Paranormal Link-3: Is "Maintenance" the Right Word for a Human?
Is it okay to use the term "maintenance" for a person? Pondering that somewhat philosophical question, I leaned back in the chair and entrusted my limbs to Blanca.
Cyberware, implants—either way, having someone else touch the things replacing my body felt profoundly strange to me. Especially since they were metal limbs that transmitted no sensation at all.
"……."
Unscrewing bolts, checking the internal wiring, tightening them back up. Still, no sensation from the limbs. Was the whole process—and the sight before my eyes—feeling so bizarre and eerie because I was a martial artist from the Central Plains, someone who'd forged his realm through his own flesh and blood to master the martial way? Or was it just because cyberware was still unfamiliar to me?
Click.
The question with no answer vanished the moment Blanca nudged my left arm, signaling that the maintenance was done.
"For such an old piece, it's surprisingly solid."
"Yeah? Good to hear."
"But there's a problem."
A problem. It was already a problem the moment this thing got attached—what other issues could there be?
"The joint's got burn marks, but this isn't designed to overheat. And it doesn't seem like it was from that explosion yesterday either."
"…Ah, that."
That. How the hell was I supposed to explain it? That due to the nature of my martial arts, handling thunder energy caused electricity to surge through the cyberware and burn it? Unable to answer, I just sat there until Blanca turned to me.
"Got any idea what it might be?"
"…Special constitution."
In the end, I had no choice but to fall back on an amnesia-like excuse. It was too hard to explain, and I hadn't even properly looked into the relic Lena mentioned yet. Better to play it safe for now.
"Cyberware allergy."
"…That exists?"
She eyed my shrug with suspicion. But what could she do? It was an allergy. The world was full of allergies to everything—why not cyberware?
"Whatever, if you don't wanna talk about it, fine. Everyone's got their reasons."
Since I stonewalled her, she picked up the pad she'd set down and continued.
"There's one more issue besides that."
"…Jesus, another one?"
Nothing but problems, and the surgeon who did it was dead—no after-service possible. Not that I'd want it from that freak anyway. As I ground my teeth imagining the mad scientist rotting underground somewhere, Blanca tapped the pad's screen and spoke up.
"I'm not licensed, so I can't say for sure, but to upgrade to modern cyberware, you'd have to remove it all and get a full new install. No compatible parts at all. Judging by the structure and finish, it looks at least 50 years old?"
"…What?"
"So… I don't know the exact surgery cost, but…."
Blanca turned the pad to show me the screen and went on.
"…Parts alone will probably run you this much."
"34,000 credits?"
"Yeah, and that's not even counting the new cyberware. Add surgery fees on top, and it'll be more…."
300 credits for a month's rent, coffee and sandwich at 7 credits. Simple math: living on just coffee and sandwiches, 510 credits a month. Parts alone were 67 months of survival money.
"Mercenaries make good money, right?"
"…Dunno. The ones with a name probably earn enough to afford decent cyberware."
I flexed my left arm and glanced at my cripple tripod. No idea how well a replacement would move, but it sure as hell wouldn't match real limbs.
"…Guess I'll make money first and worry later."
No point agonizing now. Decision made, I stood up.
Nodding at me, Blanca added, "Yeah. And later, see a real doctor. Checking for cyberware issues is different from checking how it affects your body."
"Wait, that means…?"
She'd tacked on something I couldn't just let slide.
"Well, I can handle machines fine, but people? Not so much."
…And yet she'd cracked open my limbs while I was alive…? Speechless, I stared at her, and Blanca averted her eyes.
///
A bit suspicious—mainly wondering if she was some unlicensed quack—but her skills seemed solid enough. My limbs had felt awkward since the lab, but whether it was my imagination or not, they moved smoother after her touch.
Steps felt softer on the floor, and my arm gripped the doorknob better. Opening the door let the usual smoke billow into the hallway.
Suddenly, I wondered if this smoke was like prey fleeing a predator trying to devour it. It spread fiercely through the corridor.
"…Back, huh."
The old man spoke in a far calmer state than last time. Hard to tell with the smoke—just a silhouette. Hoping he'd chilled out…. I sidled up to the table; thankfully, his face looked serene. His eyes smaller than his glasses meant no boiling rage, at least.
"…Hoo… pup."
Exhaling pipe smoke, the old man called me.
"Come to think of it, didn't catch your name."
Pretty late for introductions, but if we were working together, better he knew.
"Isan… yeah. Isan."
I didn't like martial artist speech, so I kept it short after hesitating. He didn't seem to care anyway. As expected, he just puffed away indifferently.
Didn't even seem to register my name.
"……."
"……."
Silence stretched, so I broke it first.
"What's your name, old timer?"
"…Hoo…."
Instead of answering, he inhaled deeply on his pipe, exhaled, and handed over a data chip.
"If you keep working, I'll tell ya. This one's really simple. Truly simple job."
"…Got it."
"Cheeky bastard…. Fail, and don't set foot here again."
"…Mind telling me what the job is first?"
The first failure was just an accident. Understanding his grief over lost assets, I skipped rehashing it and asked about the new gig.
"…Go fetch some goods from a gang. Money's paid; just pick 'em up. Simple, right?"
"…I said I got it."
I nodded at the old man's repeated emphasis on simplicity. He looked fine on the surface, but clearly hadn't shaken off losing the building.
"Info on the goods and meet spot's inside."
"That…."
"……."
Through his tiny glasses, he glared.
"What if shit hits the fan?"
"…Yeah, it's a gang, so it might…."
Thankfully, instead of flipping out, he nodded at my concern.
"As long as the goods are safe. Try not to stir shit up if you can."
"…I'll do my best."
At my words, he exhaled a long trail of smoke—sigh or not.
///
The goods were a corporate prototype cyberdeck. From the description, it seemed like a tiny computer chip, but with my near-zero cyberware knowledge, I figured that was close enough.
Location: an abandoned garage in a quiet spot on the way from North End to downtown. Typical gang taste—outcasts favoring outcast places.
At the abandoned garage, a brass mohawk—clear gang thug—greeted me. Not dyed brass, but actual metal strands gleaming shiny.
"If you want a shiny head, why not just shave it?"
"…What?"
"Nah, here for the goods."
The words slipped out; I bulged my eyes at the minion but smoothly stated my business. Beating down trash like him would be laughable, but the old man said handle it quiet, so I'd try.
"From Somang or whatever."
Couldn't recall the exact long name, so I bullshitted. These types spill easy if you sound in-the-know. Shady dealings make 'em avoid details.
"…Find Jessie inside. And shut your trap once you're in."
As expected, he opened the door and stepped aside—grousing about my slip-up, sure.
My eyes hurt from the gleaming hair; I raised my tripod to block the shine and entered.
Inside, minions sprawled on disgustingly filthy sofas and chairs. Five total. Not too many. Habitually counting, I headed to the office, ignoring the stares. They stayed put, having overheard the outside chat.
Jessie, huh—woman? Even in the black path or unorthodox sects, there were fierce female masters. Beauties too. A little hope? Knocking on the office door with idle thoughts.
"…Who?"
A gravelly voice from within.
"…You Jessie?"
"Yeah."
Not a smoker who swallowed cigs whole, then—just a guy. No expectations dashed anyway. I opened the door.
"…Here for the goods."
A burly, bearded brute beyond.
"Goods?"
"Cyberdeck."
"…Hmph."
Snorting, he stepped aside from the door.
"Come in and talk."
"……."
With stares pouring from behind, I flashed a slight smile and entered. Sorry, old timer. Can't keep this quiet.