Page 30 of Scion

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.