Salvage (28 page)

HarperCollins Publishers

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R
ushil crouches at my side below the sloop's underbelly, box of fixers at the ready. “Is it that one?” He points to one of the blackened shield tiles and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I think so.” I slide past him and run my fingers over the tile's rivets. My attempts to keep him away while I fix the ship have completely failed. “Do you have something that will get these off?”

Rushil rummages in his box and pulls out a multitool with a flat-headed rod on one end and a power socket on the other. “Here.” He rolls it to me.

I unbolt the tile, fit the flat end of the multitool into the thin crack between the ship's scales, and pry it down. All at once, a sticky gush of coolant pours out, spattering the pavement, and a burned-plastic smell chokes the air. Rushil hops back in time, but my legs ends up soaked in goop.

“Ugh.” I push a slick of it off me.

Rushil pulls a rag from his back pocket, utterly failing to hide the fact he's trying not to laugh. “At least now you know what knocked out the door motors.”

I send a mock glare his way and reach up to wipe a glop of coolant from the sloop's connectors with the rag. He's right. The coolant leak has shorted out almost all the connections between the secondary power cell and the door's motorized functions. The connectors are all bust, blackened and giving off the acrid smell of burned electronics. I cover my nose with my arm and finish cleaning them off as best I can. Rushil watches as I pop out the connectors what haven't fused themselves to the backing panel, then chip out the ones that have. When I'm done, all that's left are the ash outlines of the connectors and frayed sets of wires pigtailing out of their reinforcement tubes.

I slide back the panel leading to the coolant conduits. More of the viscous goop slops out.
Maybe a break in the line
, I think. I flip a switch on the multitool so it beams a blue-white circle of light and wriggle the top half of my body into the ship's innards.

“What's wrong? Can you see?” Rushil's voice comes muffled from the other side of the hull.

I slide the beam along the conduits. Long splits and fissures glisten with leaking coolant all up and down the length of the lines. I let out an involuntary gasp, and then a groan.

“What is it?” Rushil asks again.

I run the light over the lines again, only half believing what I see. I've never seen anything so bust. Stress fractures split them like gashes down a man's back. It must be from the ship's inner workings changing temperature too quickly, too many times. I half remember Perpétue saying something about having to lay down a good sum to replace them again soon.

“The coolant conduits are ragged,” I call out.

“Here, let me see,” he says.

I duck out and hand over the light to him. His torso disappears into the ship. At last he speaks. “This is bad, Ava.”

“I know.” I give a short, hysterical laugh.

Rushil ducks out of the ship and crouches beneath it. “You're lucky it didn't choke and send you into a death spiral on the way over from the flightport.” He flicks his light up. “Can you fix it?”

I bite my lip, weighing everything. “I maybe could, but it would take forever. And the money for parts . . .”

I stare at Miyole, sitting in the shadow of Rushil's trailer. She pokes at the dirt with a stick, Pala asleep beside her. I've managed to keep up my end of our curry bargain and even pay Rushil back some, but one ticket for the bullet train to Khajjiar costs more than my fake ID. And I've realized I don't need just one ticket, I need two. It's bad enough leaving Miyole alone while I work. It near kills me how much longer it means I have to wait, but I can't leave her for two full days while I go chasing Luck's ghost.

“You know, I might have some extra tubing,” Rushil says.

I close my eyes. “Stop. You know I can't take anything more from you.”

“It's really nothing, Ava.” Rushil gestures at the jumble of ship parts piled nearby. “Half my business is stripping old ships for resale parts. And I know a girl, my friend Zarine—she sells new components. She'd give us a deal on anything we couldn't scrounge up here.”

I stare at him, wary. I want my ship fixed. Of course I do. Because then, forget the train, I could fly to Khajjiar. I could be there in an afternoon, and Luck would see my ship's shadow on the grass and come running. Then I wouldn't ever have to go begging to my modrie, because Luck and me, we could take care of Miyole ourselves. And then I might stop feeling like my heart is choking me.

“I don't get much for scrap tubing. You'd be doing me a favor.” Rushil breaks my reverie. He examines his hands as he squats in the shadow of Perpétue's ship, and then squints up at me. “I want you to have it.”

I smooth my data pendant with my thumb. The thought of Luck running to me makes my body ache, I want it so much. But then I count my debts—docking and the ID, coins for the screener and a hand with repairs, plus a thousand other small kindnesses, tea and blankets and bandages. I run a hand over the ship's tiles. “Let me think on it.”

Rushil's smile drops. “Sure.” He ducks out from beneath the sloop and glances at the time on his crow. “Sure. You know, I've got . . . stuff to do. Repairs. Anyway . . .”

“Rushil, wait.”

He stops and turns back to me. We stare at each other, the awkwardness growing. I don't know how to say what I mean—that his kindness is making me uneasy, even if it's well meant.

“Can I show you something?”

I climb into the sloop's hold and mount the ladder to the cockpit. Rushil follows me silently.

Dust has settled on the controls, and the air has gone stuffy and still. I move aside so Rushil can see the cockpit walls, covered floor to ceiling in Miyole's metal art. The fish-tailed women and roosters and boats ripple in the afternoon sun, muted colors surfacing in the brown and gray metal, like the rainbow in an oil slick.

Rushil comes to a stop in the door, mouth open. I recognize the look that crosses his face—surprise, confusion, slow-dawning delight. It's how I felt the first time I saw all of her creatures gathered together this way.

“What are they?” he asks.

“Miyole makes them.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Made them. Before.”

Rushil touches one of them, a flaming heart, gingerly. “They're beautiful. She could sell these down by the station.”

I shake my head. “She made them for her mother.”

“Oh.” Rushil winces. “Sorry. Foot in mouth.”

“When we lost her . . .” I stop and clear my throat. “They said it never stormed there, but there was a storm. And Miyole's mother, she had me fly the ship while she went down to the rooftop. . . . ”

I stare straight ahead at a sun radiating wavy lines. “Sometimes I think,
It should have been me
. I should have gone down to get her, and then Perpétue would be alive, and Miyole wouldn't be like this. They would both be alive.”

“But you wouldn't be,” Rushil says quietly.

I shrug. “What difference would that make?” If I weren't in the world, who would even know? Wouldn't Perpétue have been of more use alive than me?

“Don't talk like that.” Rushil's voice is low, but there's a tremor to it. “You don't know . . . you don't know how it would have been different.”

“I'm sorry.” I sink down in the captain's chair. “I just . . . I don't want her to be like this anymore. I want her back to herself.”

“I know.” He takes the other seat, putting us knee to knee. “It's only . . . you never know who's going to need you. Or want you here.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand.

I freeze at his touch—he's a boy, a man, a strange man—and then the gentle pressure on my palm sends a tender warmth through me, from my heart to my fingertips. I near shiver with it. How often has someone touched me kindly?

I meet his eyes. I never thought a boy—a man—would be the one to understand me, or even want to try. Rushil leans forward, as if to say something.

But Luck
. I close my eyes. How can I forget Luck, even for a breath? I pull my hand from Rushil's.

He clears his throat. “So how does she make these?” He twists around to look over Miyole's collection.

“Scrap,” I say. “And a metal burner.”

“Maybe she could make some new ones.” He turns back to me. “Give her something to do, instead of lying in the dark all day.”

I shake my head. “We lost her burner.”

“Psssh.”
Rushil waves my words away. “You can get a cheap one from any of the junk dealers down by the station.”

I start to protest, but Rushil holds up his hands. “I'm not trying to buy anything else for you. I'm just telling you where you can get one if you want it.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

“But if you want some scrap metal . . .”

I groan. “Rushil!”

“What?” He grins.

“Stop being so nice to me!” I'm only half joking.

“Okay.” Rushil lays a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to be a total
gandu
from now on.”

I can't help it. I laugh, and playfully punch him in the arm. “Come on. I owe you a curry for this afternoon. You can be a . . . a
gandu
while we eat.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
step off the train at Sion station in the early evening, coins from my day at Powell-Gupta jingling in my pocket. I'm getting better at being a chai wallah. I can make the tea nearly as fast as Doya can, and I've learned everyone's name on the twenty-seventh floor—floor, not tier—as well as their particular tastes. Sweet pickles for Mr. Darzi, cigarette gum for Miss Sharma, who Rushil has taken to calling Miss Shirty on account of her being so impatient, and caffine pills for Ms. Chaudhri, who has two smallones at home. I'm even starting not to care when Ajit shouts at me. And best of all, now I have enough to buy Miyole a metal burner.

Dozens of street vendors sit outside the row of shops and
tapris
across from the station, their wares spread out around them on blankets. I pass booths selling glasses some like Rushil's, what seem to be the fashion in parts of Mumbai, jewelry in cheap, candy-bright plastic, printed fabric rolled up in bolts, and finally, what I've come for, tubs full of used crows, power cells, and other parts.

“Looking for anything in particular?” The vendor, a girl a few turns older than me with neon bangles clacking up and down her arms, wanders over to inspect the bin with me. “Those are all fifteen rupaye apiece. You won't find a better price.”

I push a clump of stick-on LED lights aside and spot what I'm looking for. It's mostly bust and sports a bigger, clunkier grip than Miyole's old burner, but Miyole's hand will grow into it, and I'm certain I can find whatever fix it needs. It will set me back a small bit in the way of repaying Rushil, but more than I need even ground with him, I need Miyole well.

A voice catches my ear. “On me and my wives, our thanks.”

The words pierce the friendly market buzz and strike me still.
It can't be
. I make myself look up from the bins.

A group of bleached-pale men stands a half dozen strides down the street, talking to a Mumbaikar in a gray suit with an orange pocket handkercheif. On first glance, they all look like the same man—the same long, straight white hair under their broad-brimmed sunshield hats, the same rubber-padded white suits standing out stark against the street's gingery dirt, the same chalk-pale gloves hiding their hands. The protective shadow cast by their headgear hides their faces, but I know them. The Nau. Here, in Mumbai, in the Salt. What are the Nau doing here?

“You like it?” The girl nods at the burner I hold clutched to my chest. “It's a good one. Only needs a little shine and it'll work again.”

“R-right.” I glance at the burner and then back to the crewe. I should be answering the vendor, haggling down the price, but they're so near. I can't breathe. Will they know me on sight? If they do, they'll tell my father and brother where I am, certain sure, and then I'll have to run again. Except how far will we get without the sloop?

The head Nau—the captain, most like—delivers a curt bow to the gray-suited man and motions the others to follow him up the street. They're coming my way. I duck my head and pretend to examine the bin's contents again.

“Kumaari?”
The vendor touches my arm. “Are you all right?”

I come aware of my own breathing—loud, harsh gasps—and try to swallow it down.

“Fine.” I wave her concern away.
They won't know me
. I look some different than I did when I left my crewe. They'd be looking for an ash-faced, red-haired girl. But my heart won't listen to reason. The Nau move closer, strolling, examining the vendors' wares. Every few feet they stop, point, and mutter to themselves.

My head goes light and gray spots fizzle through my vision.

They stop at the blanket next to me, the nearest man's feet a handsbreadth from where I kneel alongside the parts bin. They whisper among themselves. Then one, a tall, skinny Nau with his voice barely breaking into manhood, steps forward.

“My father asks, how much?” He points to the bolts of cloth propped up against the wall behind the vendors.

“Which one?” The man tending the cloth reaches a hand back and pats the bolts. “Different weights, different prices.”

“The gold one.” The boy points to a thick roll of fabric embroidered with flying cranes.