Free Tracer by Rob Boffard Page B

out of her pocket and passes it over. There’s not a lot, but we manage a few gulps between us. We passed a few water points on the way over here, but I didn’t think to stop at any of them. They’re all over Outer Earth: machines set into the walls of corridors and galleries where you can get clean water, purified from recycled human waste, connected by anerve system of pipes and filtersthat extends across the whole station. It’s nasty when you think hard about it, but it’s also the only source of water we’ve got.
    “What now, boss?” says Carver as he passes the flask back.
    Amira takes a final swig and runs a hand across her mouth. “We go in. Riley, stay out of sight, no matter what. Wait a few minutes before you follow us.”
    “Got it.”
    Amira and Carver move off, walking slowlythrough the massive doors. Soon, they’re lost in the sprawl. I wait a few moments more, then follow, ducking my way under an awning and cutting to the left.
    The hangar is enormous – they used to build ships here. The noise rises to ear-splitting levels as I enter, not only from the bustling crowds but from the merchants trying to shout over each other. Everywhere, people barter vegetables, scrapmetal, batteries, machinery, tiny packets of spices haggled over in dark corners. Beetles sizzle on fat-caked metal. There are piles of silkworm larvae, barely cooked, served in dirty cloth bags. I had some once, and I’m glad it was only once.
    To the right, a burst of sparks shoots out across the stalls as a man demonstrates a homemade plasma cutter, filthy goggles pulled down over his eyes.
    There’s at least one market in every sector. People used to rely completely on the mess for food, back when everybody had a job and showing up for work was the only way to get on the food list. They’d go to work at the Gardens, or lifting crates in the ship docks, or on maintenance crews assigned to maintain the pipes and power lines. But when the number of people here grew larger than the amountof available jobs, people started taking care of themselves.
    “Riley,” someone says, and I turn to find Old Madala grinning at me.
    Short and stooped, he’s lost most of his teeth, save for the odd fuzzy, yellow stump. The left sleeve of his overalls is tied at the shoulder, flopping loosely in place of his missing arm. He’s a regular client, a vegetable grower – our last run for him netted usa thick bunch of sweet, crunchy carrots. I don’t even think he has another spot on the station; he just seems to sleep under his table, relying on the other merchants to keep an eye on his goods.
    His toothless smile widens. “You not come see me for long time there,” he says in his odd patois. “Where you been?”
    “Just busy. Around. Thanks for the carrots, by the way.”
    “You want some more? I gota job for you, if you like.” He holds up his hand, and I see he’s carrying a small parcel, wrapped in tattered oilcloth.
    I shake my head, forcing myself to stay calm. “No, I’m on another run right now, but I’ll tell Kev to come find you.”
    “OK, no problem. But come by soon, eh? You don’t want to leave an old man lonely now, do you?”
    He gives a lascivious wink. Coming out of anybody else, itwould be creepy, but Madala has this way about him that makes it hard to get angry at him.
    “I will,” I say, and lean close. “Listen, I want to ask you something.”
    He raises his eyebrows quizzically. “Information? I tell you things? Gonna cost you, you know.”
    I pout. “Oh come on,” I say. “We’ve been doing business for a long time. You can spot me this one.”
    He barks a short laugh. “True. True.What you wanna know?”
    “Anything you can tell me about the guy who sells onions over by Takashi’s. Gray.”
    His expression is puzzled. “Gray? Nothing here. Not much I know ’bout him. He stay quiet, keep his business his business, you know? I never get any trouble from him. S’good. We need more like that.”
    “Do