inspecting it for the sake of politeness. ‘It appears to be a power cell.’
‘It is,’ Shirokov nodded. He tapped his knuckles on his left leg, which was unyielding. ‘I lost this leg at mine face when I was thirty-two. Industrial accidents not uncommon here, although mine was worse than many. I could not afford prosthetic, even from Universal Access Movement; they can provide good basic items, but my nerve damage too bad. I could only work in office and had to move by wheeled chair. My reading and writing not good, but I seemed to have knack to learn when I needed to. Also learned English; half well, I feel.’
‘Your English is certainly better than my Russian,’ Drift acknowledged, wondering when Shirokov was going to get to the point.
‘I got lucky,’ the Russian continued, although his lips twisted. ‘Or so I thought. Wealthy businessman visit our office, shocked how government does not help its injured workers. Organise for me new leg: proper, powered, matched with nerve endings, perfect balance. I can walk again! He tell me: any problems, I can reach him.’
‘I think I can guess his name,’ Drift muttered.
‘I think you can too,’ Shirokov sighed. ‘After eight months, power supply fails. I cannot find manufacturer to replace, brand too specialist for Universal Access Movement to supply. I contact businessman; he say, of course I can get you new one! I send someone to bring you replacement. This man come just before big storm. He tell me—’
‘I can guess what he told you, too,’ Drift sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Goddamn it, was it too much to ask for Orlov to have found someone willing to talk for money instead of this little entrapment scheme? But of course, if you wanted regular information you needed your mole to have a regular need for whatever you were paying him. He thought for a moment about what he’d do to ensure his mechanical eye kept functioning.
Yeah, quite a lot.
‘So you want out?’ he asked, gloomily.
‘
Da
,’ Shirokov said firmly, a tone of urgency entering his voice for the first time as he dropped it lower. ‘Here is
my
deal to you: you get me and my Pavel off-world and I give you information you need. This planet took my leg and I am sick of living in this
svalka
, sick of waiting for someone to realise I pass information for last ten years! Maybe I can find how to get new power supplies myself, maybe I just learn to do without one leg again. But I want to leave. I want to
live.
’
‘And if I don’t get you off-world?’ Drift asked wearily. Shirokov sat back, arms folded.
‘Then you fly back to New Samara and tell Mr Orlov you could not do his job.’
For a moment, just a moment, Drift was tempted to do just that. Or, hell, just leave the system entirely; pack up and head off, forget about Uragan and New Samara and Sergei Orlov. Kelsier had left other stashes of money around the galaxy, after all.
But … the hundred grand from Orlov was a payoff not to be sniffed at, and one of his reasons for taking this job was to prove to his crew that they still wanted to be a crew at all. Cutting and running from something as easy as this would not reflect well on his leadership credentials, or their chances of making a living from following him.
Besides, Orlov might not bother coming after them, since it wasn’t like they’d taken anything belonging to him yet apart from the power supply sitting on the table in front of them, but what if he decided they’d found a higher bidder elsewhere and sold Shirokov’s information on? That would be a slight he could not overlook, regardless of whether he had any genuine concerns about their ability to cause chaos when provoked. And there was also their reputation with the rest of the galaxy to consider. Ichabod Drift, abandoning a simple fetch-and-carry information run because it got too hard? All Orlov would have to do would be to circulate that rumour and their employability would take a terminal
‘It is,’ Shirokov nodded. He tapped his knuckles on his left leg, which was unyielding. ‘I lost this leg at mine face when I was thirty-two. Industrial accidents not uncommon here, although mine was worse than many. I could not afford prosthetic, even from Universal Access Movement; they can provide good basic items, but my nerve damage too bad. I could only work in office and had to move by wheeled chair. My reading and writing not good, but I seemed to have knack to learn when I needed to. Also learned English; half well, I feel.’
‘Your English is certainly better than my Russian,’ Drift acknowledged, wondering when Shirokov was going to get to the point.
‘I got lucky,’ the Russian continued, although his lips twisted. ‘Or so I thought. Wealthy businessman visit our office, shocked how government does not help its injured workers. Organise for me new leg: proper, powered, matched with nerve endings, perfect balance. I can walk again! He tell me: any problems, I can reach him.’
‘I think I can guess his name,’ Drift muttered.
‘I think you can too,’ Shirokov sighed. ‘After eight months, power supply fails. I cannot find manufacturer to replace, brand too specialist for Universal Access Movement to supply. I contact businessman; he say, of course I can get you new one! I send someone to bring you replacement. This man come just before big storm. He tell me—’
‘I can guess what he told you, too,’ Drift sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Goddamn it, was it too much to ask for Orlov to have found someone willing to talk for money instead of this little entrapment scheme? But of course, if you wanted regular information you needed your mole to have a regular need for whatever you were paying him. He thought for a moment about what he’d do to ensure his mechanical eye kept functioning.
Yeah, quite a lot.
‘So you want out?’ he asked, gloomily.
‘
Da
,’ Shirokov said firmly, a tone of urgency entering his voice for the first time as he dropped it lower. ‘Here is
my
deal to you: you get me and my Pavel off-world and I give you information you need. This planet took my leg and I am sick of living in this
svalka
, sick of waiting for someone to realise I pass information for last ten years! Maybe I can find how to get new power supplies myself, maybe I just learn to do without one leg again. But I want to leave. I want to
live.
’
‘And if I don’t get you off-world?’ Drift asked wearily. Shirokov sat back, arms folded.
‘Then you fly back to New Samara and tell Mr Orlov you could not do his job.’
For a moment, just a moment, Drift was tempted to do just that. Or, hell, just leave the system entirely; pack up and head off, forget about Uragan and New Samara and Sergei Orlov. Kelsier had left other stashes of money around the galaxy, after all.
But … the hundred grand from Orlov was a payoff not to be sniffed at, and one of his reasons for taking this job was to prove to his crew that they still wanted to be a crew at all. Cutting and running from something as easy as this would not reflect well on his leadership credentials, or their chances of making a living from following him.
Besides, Orlov might not bother coming after them, since it wasn’t like they’d taken anything belonging to him yet apart from the power supply sitting on the table in front of them, but what if he decided they’d found a higher bidder elsewhere and sold Shirokov’s information on? That would be a slight he could not overlook, regardless of whether he had any genuine concerns about their ability to cause chaos when provoked. And there was also their reputation with the rest of the galaxy to consider. Ichabod Drift, abandoning a simple fetch-and-carry information run because it got too hard? All Orlov would have to do would be to circulate that rumour and their employability would take a terminal
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