with a few other individuals scattered around. The well-dressed Arab gentleman scowling at his pad might be a trader or broker, a middle-aged woman with a Japanese cast to her features could have been anything from a dealer in mining equipment to a diplomat on what had to be one of the most boring assignments available, the two Chinese men …
‘Triax,’ Jia whispered as they approached the bar.
‘Really?’
‘Tattoos.’
Drift frowned. He didn’t want to look again, but although he’d seen tattoos on both of them he hadn’t recognised anything which he knew to be a Triax gang sign. He sighed, and wondered again how much it would cost to get one of those recording chips with a playback function for his artificial eye. He had heard that sometimes caused the implant to run quite hot, however, and that just didn’t sound like a good trade-off.
The landlady smiled at them as they approached, with more genuine warmth than Drift would have expected in this place. Still, four new customers were four new customers, and he supposed you probably got used to the dreariness of Uragan City after a while, especially if you’d never been anywhere else. He smiled back – she was actually rather pretty, and fairly young, with large blue eyes and hair so blonde it was almost white – and pulled out a credit chip, scanning the bottles lined up behind her.
He ordered the drinks – two bottles of Cerveza del Diablo, his favourite beer, for Jenna and him, a vodka and Star for Jia and a plain Star Cola for Apirana – and glanced over towards the rear of the bar. Sure enough, sitting in the far corner by a window that let in very little light, there was a solitary man who hadn’t seemed to pay much attention when they’d walked in but was now studying them. Drift touched Jia lightly on the arm and began to wend his way between stools and other customers, while Jenna and Apirana chose a table at the opposite end, out of the way but able to watch the door.
‘Aleksandr Shirokov?’ Drift asked quietly when they’d approached to within a few feet. ‘My name is Ichabod Drift, captain of the
Keiko
, and this is my pilot, Jia Chang.’
‘Then please, sit,’ Shirokov replied, gesturing to empty chairs. Drift complied, studying the other man as he did so.
Aleksandr Shirokov was probably in his mid-forties if you looked closely, but the lines on his face and the grey in his dark, thinning hair gave him the appearance of a man a decade older. He wore tired office clothes: black shoes with frayed laces, a dark blue suit from which the years had stripped whatever true lustre the material may have originally possessed and replaced it with a well-worn shine, and a mostly white shirt pulled open at the collar. The jacket was the cut favoured by the Red Star government, with an almost breastplate-like front panel buttoned at the right side of the chest. Drift had been expecting a miner, but this made far more sense: no miner would be likely to have access to the sorts of production quotas and shipping arrangements Orlov wanted.
Drift produced a small box from one of the pouches on his belt and set it on the table. ‘Your grandfather asked me to pass this on to you. Did you have a message for me to take back?’
Shirokov didn’t reply. Instead he stared at the box with an unreadable expression.
‘Mr Shirokov?’ Drift prompted, after a few seconds had elapsed with no reply forthcoming.
‘I have no message for my “grandfather”,’ Shirokov said, looking up and meeting Drift’s eyes, ‘but I have message for you, Captain.
‘Get me out of here.’
Drift blinked, not welcoming the sensation of the metaphorical ground shifting beneath his feet. ‘Excuse me?’
Shirokov reached out and flipped the box open to reveal a small silver oblong. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Drift had already looked at Shirokov’s payment to make sure that he wasn’t going to be smuggling anything illegal into Uragan City, but made a show of
‘Triax,’ Jia whispered as they approached the bar.
‘Really?’
‘Tattoos.’
Drift frowned. He didn’t want to look again, but although he’d seen tattoos on both of them he hadn’t recognised anything which he knew to be a Triax gang sign. He sighed, and wondered again how much it would cost to get one of those recording chips with a playback function for his artificial eye. He had heard that sometimes caused the implant to run quite hot, however, and that just didn’t sound like a good trade-off.
The landlady smiled at them as they approached, with more genuine warmth than Drift would have expected in this place. Still, four new customers were four new customers, and he supposed you probably got used to the dreariness of Uragan City after a while, especially if you’d never been anywhere else. He smiled back – she was actually rather pretty, and fairly young, with large blue eyes and hair so blonde it was almost white – and pulled out a credit chip, scanning the bottles lined up behind her.
He ordered the drinks – two bottles of Cerveza del Diablo, his favourite beer, for Jenna and him, a vodka and Star for Jia and a plain Star Cola for Apirana – and glanced over towards the rear of the bar. Sure enough, sitting in the far corner by a window that let in very little light, there was a solitary man who hadn’t seemed to pay much attention when they’d walked in but was now studying them. Drift touched Jia lightly on the arm and began to wend his way between stools and other customers, while Jenna and Apirana chose a table at the opposite end, out of the way but able to watch the door.
‘Aleksandr Shirokov?’ Drift asked quietly when they’d approached to within a few feet. ‘My name is Ichabod Drift, captain of the
Keiko
, and this is my pilot, Jia Chang.’
‘Then please, sit,’ Shirokov replied, gesturing to empty chairs. Drift complied, studying the other man as he did so.
Aleksandr Shirokov was probably in his mid-forties if you looked closely, but the lines on his face and the grey in his dark, thinning hair gave him the appearance of a man a decade older. He wore tired office clothes: black shoes with frayed laces, a dark blue suit from which the years had stripped whatever true lustre the material may have originally possessed and replaced it with a well-worn shine, and a mostly white shirt pulled open at the collar. The jacket was the cut favoured by the Red Star government, with an almost breastplate-like front panel buttoned at the right side of the chest. Drift had been expecting a miner, but this made far more sense: no miner would be likely to have access to the sorts of production quotas and shipping arrangements Orlov wanted.
Drift produced a small box from one of the pouches on his belt and set it on the table. ‘Your grandfather asked me to pass this on to you. Did you have a message for me to take back?’
Shirokov didn’t reply. Instead he stared at the box with an unreadable expression.
‘Mr Shirokov?’ Drift prompted, after a few seconds had elapsed with no reply forthcoming.
‘I have no message for my “grandfather”,’ Shirokov said, looking up and meeting Drift’s eyes, ‘but I have message for you, Captain.
‘Get me out of here.’
Drift blinked, not welcoming the sensation of the metaphorical ground shifting beneath his feet. ‘Excuse me?’
Shirokov reached out and flipped the box open to reveal a small silver oblong. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Drift had already looked at Shirokov’s payment to make sure that he wasn’t going to be smuggling anything illegal into Uragan City, but made a show of
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