“In and out,” Rushil repeats. “Simple business.”
I double my pace to keep up with him, sidestepping a gutted street sweeper. A drainage ditch, glassy with sewage, runs along the road beside us. A dozen times now, I’ve started to tell Rushil not to bother, that I don’t want any record of me floating out there, that I’ll find another way to make money and pay him back. But then I think about my choices—the begging man with the sores, the women beneath the streetlamp, the thief—and I clench my jaw shut again.
“How do you know this . . . what’s his name? Panaj?” I ask instead.
“Pankaj,” Rushil says. “I knew him a long time ago. Before . . .” He trails off.
“Before what?”
Rushil doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “You’re being weird again.” A word I picked up from him.
“I know. If I promise to stop being weird as soon as we get out of here, will you stop telling me that?”
“Maybe,” I say.
We stop in front of a gate painted with an interlocking diamond pattern.
Rushil looks up at one of the black spheres mounted on top of the wall. “Pankaj!” He waves. “It’s Rushil Vaish.”
Nothing happens.
“Maybe he’s out working?” I look over my shoulder.
“More like he’s still asleep. Pankaj!” He waves at the spheres again. “Come on, man, I know you can hear me. Open up. I’ve got some business for you.”
A buzzer sounds, then a metallic shriek, and the gate slides open enough for us to pass through single file.
Pankaj’s yard makes Rushil’s look like a neat-raveled piece of work. Tiny plastic bags and other bits of trash litter the tract of mud separating the cinderblock house from the fence. Weeds sprout here and there, partially hiding broken glass bottles and scraps of cellophane. The windows have been boarded shut, and a two-wheeled groundcrawler leans against the side of the house, bulging with fuel tanks and a chrome-plated engine. I haven’t seen anything like it since Mirny. I didn’t think they had them here.
Rushil cuts his eyes to the groundcrawler as we pass it. “We didn’t see that.”
“Right so,” I agree.
The door swings open. “Rushil Vaish.” A wiry man a few turns older than Rushil slouches against the doorway. “I thought we were never going to see you again.”
“Pankaj,” Rushil says.
“What’s this?” Pankaj looks me over. “A peace offering?”
Rushil’s jaw tightens. “A customer.”
Pankaj holds up his hands. “All right, all right. Can’t blame a man for asking. What do you need, chikni?”
I glance at Rushil, suddenly nervous. “An ID tag. For work.”
Pankaj looks to Rushil, too. “Why doesn’t she just work off the books?”
“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.”
“You mean . . .” I frown down at the coins and then take in a sharp breath when I grasp what he means. “Oh. Right so.”
“I’ll wait out here for you.”
“You don’t need to.” I clutch the coins. He’s done enough. More than enough.
Rushil arches an eyebrow. “Maybe I want to.”
My face goes hot. “I’ll . . . I’ll be back soon,” I stammer, and hurry into the office without looking back.
“Identification?” The middle-aged woman behind the desk at the labor placement office taps at her trackboard without looking up. Her black hair sweeps up from her forehead into a gravity-defying pouf.
I slide my new tag across the metal counter. It comes up to my shoulders, even though I’m standing.
“Any documentation of work history?” the woman asks without looking away from her screen.
I look down at the countertop, smudged with fingerprints from all the people who’ve stood in this same spot before me. “No, so missus.”
She holds my card out at arm’s length, then narrows her eyes and looks from it to me. Damn. Of course I would get the one screener who isn’t sloppy.
“Please, so missus.” I keep my voice low and lean close as I can. My heart picks up a sickly, too-quick beat. “I’ve got a smallgirl to watch out for.”
She frowns at me. I can tell she’s trying to figure my age, pick out my life story from my face and clothes, and she doesn’t like what she sees. Is this the time? I turn over the coins in my palm. What if it isn’t enough? Or what if she thinks it’s dirty what I’m doing and starts yelling like that woman chasing the thief? She has my tag. I’ll have to run out of here and leave it behind, and then I’ll be stuck without work and even more in debt to Rushil.
I place the coins on the counter, and slide them across to her.
“There’s got to be something,” I say.
She looks at me sharply, the swipes up the coins and pockets them. I let myself breathe.
“Very well.” She looks back at her machine. “Entry level, low-skill jobs. I have a laundry aide at a state end-of-life facility. Sorter at an electronics recycling plant. Powell-Gupta Dynamic needs a chai wallah, and there’s a synthetic diamond manufacturer on the east side that wants a chemical stripping assistant.”
“Which one pays the best?” I ask.
“Chemical stripping assistant.” She looks level at me and some of the formality drops out of her voice. “But those fumes will strip your lungs, too. That job will age you twenty years in a month. I wouldn’t take it if I were you, not if you have a little one to look after.”
“Which one would you take?” I ask cautiously.
“Chai wallah,” she says without missing a beat. “It’s not the best pay, but it’s down in a good part of the south city and you’ll be safe. It’ll help you build up a work history.” She gives me a meaningful look.
“Right so,” I say, even though I don’t have a clue what a chai wallah does. “I can do it.”
Her machine clicks and spits out a thin plastic card. “You start the day after tomorrow. Scan this with your crow, and it’ll direct you to Powell-Gupta. Feed it into the exterior lock system, and the building will show you where to go from there.”
“Crow?” I repeat. None too much of what she said makes sense, but that part I didn’t understand at all.
The woman holds up her handheld, a shiny, berry-red machine the size of her palm. “Your crow,” she repeats, as if I’m slow. She looks me over. “And see if you can’t pull together some more professional clothes. You look like you stumbled off a waste freighter.”
“Right so.” I take the card.
“Welcome to the workforce, Miss Parastrata.”
“Thank you.” I clutch my ID tag and the employment card to my chest as I hurry past the line of people waiting for jobs and out into the afternoon sun.
I spot Rushil sitting in the shade of a tree, thumbing through his handheld—I mean crow—and I can’t help but smile. Because the tag worked. Because I’m going to pay him back. Because finally, finally, something is going right.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER .24
A chai wallah turns out to be a type of servant who runs tea to everyone too important to leave his or her post, some like the man with the tray I saw on the train when Miyole and I first got here. I’m not the only one at Powell-Gupta, which has an entire black-glass tower to itself on the outskirts of south Mumbai. Each floor gets its own chai wallah, dressed in white pants, an acid-green shirt, and a saffron neckerchief, the company’s banner colors. At least the woman at the employment office ended up being wrong about needing to buy new clothes. I tuck my data pendant beneath the scarf and leave my street clothes in the narrow hall where we workers can store our things during the day.
“You make the tea, you set up the cart, you bring the tea.” Ajit, the senior chai wallah, leads me though the kitchens in the basement. He can’t be too many turns older than me, but all his teeth have gone brown. “You see if they want anything else, and if they do, you get it for them quick as you can.”
Dayo, an older woman with dark skin and a lilting touch to her words, looks up from her cart. “What Ajit means is, you do whatever anyone says and you don’t foul up.”
Ajit glares at her. “Do you want to do the training?”
“I’m only telling her how it is.” Dayo raises her hands in mock surrender.
“How about you get up to fourteen and do your job instead of trying to do mine?” Ajit says.
Dayo shakes her head and continues setting out the thick glass cups on her cart.
Ajit gives
me a cart of my own, complete with a silvery urn of tea, cups, a warming compartment full of damp towels so the people I serve can clean their hands, and a data pad where I can take down any requests.
“I’m giving you twenty-seven,” Ajit calls over his shoulder as I trundle after him to the service lifts. “That’s an easy start. When you’re done we’ll check your times and see if you’re ready for something more challenging.”
“You’re timing me?” I pause midstep. The cart squeaks a meek protest.
“Of course.” Ajit turns. “Pay scale’s based on your efficiency rating. Didn’t I say that?”
I stare at him warily. “No.”
Ajit shrugs. “Chop chop, then. Clock’s running.”
My cart and I ride the service lift up to the twenty-seventh level. The tiny block of numbers at the bottom of my data pad climb higher and higher with the seconds. How long is too long? I hate leaving Miyole alone, even though she’s some used to it. This city feels different from the Gyre, as if it might eat her up when I’m not looking. But we need money. We can’t keep living off Rushil. I can’t afford to be slow.
The lift doors open on a glare of light and a waft of cool air. A wide room with an expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows spreads out in front of me, crammed with a maze of desks and man-high frosted-glass partitions. A man or woman sits at each post, poised above a data entry screen, fingers flying, or talking into the onscreen feed receiver bolted upright at each station.
“Finally.” One of the women spins around in her chair and eyes my cart. She waves me closer. “Miss! Miss?”
I wheel my cart over to her. “Tea, missus?”
“Of course I want tea. Why do you think you’re here?” She narrows her perfectly painted eyes.
“Right so, missus.” I fill a cup from the urn and hold it out to her.
She stares at me as if I’m offering a handful of goat-fouled hay. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
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