Ship Breaker (Ship Breaker #1)(26)

The fire warmed and dried them and they were silent for a long time, watching as the furniture of the ship crackled and burned.

“Check it out,” Pima said suddenly.

The girl’s eyes, closed for a long time, were now open, watching the fire. Pima and Nailer studied the girl. The girl studied them in turn.

“You’re awake, huh?” Nailer said.

The girl didn’t respond. Her eyes watched them, silent as a child. Her lips didn’t move. She didn’t pray; she didn’t say anything. She blinked, staring at him, but still she said nothing.

Pima knelt down beside her. “You want some water? You thirsty?”

The girl’s eyes went to her, but she remained silent.

“You think she’s gone crazy?” Nailer asked.

Pima shook her head. “Hell if I know.” She took a small silver cup and poured water into it. She held it before the girl, watching. “You thirsty? Huh? You want some water?”

The girl made a weak motion and strained toward the cup. Pima brought the water to her lips and she sipped awkwardly. The girl’s eyes were more focused, watching both of them. Pima tried to give her more water, but she turned her face away and made to sit up instead. When she had pushed herself completely upright, she drew her limbs inward, curling her arms around her legs. The firelight flickered orange and bright on her face. Pima offered the water again, and this time the girl drank fully, finishing it and eyeing the jug wistfully.

“Give her more,” Nailer said, and again the girl drank, this time taking the cup in her own shaking hand. Water spilled down her chin as she drank greedily.

“Hey!” Pima grabbed the cup back. “Watch it! That’s all the water we’ve got tonight.”

She gave the girl a look of annoyance, then turned and rifled through the sack of fruit that Nailer had gathered. She came up with an orange that she sliced into wedges and offered to the girl. The girl took a wedge and ate greedily, then accepted another. She was almost feral in her fascination as she watched Pima slice chunks from the orange. But after another few bites, she lay down again, seeming to fold onto the ground with exhaustion.

She smiled weakly and murmured, “Thank you,” and then her eyes closed and she went silent.

Pima pursed her lips. She got up and pulled the blanket more fully over the girl’s still form. “Guess you’ve got a live one, Nailer.”

“Guess so.” Nailer didn’t know if he was relieved or saddened by the girl’s survival. She lay peaceful now, eyes closed, breathing deeply, asleep it seemed. If she had died, or been crazy, it would have been so much easier.

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Pima muttered.

10

If he was honest with himself, Nailer could admit he had no idea what he was doing. He was making it up as he went along, some new version of a future, and all he really knew was that this strange swank girl needed to be part of it. This rich girl with her diamond nose jewel and her gold rings and fingers all intact, with her dark glittering eyes alive instead of dead.

He sat on the far side of their furniture fire, arms wrapped around his knees as he watched Pima give her the rest of the orange. Two girls, two different lives. Pima dark, strong, and scarred, tattooed with light crew information and lucky symbols; crop-haired, hard-muscled, and sharply alive. This other one, a far lighter brown, untouched by sun, with long black flowing hair, and movements all smooth and soft, polished and precise, her face and bare arms unmarred by abuse or stray wiring or chemical burns.

Two girls, two different lives, two different bits of luck.

Nailer tugged at his wide-bored earrings. He and Pima both had their share of marks, everything from the tattoos that let them work the crews, to their own carefully worked ink skin scars, showing blessings of the Rust Saint and the Fates. But this girl wasn’t marked at all. No decorative tattoos, no work marks, no light gang tats. Nothing. A blank. He was a little shorter than her, but he knew he could kill her if he had to. He couldn’t beat Pima in a fight, but this one, she was soft.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Nailer startled. The girl’s eyes were open again, watching him across the fire, reflecting the blaze of shattered ship furniture and picture frames. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?” she whispered.

Her words were cultured, exquisite in her mouth, clipped and close and precise. As if she were one of the boss men who came down to watch the work and paid out cash bonus for good salvage. Perfectly formed words, with not a break in them, not a hard edge. She accepted the last of the orange slices from Pima and ate them, taking her time and seeming to savor them. Slowly, she pushed herself upright again.

Her eyes went from Nailer to Pima. “You could have just let me die.” She wiped the corner of her mouth with the palm of her hand, licking at the last of the orange’s juice. “I couldn’t get out. You could have been rich with my gold. Why?”

“Ask Lucky Boy,” Pima said, disgusted. “It wasn’t my idea.”

The girl looked at him. “You’re called Lucky Boy?”

Nailer couldn’t tell if it was an honest question or if she was making fun of him. He stifled his unease. “Found your wreck, didn’t I?”

Her lips quirked. “I guess that makes me a Lucky Girl then, doesn’t it?” Her eyes twinkled.