A Closed and Common Orbit (Wayfarers #2)(14)
Sidra waited until they were out of earshot. ‘Pepper, did she . . . did she feel sorry for me?’
‘She thinks you’ve gotten away from some bad shit,’ Pepper said. ‘Which is exactly what we want. The more people think you came from something rough, the less they’ll ask you questions.’
‘I see,’ Sidra said. She was glad for the lack of prying, but something about the way the Aandrisk woman had looked at her made her uneasy. She didn’t want to be the subject of pity. She watched Pepper as she ambled her way through the caves, greeting peers, trading small talk, asking technical questions that made Sidra long for the Linkings. She watched people’s reactions, too, as she recycled her tailored responses over and over. Their replies were always variations on the same theme: kindness toward Sidra, respect for Pepper. The former was nice, but the latter seemed more desirable. Pepper had come from some ‘bad shit’, too, but no one looked at her as if she were a stray pet. Pepper was useful here. Sidra wasn’t yet. It would take time, she knew, but the continued lack of a clear-cut purpose was unpleasant.
They arrived at a sedately decorated shopfront, far less flashy than its neighbours. ‘Here we are,’ Pepper said, gesturing dramatically. A sign made of scrap announced the purpose of the open-air counter beneath it:
THE RUST BUCKET
Tech swap and fix-it shop
Pepper and Blue, Proprietors
‘Blue no longer works here, correct?’ Sidra asked.
Pepper waved her wristpatch over a scanner by the counter. There was a brief, quiet crackle as a security shield switched off. ‘Correct. He stops by sometimes, though, if he’s feeling tired of artists being artists.’ She flipped up the counter door and headed back into her space. There was a long workbench opposite the counter, with plenty of room between. Behind that was a doorway, through which there appeared to be a small workshop, comfortably removed from the territory of customers. Sidra kept the kit out of Pepper’s way as she filled the counter with display boxes full of second-hand components, each smartly wrapped and labelled.
‘Can you hand me that?’ Pepper asked.
Sidra turned the kit’s head to follow Pepper’s gaze, and found a toolbelt. It was absurdly heavy, overburdened with wrenches and pliers. The thick fabric had been reinforced with rough thread – several times over, it seemed. ‘Yes,’ Sidra said. She handed the belt to Pepper, as requested. ‘Do you mind working here alone?’ she asked.
Pepper shook her head. ‘Nah. Tech is my thing, not Blue’s. He can do it, but it’s not what makes him get up in the morning.’ She grinned. ‘And besides, I don’t work here alone any more.’ She pulled a clean work apron and gloves out of a drawer, then clad herself with them and the clattering toolbelt as she spoke. ‘So. The Rust Bucket is your all-purpose place to get stuff fixed, and we sell refurbished bits and bobs, too. I have only a few rules.’ She raised a gloved finger. ‘Number one: no military-grade weapons or explosives. If you’re a livestock farmer, or you’re headed to Cricket or something, and you need your slug rifle fixed, sure, I can do that. You throw down some Aeluon-wannabe blaster, get the f*ck out. If you’re not a soldier, you don’t need that shit.’
Sidra recorded every word. ‘What if you are a soldier?’
‘If you are a soldier, I am the last person you’d come to with weapon problems. Unless your military has massive organisational issues, I guess. I will do basic tools of self defence, not murder gear.’ She raised a second finger. ‘Rule number two: no biotech. Not my area of expertise. If someone wants their mods tweaked, I’ve got a good list of clinics I can refer them to. Safe, trustworthy places. You get anybody asking about implant or mod stuff, come get me, and I’ll point them in the right direction. No nanobots, either, even if they’re not bio. It’s not my thing, and I don’t have the right equipment. Rule number three: somebody brings in anything with magnets, they damn well better tell us up front so I can store it properly. Anybody who doesn’t gets to compensate me for whatever got fried. Fourth rule: whatever they bring in has to be able to fit behind the counter. I will do bigger jobs outside of the shop, but that’s on a case-by-case basis. I don’t do that for everybody, so don’t mention it to people. Just come get me and I’ll decide if it’s worth my time. Other than that . . .’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘I’ll take just about anything.’ She drummed her fingers on the counter. ‘My pricing is . . . variable. Whatever it says on the package, or whatever I promised. Between you and me, I really don’t care how much things cost. As long as I have food in my belly and can buy dumb stuff to decorate my house with, it doesn’t matter whether people are paying me the same amount every time. I work within budgets, and trade is every bit as welcome as credits. More so, even.’ She lifted her foot. ‘I got these boots for free because I fixed a clothing merchant’s patch scanner. I’ve got a doctor who upgrades me and Blue’s imubots every standard in exchange for random fix-it jobs whenever he wants. And I’ve got a lifetime half-off discount at Captain Smacky’s Snack Fest, because I did a same-day rush job on their grill.’ She shrugged. ‘Credits are imaginary. I’ll accept them because we’ve collectively decided that’s how we do things, but I prefer doing business in a tangible way. Don’t worry, though – you’ll get paid in credits. Cleaner that way.’