I very specifically never said that, despite sharing the same opinion. I nodded, "I think he'll be okay now that you're back in the land of the living." I then grinned, "You said that whole spiel without stuttering!"
"G-g-good!" she replied, then scowled.
It had been three months since the gig at Konpeki Plaza and about seven weeks since we had arrived in Los Angeles. The Nomads that had agreed to smuggle us into Los Angeles was a family called the Bakkers, led by a stern matriarch by the name of Selita.
The Bakkars were something of experts at smuggling, although they just considered it logistics. They had a rotating convoy that would proceed apace throughout what I would have called California and Oregon, touring the cities of the Free States before returning down south. They would get us to Los Angeles, but not directly.
We spent almost a month on a circuit with them, with all of my stuff packed into a truck. I didn't particularly mind because Selita was also being paid to tell all and sundry that she and the Bakkars had saved me, Dr Hasumi Sakura, from a group of Raffen Shiv that had been using me as a medic slave in the wasteland.
It was really the Maelstrom gang in the badlands right next to Night City, but the story was close enough to the truth that it would likely ring true to anyone who heard it.
I thought living on the road as the Nomads did was kind of nice, especially when everyone around you was a family member. It was a vastly different life, though. The matriarch, Selita, chuckled when I mentioned that and said, "By the third generation, us so-called Nomad's almost a different species than the rest of ya'll. Every one of those kids got a toy gun as their first toy when they were five and a real twenty-two when they were eight, even if it was just a break-action single shot." She shrugged, "Everyone out here knows you can only count on yourself and, of course, family."
It was no wonder the Corporations denigrated them; they lived almost entirely outside of normal social and thought control. Perhaps calling it thought control was a bit of an exaggeration, but not completely. It was definitely true that self-sufficiency was seen as more of a sin than a virtue in the Corpo-controlled media. At the very best, Nomads were considered delusional conspiracy theorists, but they were more often all considered highway bandits.
Still, I thought we all enjoyed our brief time with them, even if I doubted I would ever want to live that lifestyle. I found that sand and dust got everywhere . It also made me jaded and somewhat disillusioned about the "romance on the beach" braindances that I occasionally indulged in. If my PG-13 braindances were taken to the logical x-rated conclusion, wouldn't sand literally get everywhere ?
After we got into Los Angeles, we didn't all become roommates or anything. We didn't even live in the same building, but we all did live on the same block as we felt that mutual support would be an advantage. I bought Kiwi and Gloria the same language skillchip I bought for myself, when we settled in the middle of Chinatown.
David was incensed, wanting his own, but you had to be at least eleven or twelve before surgery for even a child's operating system could be considered, so he would just have to learn the language the old-fashioned way, but he was at the right age for it.
It took another month for me to both get down to the correct height as well as to devise and reinfect myself with the genome-altering virus enough times that any sample of my body, with the exception of a biopsy of my brain or sample of my spinal fluid, would pass muster. Once I was sure, then "Dr Hasumi" reported her kidnapping and stint of forced servitude to the police and even the Japanese consulate.
The consular staff at least pretended to be sympathetic, but the police very nearly threw me out of the precinct once they learned it happened in the desert outside of the city. "Lucky to be alive, lady, but that ain't our problem," one of them said, shaking his head, "That's a state... or federal matter, or well, something. Not us, though. Have a good day!"
Well, fuck you too, I thought.
Now that I had settled down enough that I was looking for hospitals to apply to as a resident after my "traumatic event", I got a notice from the Japanese consulate that the US federal government, specifically the Immigration Department, wanted to speak with me, and they offered their consulate for the meeting.
They didn't say what it was about, but I had sent a request to this department at the Japanese consulate to replace all of "my" physical identification documents. As a non-resident alien on a work visa in the New United States of America, not only was I required to let the Immigration Department know where I slept every night, but I was required by law to carry upon my person, at all times, a special alien identification card and I must present upon request to anyone in government, but specifically police officers.
It kind of felt a little dehumanising and vaguely disconcerting, and it was weird to feel like an outsider in the country. It was a weird feeling. I didn't have much respect for the government or authority figures in either set of memories, but that was a different feeling from feeling like an outsider around everyone.
I dressed in some of the nicer clothes I had bought to replace Dr Hasumi's wardrobe. I had installed her data storage implant on myself and had been perusing its large trove of data and one of the first things I noticed was her tastes in most things were way different than my own. I liked dark, drab colours. Black and navy blue were my favourite colours for outfits, while Dr Hasumi liked pastels and bright colours. She also wore dresses and skirts a lot more than me, and I had been finding it a little grating to follow the pattern, but I felt it was important. One could expect a little bit of a personality shift after such a traumatic experience, but anything large would create a datum for later inspection.
She also didn't carry firearms, which was the biggest thing I had to get used to. Technically, I didn't have the right to own any as the second amendment only applies to citizens and resident aliens, but realistically nobody cared.
I absolutely would not remove my monowire, though, so I sat patiently at the security office as they affixed a small bracelet to my arm before I could enter the consulate.
" Hasumi-sensei, ah, you are early," said Mr Tanaka, one of the many assistants to the Consular General here. He was the same one who had helped me the last time and seemed like a nice guy.
I nodded and politely followed him into the back area and into a conference room, " Tanaka-san, do you know what this is about?"
He frowned and shrugged, " Some sort of paperwork issues with your visa. It obviously isn't a big deal; otherwise, they would have arrested you... Well, maybe not. You're a class A, educated and professional worker. " Even before the Data Krash, the US had become somewhat less hospitable to foreigners, which wasn't too surprising. The poorer a country became, the less likely it would be inviting to foreign immigrants or workers, so they created a category system. Dr Hasumi was considered a "desirable" class A-someone who was highly educated, highly compensated and therefore highly taxed.
Great. I knew it was too much to hope that the Immigration people were just doing an in-person delivery of my identity documents. I sighed and nodded. Surprisingly, the Immigration people were right on time. It was a man and a woman, and they sat across from me after Mr Tanaka was polite enough to introduce us to each other.
"Dr Hasumi, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. It prevented this situation from deteriorating such that we would have had to pick you up," the man said politely, but I could see that he was about as interested in me as the average DMV clerk was in who was getting a driver's license next.
I blinked, "Ano... Is something the matter, Agent Wilkes?" The language skill chip I had really was high-end. Not only could it provide me the language, but it could also make my English slightly accented, to the point where it would insert Japanese-specific disfluencies instead of the usual Anglo 'umm'.
His partner was silent, and he sighed and nodded, "It isn't a huge issue, but you neglected to renew your authorisation to stay in the country with an endorsement on your visa by the anniversary of your entry into the New United States of America. That means, technically, you are not even authorised to be in the country."
I blinked several times, using my high speed to review everything in Dr Hasumi's files that might enlighten me about this, and finally found a reminder in her calendar from several months ago. Really? I tried to sound as reasonable as I could, but I still sounded clipped, "I was kidnapped by criminal elements in your country and held incommunicado, so I wasn't able to file the renewal as I planned."
He smiled regretfully, "That's why we're not immediately taking you into custody and are delaying filing deportation proceedings, Dr Hasumi."
I stared at him, "Do you know how we can resolve this matter?"
He shrugged, "Your visa remains valid, but as far as this..."
His partner spoke up, this time, and her voice was cold, and I immediately internally labelled her as Agent Bitch, "I'm sorry, Doctor, but Agent Wilkes, nor I, are authorised to advise aliens on methods of compliance, and Agent Wilkes has already gone much farther than he should have. I recommend that you retain an immigration attorney to advise you of your options if the consular staff here cannot assist you."
With that, they left. What assholes. I looked at Mr Tanaka, and held my hands up in a prayer-gesture, " Tanaka-san, please tell me you know what I have to do?"
That caused the man to chuckle, and he sat back down, " Yes, I do. They are rather terse, aren't they?" He was being a lot more polite than I. I would have used a different word myself. He smiled, no doubt noticing that in my eyes, and said, " As the man said, your visa is and remains valid. The simplest way you could solve this issue is to leave the country and re-enter it; the problem is solved, and a new one-year clock starts. This time you'd be able to reauthorise your stay before the time expired."
I frowned, " That's it? This isn't some kind of trick to get me out of the country, and then they'd be like: 'Haha, trick! You can't come back!' right, Tanaka-san?" It would be deeply, deeply ironic if I somehow got deported from my own fucking country.
He shook his head, " No, it isn't. We deal with this issue fairly often. They're really being more bark than a bite here; they hardly have the resources to deport law-abiding people like you, anyway."
I rubbed my head into my hands, " That means I have to fly back home? Airline tickets to Tokyo are so expensive." I complained, not even pretending anymore. It'd cost me five thousand Eurodollars for this lunacy.
"Oh, you misunderstood. You don't have to go back home. You just have to leave the country. I recommend a weekend trip up to Vancouver; it's pretty cheap from here, and it is quite pretty compared to this shit-hole of a country. But you could go to Mexico too," he said, breaking the character of the consummate Japanese diplomat by openly disparaging the country he was a diplomat to with a grin.
Seriously? This just became stupider and stupider. I should be, as a Japanese citizen, sharing in the ridiculousness of the situation, but as an actual putative citizen of this country, I just felt embarrassed. It was like with the crash, all the corporate wars and the Data Krash, the country died, but the bureaucracy survived.
" I guess I'll need to request an emergency passport after all," I said morosely as I had decided not to bother with one the last time I came here since I was just staying in the NUSA, which caused Mr Tanaka to chuckle. Now that it was shown to just be an inconvenience to me and not something more serious, he found the situation I found myself in completely ridiculous and, therefore, amusing.
" That, I think, I can help you with. You don't need to go back and stand in the line; come with me to my office," he said affably.
In his office, he pulled up my file and hummed, " Your passport photo looks recent enough, so we'll just keep the one on file ." He pulled out a small device and sat it on his desk, and motioned towards it, " If you don't mind, Hasumi-sensei."
If I hadn't been able to change my genome, this would have been where I was discovered and arrested. Instead, I peered at the genome taster and thought. Hasumi was a bit more fastidious than Taylor Hebert. I, as Taylor, wasn't scared of germs at all, so I elected to carefully press the button for the device to run through its cleaning cycle, noticing a flash as an internal laser sterilised the surface of the testing plate. Then I sighed and licked my index finger, and casually pressed it on the plate for a moment.
The machine briefly paused before making a gentle ding sound and lighting up in green, and as soon as I lifted my finger, the cleaning cycle repeated. I glanced left and right, and Mr Tanaka noticed what I was looking for and offered me some hand sanitiser from his desk drawer, which I accepted and rubbed on my hands. He smiled at me and said, " Well, everything seems to be in order. If you're going to Canada, you'll have to apply for a visa online at least twenty-four hours in advance. Mexico, seven days in advance, so if you intend to go there, I would do that today. I'll print your new passport, and you can pick it up probably tomorrow, or if not, then Monday at the latest."
I smiled gratefully at the man as we both stood up, " Thank you, Mr Tanaka. You've been a great help."
As I left the consulate, I had already decided on Canada. Canada was a richer country than NUSA and much nicer to visit. Global climate change has turned it into an even more verdant and pleasant place to live and visit. It was the bread basket of America these days now and produced three times as much food as the continental United States did, trading most of the excess to the NUSA.
Vancouver? Maybe. It was true that I could use a relaxing weekend of vacation. Maybe even more. I had gotten more than one request to interview for a residency, and when I accepted, it would be very, very busy at least for the first six months.
Darryl Corban was a busy man, busy just staying alive, especially for the last few months. He was the acting Regional Vice President of Biotechnica Night City and tried very hard to make that promotion permanent, despite being sabotaged along the way by his "peers."
He took the gloves off with these idiots after they blatantly tried to get him murdered by proxy. Samantha had attempted to queer the deal he negotiated with the local Yakuza enough for the old bat to murder him, but not so much that Biotechnica didn't at least secure the merchandise.
