Next of Kin

Chapter Three: 27%

Three, 27%

I washed out my eyes, and enough of the cameras filtered out that I could see without my eyes watering indefinitely. I hadn't gotten a tip saying so, but I was pretty sure no one was going to trust an advocate crying uncontrollably- sobbing, maybe, if the crime seemed devastating, but not how I was, now.

It wasn't that John's death didn't affect me. But he'd always been a troubled kid, going back to elementary school. He was smoking before middle school, smoking pot before high school, and dealing harder drugs before he dropped out of that.

And it wasn't the first time we thought he died, either. He disappeared a half-dozen times before, completely off the grid, unreachable. My mother was once so convinced he was dead that she started to plan a wake, only for him to show up a week before, asking for money.

And it also wouldn't be the first time the police got an ID wrong, especially on somebody running illegal mods, like every smuggler had to. Could be somebody had ghosted his ID, or that he hocked it when he was low on cash. Could just be that the ME got lazy. But I'd always been pretty sure that despite his dangerous lifestyle, he was going to outlive me, because John always had that kind of luck.

I found a piece of chewing gum in one of my drawers; I remembered hearing gum was good for cleaning the nanites out of your teeth. The gum was old, to the point it was brittle and shattered into several pieces when I bit into it, but it softened as I chewed.

I left my apartment. My car door was ajar. I heaved a heavy sigh. Broken into, again.

My car OS was out of date. When a new OS came on the market, Sontem released the skeleton unlock code to the outdated OS. Supposedly, they did it to make it easier for mechanics to find problems with and update older versions of the OS. But it also forced people to upgrade to the newest version, or be vulnerable.

I glanced over the contents of my car. I had stopped leaving anything inside, since this happened with increasing frequency. But of course the receiver was gone. It interacted with the cell & radio towers, as well as the satellites, and gave the vehicle access to a whole slew of outdated amenities. Even my aging lenses could provide GPS, phone and internet. About the only thing I couldn't replace was the music; cochlear implants were somewhere on the list below a lens upgrade and a vehicle OS upgrade. “Guess we won't have music today,” I muttered.

I'd replaced the receiver several times, now, but as little as I used the car, it didn't seem worth it. It was difficult to remove without a specialized tool, one that apparently the person who kept breaking into my car had. But especially without my usual pay from tutoring, I was worried about how I was going to feed myself, let alone about being able to rent songs for what little driving I did.

For whatever reason, that idea seemed to annoy the audience, and my rating dropped to 23%. Worse, the chat erupted, demanding that I make time to take the car into a garage to have another receiver installed. FartGobbler suggested that they downvote me further with every second I refused. My rating dropped to 21%.

I called up my account balance. It was practically empty, though I knew from experience I had just enough to cover the new receiver. My rating was 19%, and flickered down to 18 for a second before hitting 19 again. A warning popped up. “Investigator tip: if your approval remains below 10% for longer than two hours, you will be automatically cited for inadequate investigation, which carries a minimum penalty, and at a maximum can include six months in jail.”

“Okay,” I said out loud. “I can take the car to the garage. It's within walking distance of where I'm going.”

My rating improved, to 20%, at which point Randal suggested they not positively reinforce me- that it would complicate things less if there was never a treat, only an electric shock when I screwed up. Fuck Randal.

I called the mechanic on my way to his shop. I'd been there enough recently I didn't even need the GPS that popped up on the left side of my interface. The mechanic's picture, along with her name, Michelle, blipped into the upper corner of my lens. “Conrad? How's that new receiver working out for you?” I knew she didn't remember me that well; business people's interfaces connected customers with their purchase history automatically.

“You'd have to ask the guy who took it.”

She shook her head. “The OS again?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. That probably wasn't in my file. “Calling to replace the receiver.” I turned a little red. She knew better than me it was a fool's errand putting another receiver into a car that for all intents and purposes didn't lock. But a new OS cost as much as a dozen receivers, and I don't think I'd ever had that much scratch to my name at any one time. It was more cost-effective just to buy a used car with an unexpired OS. I prepared myself for the embarrassment of telling her I'd been bullied into getting the receiver, but couldn't afford the OS.

“I've got some time free this morning. It's a pretty quick install, couple of hours to get the receiver talking to your OS and then interfacing with all the signal vectors. That work for you?” I breathed a sigh of relief, and realized maybe she did recognize me, after all.

“Absolutely,” I said. “And thanks, Michelle.”

“For a quick patch job on your spark thrower? I just appreciate the repeat business- even if I hope it won't repeat too soon,” she smiled pleasantly at me.

“I know what you mean,” I said.