Scion

Chapter 15

AS I FINALLY CLIMB THE ladder after de Alwes, I reflect that Themis’s sewers were exactly as unpleasant as one would expect them to be.

The megacity’s brown putrescence clings to my knees as I haul myself out into what is, at least relatively speaking, fresh air. We’re in an anteroom designed for workers, small and dark and grimy and an enormous improvement over our last two hours.

“Well that was fun.” Conversation’s been at a minimum, mainly because I’ve been holding my breath on and off in a probably vain attempt to avoid catching any number of diseases. I cough. It feels like there’s excrement coating the inside of my lungs. “You do that often?”

“First time.” De Alwes’s face is even more wrinkled than usual as she takes in her caked legs. “Last time, I think.”

“Agreed.” I don’t know how much the technicians get paid over Basic to fix things down there, but it’s not enough.

There are a couple of pulse showers in the corner, thankfully; two minutes later we’re both clean, even if I feel like the stench faintly lingers. De Alwes taps the exit keypad, and the steel door slides aside, allowing us out onto the street.

“How’d you get the codes for all this?” There were three separate gates we had to pass through on the way here, each one requiring different access.

“Tokens.”

I snort. Of course. “Is there anything you can’t buy?”

“Nothing I’ve come across so far. Except the Keres, I suppose.”

I chuckle, then frown. “You tried to buy them?”

“I went for a managing share a couple of years after they let me live. Almost got it, too. Best-protected ledger I’ve ever seen.”

“So you were a minority owner in the company now trying to kill you?”

“Still am, dear. It’s been a good investment, aside from the trying to kill me part.”

“Do they know?” I hold up my hands as she scoffs.

“Had to ask.” Probably doesn’t make a difference either way, at this point, but if people found out—if it became public that Jasa de Alwes was not only alive, but actively profiting from the crowdfunding of the company that was paid to kill her—well. Well.

I do, reluctantly, have to admire her damned nerve, though.

It’s night, and there aren’t too many people on the street.

Themis is a nightmare of neon and metal and concrete around us, sleek, twisted-petal and curved triangle structures stabbing upward, each one supporting the Plate.

Most buildings are pure steel and stone, no windows.

The insides tend to use digiglass to mimic them, anyway, like at de Alwes’s place.

Even with the outer walls and Plate as protection, the winds in autumn are too high for glass to be practical.

“You do know how to get to this place, right?” The old woman shifts impatiently, uncomfortable being out in the open. Knowing who she is now, I can’t say I blame her.

“Hang on. I haven’t been here for a minute.” This was one of the first megacities, more consolidated than planned, and it’s always showed in the non-design of how its various almost-century-old pieces fit together.

“It’s not like anything’s changed. DeGov has the ‘everything to spec’ mandate, remember?”

“I know. Just… alright.” I think I know where we are. Only a few blocks away. “This way.”

The few people out and about don’t give us a second glance, though they do step a touch quicker whenever we pass close by.

Younger men and women, mostly, probably on the way back from one of the self-run Basic bars that are permanently open in this district.

Always seemed like a risky pastime to me—the Core is where Reapers tend to operate, after all—but to each their own.

When de Alwes sees we’re heading toward a main street, she balks. “We should take the back way.”

“Too dangerous. And drones will be scanning those alleys, anyway. Out there, you just keep your head down and they don’t bother trying to make a positive ID.”

“You’re sure?”

For Jasa de Alwes? Hell no. “Of course.”

“Alright.” She doesn’t sound like it’s alright at all, but she does as I suggest and goes one better, pulling up her hood. I do the same. It’s a cold night. And while I’m not on any DeGov watchlists, that’s not to say that the Keres don’t have eyes here as well.

“So, I have to ask.” I really do. “Why the hell aren’t you taking Ichor?”

“What are you implying, Azure?” I see a wry smile on her shadowed face. “I don’t take Ichor because while I very much like being alive, the idea of it lasting indefinitely isn’t terribly appealing.”

“Really?”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Make it to my age, Azure, dear, and you’ll understand.”

“I thought the point was that I shouldn’t take Ichor.”

She laughs, at that.

We walk for another five minutes in silence before the garish purple-and-green digiglass sign above Manuel’s door appears up ahead. No name, just some sort of badly drawn lion with wings, joined underneath to what may or may not be a snake. I’ve always hoped it’s a snake.

Still the same sign, anyway. I’m happy to see it. Nobody running a legitimate business would ever use it to advertise.

The steel door hisses aside as we approach.

I step into the dingy interior, de Alwes following more tentatively.

Hard to blame her. It’s crowded with bare-wired tech poking off cluttered shelves, more of that unpleasant purple and green providing just enough illumination to pick our way forward.

I think it smells worse than we did twenty minutes ago.

“Hello?” Revs active. This isn’t exactly a walk-in-off-the-street shop. “Manuel?”

Nobody at the counter but beyond the reflective glass behind it, I hear a faint sound. Something metallic clicking.

I resist the urge to dive to the side. Hold my hands up and peer pointedly at the one-way mirror. “Hey, bud. Been a minute.”

“Should I shoot her?” The voice is faint, even to my revs. Smart.

“Don’t tempt me. But, please don’t. She’s with me. Really. I’m clean. No trap.”

“She’s old. Damn.”

“Observant man. She’s a client.”

“Ahh. That makes more sense.”

“Who are you talking to?” asks de Alwes irritably.

The door to the left clicks open, and Manuel waddles through.

Manuel is a big man. Six foot four, at least a hundred and fifty kilos.

White to the point of looking ill—the man never goes above the Plate and so never sees the sun, as far as I know—and fat bunching around his elbows as he softly wheezes with the effort of walking.

His plump baby face looks discordant beneath a distinctly balding pate, though I’m almost certain he’s only in his twenties.

His loose-fitting yellow shirt reads “Magongon,” with a big yellow smiley face beneath it crying blood. I have no idea what it means.

“Azure.” Manuel points a Volt at me. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

I look at the stun gun without disguising my disdain. “Please.”

“Fine, fine.” He tucks it away again, looking disgruntled. “How long’s it been?”

“Couple of years.”

“Couple of years.” He eyes me. “You look good.”

“You could still stand to lose a little weight.”

He grins at that. A wide smile, much more reminiscent of the man I remember. “Still an asshole, I see.”

“Well, we both know what assholes usually become.” His grin gets even wider as he remembers the conversation. “Bigger assholes,” we say in jovial unison.

“I’m going to die,” mutters the old woman behind me.

“So really,” Manuel says, his demeanour more relaxed now. “I know you. You don’t show up after two years for a social call. What do you need?”

I hesitate. “Two Slabs.”

“Hah.” He sees I’m not smiling. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s not pretty.”

He massages his left arm with a meaty right paw. “Azure, look. You know I like you. But the tokens you’re going to need—”

“I’ll pay,” chimes in de Alwes.

“She’ll pay,” I agree quickly. I was assuming, because I sure as hell won’t be able to afford it. “She’s good for it.”

“Really?”

My nod, I’m glad to see, is still enough confirmation for Manuel. He considers a moment longer, then shrugs. “If you need it, you need it. Let me see what I have.”

He gives de Alwes a speculative look, and disappears back through the side door.

“What’s a Slab?” asks de Alwes as soon as he’s gone.

“Doesn’t know much for someone with that many tokens to throw around, does she?” comes a faint voice from the mirror. Manuel must have a mic transmitting our conversation back there.

“A Slab,” I explain, ignoring Manuel, “is a DeGov ID. One that will pass at every checkpoint, every scan.”

She frowns. “That’s not possible. You can’t fool DeGov.”

“So innocent,” chuckles Manuel.

“These are originals.”

“Where are the owners?” Her expression changes as she realises the answer. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty rare that DeGov doesn’t know about a death, but when one slips through… man. Those IDs become golden.”

“But the details…”

“Lenses for retinal—it’s uncomfortable, but you get used to it—and a DNA wash.

Then we show up at an Autobooth and request a new picture.

People spend their Basic excess on Reconstructs all the time.

As long as the other two match, the system will just update.

” Ideally we’d get new faces too, but I can’t risk it: certain elements of the procedure could permanently mess with my revs.

Plus that kind of surgery is tough on the body, anyway, and the old woman would take weeks to recover. If she ever did.

She looks vaguely aghast. I suppose it’s not too surprising. DeGov is built around these systems being impregnable. “What happens later, if we have to give another DNA sample?”

“If we’re prepared for it, we do another wash.” Not very healthy, either, but even de Alwes would survive one more round. “If not… well. If we’re getting surprise DNA-tested, we’re probably not in the best situation anyway. But almost everything’s just the retinal and face recog combination.”

“So easy.”

“It’s really that easy?”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” I say, a little tetchily. “Slabs are once-in-a-lifetime resets. Manuel’s the only one I know doing them, and I doubt he’s done more than a dozen of them. Ever.”

“Grand total of three, actually.”

“Alright, alright. I understand. How much is this going to set me back?”

“Nine thousand. Each.”

“Probably around thirty thousand tokens. Maybe a touch over.”

“Oh.” De Alwes nods slowly. “That’s not too bad, I suppose.”

A soft choking sound from behind the mirror.

“And you trust this man?”

“Hell no. But I trust his love of tokens and being alive. If one of his IDs gets made, he’s out of business and on DeGov’s tampering list.”

“Wow. I can feel the love, Azure. Untrustworthy Manuel is almost done, by the way.”

I nod absently and stretch, gazing around.

DeGov has Manuel’s listed as a repair shop.

If anyone has ever been unlucky enough to come here for legal purposes—and made it past that awful, awful sign—one look at the chaos of wiring and very obviously still broken machinery would surely send them elsewhere.

Manuel is soon emerging again, a pad in each corpulent hand. He lays them on the counter.

“Eighteen thousand each,” he says cheerfully. I stare at him steadily. He holds up his hands. “Sixteen, for an old friend.”

I nod to de Alwes, who takes the data pad Manuel’s indicating. A few taps later, and she hands it back. “Done.”

Manuel, to his credit, appears outwardly calm as he sees the truly ludicrous balance being transferred. “Alright. Wash time.” The side door hisses open again, and he heaves himself through.

De Alwes gives me a concerned look as I scoop up the two pads off the bench. “Here?” she asks under her breath as we start after him.

“I’m sure his lab will be very clean.” I scan the pads as we hit a neon-lit stairwell and start downward. “Manuel, these say we’re both meant to be in our fifties.”

“Nobody’s going to look at your birthdate. And if they do, you say you had a Reconstruct.”

“That’s fine for me, but nobody’s going to believe anyone had one to look older.”

He huffs as he navigates the stairs. “DeGov protects image history, so they’ll have to take your word for it. Anyway, what age would you have preferred I make her, from my vast collection of Slabs?”

De Alwes looks at me expectantly.

“I don’t know. Double it, maybe.” She crosses her arms and frowns sternly. “Triple it?”

Manuel chuckles, and pushes open the black door at the bottom of the stairs, fluorescents blinking to life beyond.