Page 31 of Scion

“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.