In response, I flash the black rose in my interior coat pocket and grin. “Pale lady, today we’re the trouble.”
The interior of the shop is a dim jungle of gadgets and secondhand gizmos so thick they seem to grow into the humid air. Amidst floating indigo signs, obscure relics hang on hooks beside knockoff datapads and ocular implants. A good half of the store has been given over to biomodifications. Two teenage Greens with heavy tattooing and liberty spike hair sift through plastic packages containing discounted neurolinks. Idiots. After the darkness of the Society, this new generation is so desperate to plug in, to know everything instantaneously, that they put the whole holoNet in their heads without giving two shits about the consequences. The teenagers eye Volga nervously as she comes in.
Cyra’s already snagged a cart and is getting to work on her datapad’s shopping list. Volga stands behind me, eyes darting around like a puppy given leave over a butcher’s shop. They settle on a holoExperiental station that several kids have gathered around. “Go on, feast your eyes,” I say. She gives me a careful smile, then, taking huge care not to let her broad shoulders knock over a rack of metabolic implants, lumbers over to watch. A Blue kid is sitting in a chair, nodes attached to his head. A projection of what he’s seeing with his closed eyes dances in the air above him. His friends watch excitedly, waiting their turn. They peer back as Volga’s shadow eclipses them. One of Kobachi’s employees, a gangly young Green, monitors the experiential over a tray of nasal caffeine inhalers. The Red’s flying a Colloway xe Char mission—the fantastical first where the dashing ex-pirate personally relieved House Saud of ten tons of gold bullion they were moving from their Luna banks to Venus in a caravan. They put a hell of a bounty on him after that, and made him famous.
The employee blanches when he sees Volga. “No crows,” he says, gesturing to the sign. She looks down at him, embarrassed. “Can’t you read, girl?”
“Yes, I can read,” Volga says in a small voice.
“She’s with me,” I say.
He doesn’t turn. “Look, if she was a ruster, she’d steal shit. If she was a Brown she’d clean shit. But she’s an Obsidian: they break shit. I don’t make the rules, brotherman.”
“Kid,” I say. I nudge the employee. He turns his bloodshot eyes to me. His pupils are huge on some designer drug, his armpits dark with sweat. “Watch your fucking manners.” He swallows, seeing the Omnivore pistol hanging on the holster inside my jacket. “Where’s Kobachi?”
“In the back.”
“Get him for me. Tell him it’s Ephraim.”
The Green just blinks at me.
“Before I grow a beard.”
“Keep up, pops. Already called him.” He taps the scar on his right temple where his neurolink went in. His eyes narrow rebelliously. “Told him a tinman was waitin’.”
A few minutes later, I spy Kobachi peeking out the crack of the door leading to the back of his shop, where he does his repairs. He catches me spotting him, then ducks away before reappearing grandly, extending his arms in welcome. He’s a little mechanized gecko of a man. In his deep sixties, his sleepy green eyes embedded with sensors and magnification lenses. Bald headed. In patched-up overalls with multiscrews and other tools sticking out of the belt on his tiny hips. Dull metal implants rise up out of the pale flesh covering his skull.
“Ephraim, my dearest friend,” he says in a thin voice as he comes up to me in the cluttered aisle. He hasn’t yet seen Volga past the stacks of music equipment. “What joy to see you again. Such a fright you gave Kobachi.” He leans closer. “I thought you were the Watchmen come back with cruelty on their minds. Such nasty, nasty customers, your kinsmen. All extortion and bullying and demanding the severest discounts. Sometimes they even demand…” His voice falters.“…refunds.”
“Refunds,” I say. “The horror.”
“I know. I know. But such times we live in. No protection for the small-business owner. Only taxes and extortion. Such is to be expected from leaders who have never run a business!” He waves to a floating sign that says NO REFUNDS. “But is it too much to ask for a literate militarized police?”
“At least they weren’t too upset about the shit knockoff lenses you repackaged in Sun Industries wrapping….”
He gasps. “Repackage! Insidious accusation! And this, from a dear friend.”
“More like insidious business practices. Those lenses you fleeced me for scratched my cornea. You’re as bad as Roduko.”
“Roduko! How dare you.” He sets his reedy hands on his hips and can’t find them because of the bulk of his tool belt, so he settles for crossing his arms. “Kal ag Roduko is a two-bit Terran hustler without a kilobyte of consideration for his customer. Profit. Profit. Profit. They’re all the same.”
“Immigrants or Silvers?”
“Either! Both! No care for being an institution in the Bazaar. It’s all about what they can extract from their customers.”
I smile, genuinely amused at the small man. He’s the most useless hustler I’ve ever met. But somehow, someway, he’s remained on this corner for forty years, like a benevolent fungus resistant to any and all change. Hell, I keep coming back even though a quarter of the commercial goods I buy here are guaranteed to break after a week’s use. But maybe that’s just because the turnover rate on everything else in Hyperion is manic. Gotta respect a fungus like Kobachi. Especially one that files off serial numbers and wipes digital signatures. Best ghost tech for fifty kilometers. Even if the toys occasionally break.
He smiles at me now, a toothy, obscenely disingenuous one that seems to grow every time he smells credits in my pocket. “What can Kobachi do for you today? Virility implants? Infrared ocular sensors? Zero-gravity acid applicators? Or will you be wanting something more…” His smile grows till it reaches his ears. “…expensive.”
“Actually, custom is the game of the day.”
“Crow! Mind your hands!” he shouts past me. I turn to see Volga frozen mid-reach toward an iridescent glass globe with floating electrical wires inside. She sheepishly steps away from the item. Kobachi wheels on me, eyelids pinched in anger. “Kobachi thinks it is not just Wardens who cannot read.” He waves to another sign that has an X drawn over an apelike monster that is supposed to be an Obsidian. “No crows. No exceptions.”
“Volga likes toys,” I say. “Volga is going to look at toys. And you’re going to mind your manners, Kobachi. For once.”
“This is my shop—”
“And you’re happy to have us here,” I say, producing the iron rose from my pocket so that only he can see it. He blanches, as if I were holding death in my coat pocket. “Aren’t you?”
“Very happy,” he says quietly, but the look on his face says otherwise.