Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

“She’s not doing that.”

“I hope you’ve got full pockets, then, chikni.” Pankaj turns back to me. “Seventy-five for the basic tag, two-fifty for the works—database trail, ghost records, the lot.”

“Two hundred and fifty?” I feel ill. How deep am I going to fall in debt? Waiting for my ship docking payment is one thing, but this is real money.

Rushil touches my arm. I jerk away before I realize he only means to calm me, the way I used to calm Lifil or the goats by laying a hand on their backs.

“Just the basic tag,” he says. “Enough to get her past the employment screeners.”

“Rushil—” I protest. He has to know I don’t have the money.

Pankaj shrugs. “Let’s see some plastic.”

Rushil reaches inside his shoe and pulls out a square of pay plastic. Pankaj takes it, taps it against the screen of his handheld, and eyes Rushil. “The straight and narrow’s been good to you, huh?”

Rushil shifts uncomfortably. “I get by.”

A crooked grin breaks out over Pankaj’s face. “Where are my manners?” He steps back into the shadowed entrance and holds the door for us. “Step into my laboratory.”

The room is cold, so cold I almost think my breath will smoke. Cables hang low from the ceiling, and a jumble of machines covering two rows of tables cast a chilly blue-green light into the darkness.

Pankaj snaps on a light aimed at a blank blue wall. “Over here.”

I stand where he points. The glare half blinds me, but I make out the image of Pankaj raising his handheld.

“You know, I could make you a deal for the full treatment,” Pankaj says over his shoulder to Rushil. “If you were up for a barter arrangement.”

The strain in Rushil’s voice is clear from across the room. “What kind?”

“Nothing much. Just some courier work.” Pankaj looks back at me. “Stand still, chikni.” His handheld gives a polite beep.

Rushil stays quiet for a moment. “No,” he finally says. “Not interested.”

Pankaj sighs and shakes his head. “Your loss.” He switches off the light, and for a moment, ghosts of the bulb linger in front of my eyes. “You’re done, chikni.”

I step away from the wall, closer to Rushil, so my shoulder lines up with his. I glance at the door, and we exchange a look.

“What now?” I say.

Pankaj cracks his knuckles. “Now you wait while I do my magic.”

Rushil and I wait outside in the trash-strewn yard.

“You didn’t have to do this for me,” I say. “That’s a lot of money, Rushil.”

Rushil shrugs. “It’s not like I got you the works.”

“Still . . . ,” I say.

“I know you’ll pay me back.” He flashes a smile at me, quick and tight. “You’re good for it.”

I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“I just do,” he says.

“How?”

He kicks a plastic bottle into the weeds. “Miyole.”

“Miyole?” I blink. “What does she have to do with it?”

“You watch out for her.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks away. “You don’t give up on her. So I know you’ll follow through.”

I laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. “Of course I watch out for her. What else am I supposed to do? Drop her all alone in some place like this?” I fall silent, realizing what I’ve said.

Rushil stares at me as if I’ve hit him with an electric current. For a time, we don’t say anything. He paces the yard, kicking Pankaj’s trash back and forth.

Stupid, stupid, Ava. Poking my finger in the wounds of the one person trying to help me. I stare straight ahead at Pankaj’s fence. The jagged diamond shapes have been painted there, too, flanked by two tigers rearing up on their hind legs.

“What is that anyway?” I say without thinking.

Rushil stops. “What?”

“Those lines.” I point. “The diamonds. I see them everywhere.”

“It’s an M and a W.” He traces the letters. “See, they’re laid on top of each other.”

I cock my head. Now that he’s pointed them out, I see each one, but I don’t know how I could have figured it otherwise.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“Marathi Wailers.” Rushil glares at Pankaj’s closed door. “He’s one of them.”

“And that’s bad?” I guess.

Pankaj’s door swings open, cutting off his answer.

“Hot, hot indentity fraud.” Pankaj tosses the tag to me. “There you go, chikni. As long as your screener’s a little sloppy, that should work. Come back anytime.”

I pocket the card without looking at it. Never, ever, I think, and make for the gate, Rushil a few steps ahead of me.

“Hey, Rushil,” Pankaj calls.

Rushil stops with his hand on the latch.

“You ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” He smiles and closes himself in his house.

Rushil and I don’t speak until we’re back in the bustle of the main road near Scion station.

“Okay.” Rushil takes a deep breath. “I’m ready to stop acting weird now.”

I laugh. “I think you were the least weird part of any of that.”

“I try. And on the plus side, we didn’t even get mugged.”

“Probably because you’re so fearsome looking.”

“Actually, I think it’s you the muggers were afraid of,” Rushil says. “You’re terrifying.”

“I try,” I say, copying his voice.

“Speaking of. What do you think of Pankaj’s handiwork?”

“I don’t know.” I pull out the tag. A tired-looking girl stares back at me. Her eyes are bruised hollows and her hair is a ragged mess.

I scowl. “Is that how I look?”

Rushil leans over my shoulder and studies the picture. “Not at all.”

I squint at the card, examining the tiny gold lines that appear when I tilt it toward the light. I hope this thing is worth the risk. “Shouldn’t it, though?”

“Nah, it’s perfect,” Rushil says. “Your ID tag is supposed to make you look like a tar addict. That’s how you know it’s real.”

“Ha, ha,” I say drily. I don’t know exactly what a tar addict is, but the way Rushil says it tells me it’s nothing good.

“No, really.” Rushil reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own ID. “See?”

I take his tag. “Whoa.”

The Rushil in the picture looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to break my kneecaps. His hair is shorter—nearly shaved—and without his smile, his eyebrows give him a hooded look.

“Told you.” Rushil snatches the tag back. “We’re an unsavory pair.”

I hide my grin. “We should get back. Or I should. I need to check on Miyole.”

“Don’t you want to try out your new tag?” Rushil asks.

“Now?”

“Why not?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder at a plain, low-slung building. “You can bring home some good news to Miyole.”

I frown at the sign above the doors. OLD DHARAVI LABOR PLACEMENT AGENCY.

My mouth goes dry. “Pankaj said it would only work if the screener was sloppy. . . .”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Rushil digs in his pocket again. He pulls out three coins and presses them into my hand. “If the screeners aren’t sloppy, you can always make them sloppy.”