was almost frightened by her. Bitch , he thought. Then he remembered that he was the one with the ship, and while she was the one with the money, she was also the one with the trouble.
She too seemed to be weary of the exchange. “Is any of this a problem for you?”
“No problem,” he said. “I know a few tricks.” He fair bounced towards his ship, scuttling up the metal ladder and opening the hatch, glad to be leaving Hennessy’s World. Spots even on the crummier docks were not cheap. “So where are we going, lady?”
She followed him neatly up the ladder. Her bags didn’t slow her down. “Satan’s Reach,” she said. “If you’re man enough.”
Y ERSHOV BOUNCED AHEAD of her like a proud father showing off his baby. A particularly foul-smelling, greasy, and unpleasant baby. Sliding down the ladder inside the ship, Walker almost gagged. The space was confined; the air stale and sweaty. As soon as she was sure Yershov couldn’t see her, she put her hand over her mouth and willed herself not to be sick.
This ship that she had hired for half of what she had made from the sale of her apartment was not big. Yershov pointed one way down the single corridor in which she now stood and mumbled, “Engines,” then he went off in the other direction. Walker followed him; the narrowness of the corridor prevented her from walking alongside him. There were two doors on either side of the corridor—leading to crew cabins, she guessed—and a couple more hatches underfoot which led, presumably, down to the hold. She wondered which cabin was Yershov’s. She’d take the one furthest from that.
She looked round with a sinking heart at the ship’s general state of disrepair. What the hell have I let myself in for? She hadn’t been expecting much, but she’d been expecting more than this. She wasn’t entirely convinced that it could in fact take flight. “When did you last get any work done?” she said.
Yershov looked back over his shoulder. “I do what’s needed. Other people are expensive.”
But had the benefit of competence. Yershov pushed aside a nasty-looking curtain, and Walker followed him onto the little flight deck. If she had been harbouring any hopes that here, at least, where the pilot must spend most of his time, would be comfortable, she was quickly disappointed. It wasn’t so much the disrepair that she found depressing, she realised, as she walked slowly round the small space, it was the dirt and the grime, the grubbiness of every surface, the general air that nobody cared. Yershov lived here—this place wasn’t only his livelihood, it was his home—and yet he couldn’t care enough to clear up around him.
The sight of the half-empty bottles lined up behind the flight controls did nothing to make Walker feel better. Yershov mistook her attention for interest, and reached for two glasses. They weren’t quite empty, so he tipped the contents into a third.
“We should toast our new partnership,” he said, pouring out some brown liquid from the nearest bottle into the two glasses.
“I don’t drink,” she said, shortly.
He frowned, as if this wasn’t something he quite understood, then shrugged and drank—first from one glass, then from the other. While his attention was diverted, Walker grabbed her handheld from her pocket and sent a fast and furious message to Andrei: Who the hell is this guy?
She put her hands in her pockets. That way she didn’t have to touch anything. “You said the phase technology was out-of-date. What does that mean? Can this ship fly?”
“Sure it can fly,” he said. “I’ve got all the gear.” He turned his head sideways and lifted up a lock of lank hair to show the inputs where the flight jacks went in. “But then those bastards at space traffic control decided that the whole set-up—the software, the hardware, the interface with the wetware—was... now what did they call it? Obol... Obles...”
“Obsolete.”
“That was it.”
“And
She too seemed to be weary of the exchange. “Is any of this a problem for you?”
“No problem,” he said. “I know a few tricks.” He fair bounced towards his ship, scuttling up the metal ladder and opening the hatch, glad to be leaving Hennessy’s World. Spots even on the crummier docks were not cheap. “So where are we going, lady?”
She followed him neatly up the ladder. Her bags didn’t slow her down. “Satan’s Reach,” she said. “If you’re man enough.”
Y ERSHOV BOUNCED AHEAD of her like a proud father showing off his baby. A particularly foul-smelling, greasy, and unpleasant baby. Sliding down the ladder inside the ship, Walker almost gagged. The space was confined; the air stale and sweaty. As soon as she was sure Yershov couldn’t see her, she put her hand over her mouth and willed herself not to be sick.
This ship that she had hired for half of what she had made from the sale of her apartment was not big. Yershov pointed one way down the single corridor in which she now stood and mumbled, “Engines,” then he went off in the other direction. Walker followed him; the narrowness of the corridor prevented her from walking alongside him. There were two doors on either side of the corridor—leading to crew cabins, she guessed—and a couple more hatches underfoot which led, presumably, down to the hold. She wondered which cabin was Yershov’s. She’d take the one furthest from that.
She looked round with a sinking heart at the ship’s general state of disrepair. What the hell have I let myself in for? She hadn’t been expecting much, but she’d been expecting more than this. She wasn’t entirely convinced that it could in fact take flight. “When did you last get any work done?” she said.
Yershov looked back over his shoulder. “I do what’s needed. Other people are expensive.”
But had the benefit of competence. Yershov pushed aside a nasty-looking curtain, and Walker followed him onto the little flight deck. If she had been harbouring any hopes that here, at least, where the pilot must spend most of his time, would be comfortable, she was quickly disappointed. It wasn’t so much the disrepair that she found depressing, she realised, as she walked slowly round the small space, it was the dirt and the grime, the grubbiness of every surface, the general air that nobody cared. Yershov lived here—this place wasn’t only his livelihood, it was his home—and yet he couldn’t care enough to clear up around him.
The sight of the half-empty bottles lined up behind the flight controls did nothing to make Walker feel better. Yershov mistook her attention for interest, and reached for two glasses. They weren’t quite empty, so he tipped the contents into a third.
“We should toast our new partnership,” he said, pouring out some brown liquid from the nearest bottle into the two glasses.
“I don’t drink,” she said, shortly.
He frowned, as if this wasn’t something he quite understood, then shrugged and drank—first from one glass, then from the other. While his attention was diverted, Walker grabbed her handheld from her pocket and sent a fast and furious message to Andrei: Who the hell is this guy?
She put her hands in her pockets. That way she didn’t have to touch anything. “You said the phase technology was out-of-date. What does that mean? Can this ship fly?”
“Sure it can fly,” he said. “I’ve got all the gear.” He turned his head sideways and lifted up a lock of lank hair to show the inputs where the flight jacks went in. “But then those bastards at space traffic control decided that the whole set-up—the software, the hardware, the interface with the wetware—was... now what did they call it? Obol... Obles...”
“Obsolete.”
“That was it.”
“And
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