Burn Code

Ten

Arne Christiaansen was an artist with a tattoo gun but had the personality of a doorknob unless one knew how to play him.

He liked vintage pinups. Early twentieth century types from the Second World War. A first edition collection of Alberto Vargas lithos from his Playboy runs paid for most of my phoenix and her hidden ink.

“You should let me put this one on you,” he said after opening to a page with a curvaceous redhead holding a white dog. “You have the skin for it.”

“Come now, Arne, you know this is more my style.” I teased, pointing out a blond with bared breasts wearing nothing more than a pair of black leather pants, matching satin gloves, and a string of pearls.

“She is something, isn’t she?” He smiled, setting the magnifying glasses on his nose to get a closer look. “She’d be beautiful on you too, Cara.”

This time, I came armed with a sampler from a larger collection of Gil Elvgrens. I had been saving them, but now was as good of a time as any — I might be able to find more before I wanted more ink.

“Oh, these are excellent, Cara.” He beamed. “Beautiful, beautiful. They just don’t make them like this anymore.”

“Arne, I need your help.”

His eyes widened as he stared up at me from the pictures. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to my work?”

“I need you to help me figure out how I was hacked.”

He considered it for a moment. “What are your symptoms?”

To Arne, tattoos and their nanites were no different than a lung or kidney. All were intricate parts of the body. His own skin was covered in two complete sleeves and they extended up over his neck and across his bald head. I was sure he had many more in places I didn’t want to know about.

“It’s going to be complicated.”

“How so?”

“I’m low-jacked.”

He shook a finger. “I remember hearing that. Five years probation, right?”

“Yes.”

He cocked his head and gave me a confused look. “Rumor had it you got it off, time served.”

I smirked. “That’s even more complicated.”

“I’m not sure I can help you then.” Arne resumed flipping through the artwork and staring at it through his magnifying lenses.

“Take a look -- see if there’s any difference to them.”

“Have you done any modifications?”

“A few, but nothing too out of spec.”

“And you’re looking for way out of spec.”

“Yes.”

He crossed to his tattoo chair and patted the seat. “Okay, hop up. Let’s see what we can see.”

Stripping off my jacket, I complied and settled back into the leather medical recliner.

“I’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.” Arne cradled my left forearm and stroked a thumb over the black and gold statue of Bast inked into its interior. “None of my scanners will work with a police jack. Keeps us from tampering with it.”

He tipped my arm to and fro as he studied my skin through his magnifier. “Can I take a sample?”

“Yes, but not from that one.” I smiled and held out my other forearm. “I like the cat and don’t want it marred.”