlocked a drawer in his desk and retrieved a sleek, copper-toned metallic data deck. He set it on the desk and pressed his finger on the top. One of his lenses illuminated with a flickering amber data stream, and then he asked, “Any preference on a hometown?”

  “Somewhere in the Rockies. One of the consortium arcologies.” Something I know. Something I can speak to.

  “Easy enough—perfect, actually. Those arcologies are notorious for being stingy with their data. First name?”

  “Hector.”

  Kuroda nodded, pursing his lips as he worked. “Surname?”

  Hector shrugged. “Have your AI pick something.”