My client’s about to flatline. He’s older than Jimmy Carter, and I can’t afford another write-off. His pacemaker has zero charge. I redirect the paywall to my own server, but his arms are jerking, his body seizing, and he keeps knocking off the dongle.

 

I scan his head and detect faulty electrodes for Parkinson's. He’s convulsing, screaming obscenities, and now his old lady’s freaking out, about to call the cops, but I hold him down and patch the firmware. The jerking stops.

 

While he’s peacefully recharging, I finally breathe.

 

“You really are The Exorcist!” she says.

 

“Paul Fixer,” I reply. ‘Exorcist,’ is too close to ‘Extortionist,’ though my services are reasonable.

 

I sense her body area network and I see she’s got an ocular implant out of contract.

 

I can’t last on charity, but I fix people. I Heal for real. I help the blind see again when their implant fritzes, or hack the insulin pump when the provider ups the price. Sometimes for free, and sometimes I teach them how. So yeah, I’m like a modern day Jesus, but I don’t let that go to my head. Nor do I seek martyrdom.

 

So I ask her about her eye. EverLite, her software provider, had a hostile takeover, and the sharks reduced resolution on their free tier. I send her a limiter code, then reboot her eye remotely. She cries for joy.

 

They pay me with literal turnips (which I like) and I return home. I’m now a month late on rent, but as far as I know, Landlady has all natural parts. I can’t advertise, so word of mouth’s key. I take every job I can and occasionally extort the whales.

 

Newark’s weather is as crappy as it gets: heavy slush, and I don’t want to leave my room, so naturally I get a message from a steady customer of mine. His ‘cousins’ sometimes come in with a few ‘dents,’ if you get my drift. I ask no questions and log no data, and he pays well.

 

VIP wants a second opinion. Big Money.

 

A second opinion?

 

I bundle up, including thick socks. I tiptoe, carrying my shoes down the stairs, because Landlady’s got hearing so good you’d swear she had augments. I head to a basement parking garage on 52nd.

 

I double-check for a tail, scope out any blind corners, and scan the cars. I ping Mr. Steady Customer’s vehicle and hang by for a minute. Sure enough, a ‘cousin’ appears. He’s familiar, so maybe I fixed him in the past, but he’s an ugly boy with coal-black irises from implants. He’s got this high forehead, probably from the subdermal bullet weave. I hope for his mother’s sake he wasn’t born with that noggin. Either way, I don’t stare. He frisks me, takes my pistol, and carries my toolbag.

 

I’m hoping this is a diagnosis and not a full exorcism, but I bring everything. Sometimes it’s preemptive work: penetration testing, or vulnerability scanning. Long ago it was legitimate, before the right to repair was rescinded. The corporatocracy enforces their monopolies.

 

Me and Frankenstein Forehead go up the service elevator. In this posh suite, there’s the VIP, zonked out, sprawled on the bed. He’s seventy-five with decades of life left. Steady Customer isn’t here, but there’s armed guards and an older woman throwing off electromagnetic signals.

 

“He needs to give a speech in fifteen minutes,” Old Lady says. Either his handler or his wife.

 

So not a diagnosis, they need a miracle.

 

“Neuros?” I ask. And start scanning.

 

“Custom SchutzSuite executive implants.”

 

Executive implants alter brain chemistry and enable these corporate types to stay up for days. But it’s theoretically easy for a hacker to reverse and leave them comatose.

 

I scan the VIP head to toe. He’s got the electromag signal of a bustling coffeehouse, but I filter to his body’s network. Devices appear, all SchutzSuite, but the customs don’t return hits when queried against public databases.

 

“Customs are complicated, but I assume he’s patched?” I ask.

 

Old Lady confirms he’s up to code.

 

He’s got a heart monitor. Neurals, kidney implant, retinals, defib, and last ditch oxygenation pump in his neck. Full works. I’ve never seen a guy so rigged as him.

 

Not sure why, but with so much noise, I suspect simple interference. I’m tempted to scream ‘The Blood of Christ compels you,’ but they aren’t the joking type, and if they're religious I don’t want to be a martyr.

 

There’s this near-field signature coming off his butt. I see a bulge and ask, “Wallet?” Sometimes there’s enhanced credit cards.

 

“I’ll get it,” the Old Lady says, like I’m going to pick him in plain sight. She also removes his phone.

 

The wallet gets close enough to my scanner to sniff the ID. ‘Kurt Schutz’ is all I see. Hairs stand on my neck. The Kurt Schutz? Chief Scientist of Ubermensch Medical? My implant confirms.

 

I’m dealing with the devil!

 

Before I can act, he stirs. This was too easy.

 

I back away.

 

In another minute, he’s up and talking. He says one word in German before speaking in crisp English.

 

They pay me cash, and I pocket it ‘cause I’m no saint, but also want to play it cool. Frankenstein leads me out. He hasn’t returned my weapon, but I’ve got my toolbag.

 

“I’m giving you a ride,” he declares and follows behind.

 

“I’d appreciate it,” I lie. I suspect the whole thing was a setup to convince the VIP there’s a brotherhood of illegal fixers.

 

But demons can be cast back on others. Frankenstein’s got two different model eyes, EverLite, and VisiTech, to prevent a dual hack, but I’ve got decades of experience giving sight to the blind.

 

He’s still behind me, I remove a device from my toolbag and broadcast reboot commands.

 

He shoots wildly but I dart into the stairwell and disappear.

 

Paul Fixer: not a martyr, and now paid up on rent.