Docking clamps hissed. The dull buzz of pressure equalization followed. Marie stepped out of her ship with the same energy as someone leaving a casket - shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes scanning the corridor without looking like she was. She walked like someone used to being stared at but never giving a reason to stop her.
KUn-de was already there, leaning against the bulkhead near the customs scanner. One of its hands - the one with the malfunctioning actuator, jittered rhythmically against its thigh. A tic. Mechanical nerves, or something like it. Its voice was low, processed through a throat-box that had never been fully aligned.
“I heard what happened.”
Of course it had. In the Zone, everyone always heard what happened. Information traveled faster than light, not through subspace, but through need. Marie didn’t stop walking. Just adjusted her coat, the weight of the concealed weapon shifting against her hip.
“I’m going to break Shva’k out.”
She said it flatly. No emphasis. No performance. Like she was stating her plans for the day. KUn-de fell into step beside her. Its frame creaked, not from damage but from age. From long, cheap years.
“You know how absurd that sounds?”
“One step at a time,” she replied.
KUn-de tilted its head slightly. A gesture meant to simulate curiosity, concern, or disbelief. Or all three.
“What’s the first step?”
Marie exhaled through her nose, a sharp breath, and stopped walking. The hallway they stood in smelled faintly of coolant, old disinfectant, and boiled roots from the food stalls below.
“I need a new name. Something that passes. I need papers that hold up. Transponders. Contracts. Whatever looks real.”
KUn-de hummed - not a vocalized sound, but a low-frequency pulse in its shoulder-mounted speaker array. A gesture it had learned from people who filled empty air with noise while thinking.
“You have something in mind?”
“No one bats an eye at a Somtaaw contractor. Just a nobody. Minor repairs, mining jobs, small cargo runs, industrial clean-up. Somtaaw ghosts pass through everywhere.”
KUn-de made a sound that passed for a laugh. A dry, clipped burst of static with an upward lilt.
“You're already halfway there. Taciturn. Grim. Resourceful. Stubborn as death. You’re Somtaaw in everything but name.”
Marie allowed herself half a smile, the kind that felt like muscle memory more than emotion.
“Thanks.”
KUn-de paused, hands behind its back now, optics dimming slightly.
“There’s someone. A PCF officer. Still wears the colors, but he doesn’t care about law. Not really. Thinks the Zone is a kind of ecosystem - predators, prey, and scavengers. Says everyone deserves to pretend to be something they’re not, if they pay him enough.”
Marie raised an eyebrow.
“You trust him?”
KUn-de’s voice was quieter now.
“No. But I trust the transaction. And that’s all we need.”
Waking dreams come easy in the Zone. You can buy someone else’s name for less than a month’s rent. All it takes is knowing which door to knock on, and enough resolve to knock hard. They were still in the corridor outside the docking ring, somewhere between comfort and discomfort.
Marie turned, facing KUn-de squarely.
"What's his name?"
KUn-de's turned to face Marie, and gave an quick answer: "Fedir."
No elaboration. Then:
"Don’t know if that’s his real name. Doesn’t matter. Everyone calls him that."
Marie waited, eyes fixed. She was good at letting silence draw out meaning.
"He lives in a pod grafted onto the north wall. Cheap housing block. Right across from where you eat."
Marie blinked. Of course Fedir was under her nose.
"Do I need an appointment?"
KUn-de’s optics dimmed, then brightened again.
"Doubt it. He doesn’t do much. Files reports no one reads. Probably welcomes the company."
Marie looked down at her coat sleeve. Brushed some invisible lint from it. She made her decision.
"Alright. Let’s go."
The walk was short. The tension was not.
The pod was where KUn-de said it would be, grafted on like a tumor. The hallway around it smelled of rusted alloy, disinfectant, and a faint tang of scorched oil from the nearby recycler ducts. A man sat outside the pod’s hatch. Mid-fifties, maybe older. Time and the Zone made it hard to tell. Unshaven. Pale under harsh station lighting. Black coat with the PCF insignia partially peeled off. A long cigarette between his fingers, hand trembling ever so slightly when he inhaled. He was watching the foot traffic - people, carts, drones, noise - but when he saw Marie and KUn-de, his gaze sharpened. Like a cat seeing motion from a distance it had stopped believing in. Then the greeting, like gravel poured into an empty cup:
"Zdarova."
Marie hesitated for only a breath, then stepped forward and said:
"Govorite Common?"
Fedir exhaled. Smoke curled upward, too thick, too oily. Probably homemade tobacco grown in a repurposed container.
"Yes. I speak some."
Then, dryly: "Business?"
Marie matched his tone. Her voice was tired. Focused.
"Yes. I need a fake identity."
Fedir didn’t react. He simply looked at her now. Not through her. He squinted. Tapped ash onto the metal floor. Then:
"Yes. Business."
He made a gesture - slow, deliberate. Two fingers rubbing against his thumb.
"Stoit dorogo. Cost much. Ponimayete?"
Marie didn’t blink.
"Ponimayu."
She reached into her coat pocket and let the scrip-chip glint just enough to catch the flickering hallway lights.
"I have the money."
Fedir nodded. Slowly. Like it hurt.
"Come. Both of you."
He keyed open the hatch. A hiss of air. A faint chime from inside. Marie and KUn-de stepped forward into the stale half-light. Behind them, the corridor swallowed the cigarette smoke. Ahead of them, a man who sold names for a living prepared to write another.