18. ID Fixer

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.

This book’s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“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.”