“Arcadio Javier Corcovado.” The existence of a last name was new to Javier. He’d never had one, until he took Amy’s that day at the seastead, and it wasn't like he ever carried any identifying documents with him But apparently Arcadio had been signing everything with the name of the forest where he was born. “Generation?” “Second.” “Original make and model?” “Lionheart, ECO-1502.” “Occupation?” “I was a guard at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla.” The customs agent speaking to Javier was not a vN. Rather it looked like a spider: multiple camera eyes on its face, six rotor legs on heavy rubber casters with two gripper claws at its front, a bulky abdomen that could be flipped open and used to carry either cargo or a human pilot on its back. It was all white, save for its Mechanese flag logo: a large red circle on a white ground with tiny gear-teeth. It was pouring him tea with one three-pronged claw, and handing him an earthenware tray of vN treats with the other.
