By the time lunch finished, Eli had gotten a positive answer from the owner of the synthprinter, and a pickup time of three in the afternoon.

He also had a comprehensive compilation of what would be useful knowledge for any Redlands player, from the incisive minds of former testers, plus the commentary of a craftmaster and a couple of rabidly competitive gamers, and three soon-to-be players who were determined to learn more.

A good haul.

Walking out the door, Zee looked like he wanted to talk to Eli.

Eli wanted to ask him a few questions that hadn’t been addressed in depth, but Jori sent him a speaking Look and glanced pointedly away.

Eli followed the other’s line of sight, then cursed inwardly. The loan office was visible from the angle of the bistro’s windows.

Eli quickly pasted a smile on his face. “Thanks for lunch, great conversation, nice to meet you both. Next time, my treat. Bye!”

He was already jogging away by the last word.

“Wait, Eli?!”

Eli was fairly certain that the overprotective nerd only wanted to ask him why he was coming out of a loanshark office so soon after ostensibly recovering from sickness, and wanted nothing of that conversation.

What would he say? ‘I was taking out a terrifyingly massive loan so I could sell refurbished old model NV-headsets as premium ones? Better performance than the premium ones even, so it’s not like the customers would be disappointed!’

Nope.

Zee could be sneaky when he wanted to, but he was generally an upright person.

If he followed Zee’s rules on this kind of thing and went full disclosure, he’d make smaller profits.

As for why Zee knew it was a loanshark office, the guy just knew the strangest things.

As someone whose many part-time jobs were suggestions from Zee Ventre, Eli could confirm that the other was a trivia specialist, an information hoarder; you never knew what he knew.

As for why Jori knew the place was a loanshark office, Eli wouldn’t be surprised if it was owned or operated by some relative or other.

After experiencing the massive brawl at old Mrs. Rigaton’s birthday some months after moving here from across the city, it was frightening plausible for Mr. White-Haired-Serial-Killer to be working for the Rigatons.

Eli didn’t stop jogging – though it slowed to semi-fast walking after a few minutes – until he reached his building. He really, really missed the company car and the unlimited taxicab card.

His eyes lit up when he noticed the delivery truck parked at his building.

The side of the truck was emblazoned with abstract bubbles and a logo that stated it belonged to Bubbling Harmony Laundry.

He stuck his head into the laundry shop, looked around to see if Marai was on duty today.

Most small laundry businesses had declined due to personal washing machines becoming more powerful and multipurpose. But this area of the district was full of young workers and students who preferred the service.

Not to mention, the Kazan family were extremely tenacious people.

Marai was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Mr. Kazan, can I borrow your delivery truck for the afternoon?”

Mr. Kazan came out of the shop, tall and lean, and with kind eyes that were nothing like his niece Marai’s glare.

“Eli? As long as it’s back by five.”

“Can I take it now?”

Mr. Kazan reached into the door of the truck, pressed his hand on the security panel, then tapped the starter twice before the truck rumbled alive.

“You’re already on the driver access list, so it’s good to go.”

“I am?”

“You drove for a while a couple months ago, right?”

“Right.” Oh yeah. He’d lost a bet to that pushy Marai and had to cover her delivery shifts for two weeks. Eli didn’t think they’d keep his access until now, but nice. He boosted himself into the seat. “Thanks, I’ll have it back in one piece.”

He set his hand on the controls and started the car backing away from the parking space.

“Remember it can’t get over forty-five!” the older man called.

Not over forty-five kmh? How old was the thing?

The paint was fresh, so he thought the vehicle wasn’t older than two years. From the audible engine growl that could be heard, it might be closer to twenty years. Most cars these days were silent rides.

So Eli rumbled down the street in an old lazy truck, content that he didn’t have to hire a mover.

He saw Marai walking with some blonde girl he didn’t recognize at the same time as she caught sight of her family’s truck.

Eli waved cheerfully as he and the truck rumbled past her. “I’m borrowing this!”

“You! Don’t you dare!”

“I’ll be back in a few hours!” he called back, then twisted the accelerator to near-limits. The truck shuddered a little, then bumped its speed up a little faster.

Eli twisted a bit more. It may have gone a bit faster. Then he twisted all the way. It didn’t go faster.

He gave up.

“Forty-five?” he muttered direly. “Too optimistic, Uncle Kazan. This truck is so lame, it could race a Torvian slug.”

He didn’t look back until several intersections were passed.

He was heading toward the one place in the city he could get MarkVIII headsets in bulk: the tech streets in Buson District.

He’d paged through the list of GatesTech sellers in the city for days before choosing several to visit.

A brandnew regular MarkVIII cost 2700 ecru per unit, what with the MarkIX coming out next month. A Premium cost 5500 ecru, and the new MarkIX was advertised at 7100 ecru MSRP.

Used regular MarkVIII sets were 800 to 1900 ecru in the market, with the Premium at 2200 to 4900 ecru.

His first stop was a franchiser in the warehouse area there selling MarkVIII headsets for 2300 ecru. It was the lowest price he could get in the city.

The margin was a bit steep to be comfortable but as long as he got 20,000 ecru over the loan of 100,000 before deadline, he’d be happy.

He stopped at the nearest ATM he saw, connected his account, then printed out ten cash bills. The material was transparent film and showed off the delicate inks making up the numbers and codes that proclaimed each bill to be worth ten thousand ecru each.

The warehouse district was technically full of storage spaces, but there were a number of shops that sold wholesale and secondhand there.

He entered the large barnlike space, studying the mass of parts and boxes on the shelves, computer and gaming gear, media and entertainment system, screens showing various advertisements all over the place.

“Hey there, what’re you here for?”

“GatesTech MarkVIIIs.”

The teenager lifted a brow. “You know you can spend just a couple thousand more to get something that’s loads better than that, right? The VIII’s gone four years without GT doing a major overhaul on it, you sure you want to buy it?”

In this century where every decade presented a technology that revolutionized the world, tech items got obsolete nearly the moment they were presented to the public.

That the MarkVIII was still being bought four years on was testament to the potency of GatesTech products.

“Amazing staying power,” Eli only commented.

The teen grinned. “I’m with you. I still recommend the AGU Rage Series if you’re looking for a personal headset. Seeeeriously great potential there, if you know what I mean.”

Eli shook his head. “This is for…a project. If I buy more than ten, what’s your wholesale price?”

The teenager lifted his other brow. “Wholesale means at least twenty units, then 2050 per unit.”

“New, right?”

“Brand new,” the teen agreed. “You can scan them as we load, if you want.”

That was a better price than he was expecting. “Thirty units then.”

“Right. That’s some project. Sixty-one kay ecru.”

Tsk. That was ten thousand more than he’d initially allocated for the headsets.

Eli handed him seventy thousand in cash.

The teenager sighed, went to the counter, fed the bills into the till, tapping out the order. The till spat back the change, also in cash, and a receipt.

Thirty boxes half filled up the delivery truck’s free space. Eli did indeed scan each box as they were loaded, verifying authenticity and pristine condition.

He locked the vehicle and started toward the shops on the parallel street. He needed a few more things from the techstores here.

“Send message, Joven Rigaton.”

The phoneset beeped compliance.

>>Jori, do you have a location?<<

His business here needed to be done quickly. He pulled a hat over his limp brown hair.

For one, he needed a MarkVIII Premium for comparison.

His phone pinged with a message, as he loaded the used MarkVIIIP into the passenger seat. Jori finally came through with an address, and a message that only said:

>>I’ll meet you there.<<

The address was an hour distant from the synthprinter seller’s place. The space in the truck should be large enough to hold it, right? He told Jori that he would be there in roughly an hour and a half.

He leaned against the side of the truck for a few moments before getting in. Whew, he was exhausted. Who knew fifteen minutes of haggling with a techshop owner was nearly as tiring than an hour of exercise?

He pulled out the last of the bills, scanned them into his phone.

The positive ding of the transfer sounded as the amounts were returned to his account. The film of the bills darkened into unusability as the transfer ended, the colorful transparent inks no longer evident.

He tossed the now useless film pieces into the trash.

It was ten minutes past three when the truck juddered to stop at the address of the synthprinter seller. He rechecked the address, then knocked on the door.

A pale woman, mid-to-late twenties, about his age, opened the door a crack a little cautiously.

In the age of maintained CCTV in all public areas, it was warranted. Muggers these days, to avoid being recorded, did their thefts indoors.

“Hello?” Eli tried to smile reassuringly.

“Are you buying the printer?”

“Yes. I have the money right—”

“Oh, thank God. Hurry, hurry, she’ll be home any minute now.”

What?

That can’t be any more suspicious. “Uh, it is yours, right?”

“Yes it is! Now come help me carry the thing out!”

She didn’t look like she was lying. But her unusual hurry was alarming.

“Look, if I could have documentation—”

He was interrupted again by an irritated groan. She took him to the garage, where a large synthprinter was already half-packed up, taking a full quarter of the single-car garage space.

She ripped open a plastic bag and shoved the papers at him, then scrabbled at a drawer on one side of the garage to fish out an ID card and held it out to him.

“Satisfied?”

Eli compared the names. They were the same and the ID display was of the woman; Amarine Cort. He took a photo of the ID and papers together discreetly anyway, then smiled at her. “Very satisfied.”

“Great. Now, move your ass!”

Eli scanned the item pieces, then helped pack and move the wheeled cart to the truck.

The girth of the printer almost scraped the sides of the cargo space. They had to remove five of the headset boxes from the back of the truck before all of it fit.

The five boxes joined their Premium cousin on the front seat.

The rear doors finally closed, to both their relief. Even with the loaders, the printer was heavy.

The woman pulled the wheeled cart to the garage again, then used it to haul some sacks toward him.

Eli protested. “I checked that all the peripherals and parts were in there. What the hell are those? They won’t fit in anywhere.”

“I’ll give you a two thousand discount on price if you take these with you.”

“Done.” Eli agreed. He stared at the truck. “There’s always the roof, I guess.”

She beamed at him.

They scrounged up a reel of packing strips and tied the sacks securely on top of the truck, then covered them up with white cardboard, plaster, and scotchtape to make the pile look like a part of the truck.

They studied it, after.

“It’s a moving traffic violation,” huffed Eli. “I’m going to jail.”

The obstructed passenger window, the cargo on top, the age of the truck that was only hidden with deceptive paint; but that last wasn’t his fault so he probably won’t get life imprisonment.

The woman laughed, more cheerful now that the printer was out of sight. “I have some juice inside. Will that help?”

“I’m calling you for bail if it happens. But yes, juice would be nice.”

They completed the transaction in person and on the shopping site. Eli waited in the shade of the garage as she went in to get drinks.

Not five seconds later, she flew out the inner door and pushed him urgently outside.

“Go, hurry up, go, go, go! She’s here!” She all but carried him to the driver’s seat, tossed a juicebox at him, then slammed his truck door and waved at him to leave manically.

Eli didn’t hesitate; he tore out of there as fast as he could. It was still with all the speed of a three-footed tortoise, so the lack of skidmarks on the driveway might have disappointed the nervous woman.

The high horrified scream that sounded from the house sounded young, and only told him he had escaped a fate possibly worse than death.

He wasn’t blind – he’d caught a glimpse of the massive collection of girly robot dolls with long silky hair toting very realistic weapons from all eras as well as the trash bags filled with ‘defeated’ figurines.

Tsk.

His mother used to babysit. He was familiar with games like barbiedolls-against-humanity. Twelve year olds should not be encouraged to be so vicious.

He blended into the traffic quickly, sipping the cool liquid from the juicebox.

It was pretty good melon juice – fragrant, very melony, not too sweet, and slightly creamy.

He tapped the driving assistant AI online, and watched like a gawking tourist as they passed buildings and parks and people that were both familiar and not familiar.

Eli wished he could open the windows and feel the air on his face, but that was a traffic safety violation. He already had enough on the docket, and didn’t want to attract possible police attention.

He watched as Greatcentral City passed outside the truck windows, and sipped juice.

*

Jori was waiting for him at the steps that lead to a basement door, playing like a child with the wheeled cart Eli had asked for. He looked Eli over, top to bottom, still sitting on the cart. “You look sicker than you did at lunch.”

“I warred with the avatars of capitalism in the forgotten streets of the great city, then escaped a tiny weapon-obsessed Gojira. Luckily, a beautiful woman sacrificed herself so it couldn’t follow.”

Jori lifted a brow. “Did you also gain the allegiance of various secret masters in your trip across said great city on that…magnificent steed?”

“Are you just sitting there?” Eli ignored the sarcasm and climbed to the top of the truck and started ripping the cardboard off and snapping the packing straps apart. “Come help me unload these things. Hurry up.”

Jori was staring incredulously at the pieces of cardboard drifting to the driveway. “Eli the Quiet Broody One, did you just commit a crime?”

“Not if we get these off quickly enough.”

Jori exhaled a disbelieving chuckle, but moved closer to receive the sacks Eli handed down.

“If you brought something illegal to my Nana’s house, I swear…”

Eli paused in ripping apart the remaining cardboard. “This is your Nana’s house?”

“She loves music, used to rent the basement to old-style drum and guitar bands.”

“Is this the Nana that had a bullwhip during the birthday that never happened?”

Jori smirked. “The same.”

“She’d probably help me avoid the police. But yeah, should I move elsewhere?” Eli sighed at the already unloaded sacks.

“You’re probably right, she would.” Jori contemplated. “It depends on what your business is.”

Eli climbed off the truck, stood in the front of the building, hiding a frown with fingers tapping a staccato on the ripped cardboard. Jori was casually moving the wheeled cart back and forth with a foot, waiting patiently.

“That’s a business proposition, huh?”

Jori smiled, a quick flash of fangs before his face returned to the pretty boy innocence that fooled people into underestimating him. “Of course it is.”

Eli laughed, sudden.

He’d forgotten; one of Zee’s classmates mentioned that Jori Rigaton’s nickname in highschool was ‘Angel of Light’.

“Okay,” he showed a grin just as sharp as the other’s.. “But you’ll help unload all this; I have to get the truck back to the shop before five.”