The Baba Yaga by Una McCormack

paper, covered in a familiar scrawl.
    Andrei’s.
    Heartbroken. But since I can’t stop you, I may as well help you.
    She flipped over the piece of paper. More scrawl. Directions. Down to the docks. A name: Yershov. And something else, which she didn’t understand: Baba Yaga. She puzzled over that. Some kind of code? It would become clear, no doubt; Andrei did not waste your time. Walker smiled. Some friends you could always count on. And if Andrei, by helping her travel to the Reach, happened to put a spanner into the works of Commander Adelaide Grant—then all to the good.
     
     
    T HE WOMAN WAS nondescript, nothing special. The only point of interest, as far as Yershov was concerned, was that was that she plainly had money. Not vast amounts, no; not one of the idle super-rich, who swanned around the core worlds and sometimes even ventured to the edge of the Reach. But her clothes were good, her teeth were white and even, and her manner suggested she could be a right royal pain in the bloody neck. Yershov didn’t like the rich—Yershov didn’t like anyone, really, including himself—but he did like money, and he hadn’t seen enough of it in recent years. Money didn’t, in general, come to this part of St Martin’s Docks, and when it did, it was usually keeping close company with trouble. Yershov chewed his bottom lip. He could do without trouble. But he was short of money.
    The woman drew closer. No, he thought, nothing special. Too old, for one thing—he sniffed, as if her age was a personal affront—and dressed too mannishly for his taste. Women should look like women. Still, at least she was smart. She’d be something professional, he guessed—a teacher or a lawyer or a doctor or... Yershov frowned; his knowledge of the professions ran out round about here. Probably a doctor. Next question was: What would bring someone like this down to this part of the world? Husband worries? Boyfriend worries?
    She came straight up to him. Nice necklace. No rings. Two small bags that he thought might be designer. Tired looking. Could make more of herself. She spoke quietly, her Anglais clipped and precise. Posh. “I gather you have a ship to hire.”
    Yershov tugged his earlobe. “Mebbe.”
    The woman leaned back on her heels and gave him a good long appraising look. Then she looked behind him at the snub-nosed pile of junk she was trying to hire. “It’s not state-of-the art, is it?”
    “S’all right,” he said. Loyal to his knackered old ship, he added, “Does the job.” More or less.
    “That’s all I want.” She sighed and looked past him once again. “It will fly?”
    “It’ll fly.”
    “If it’ll fly, then you’re hired.” She offered him her handheld. “That’s what I’m paying.”
    He looked at the amount on the screen, sniffed a couple of times and pretended to consider it. “There’s some last minute repairs,” he said.
    She added a few hundred units extra. “That’s as far as I’m going.”
    He sniffed again, but he knew he wasn’t fooling her. Of course he was going to take the offer—it was the first he’d had in over eighteen months, and he’d barely been making ends meet from repair work. “I mean it about the repairs,” he said.
    “I mean it about the money. I’m not going any higher.”
    “No, you’re not getting it, lady.” He jerked his head back at the ship. “She’s dry-docked. Uncertified. What I mean,” he said, because she was posh and probably hadn’t ever had to worry about this kind of thing, “is that the phase technology is out of date. It’s not technically legal for this ship to fly.”
    The woman closed her eyes, very briefly, then seemed to regroup. “That’s all right,” she says. “I don’t particularly want anyone to know that I’m leaving.”
    He rasped out a sour laugh. “Like that, is it?”
    She gave him a very cool look. “Whatever you’re thinking, Mr Yershov, probably doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
    For a moment, Yershov