Abel detects the first flaw in their plan when he double-checks the dataread that links them to the Daedalus, aka the Medusa. As soon as he’s pulled up their accounts, freshly minus their docking fees, he says, “We have an unexpected complication.”
“What?” Noemi glances over at the dataread, and her eyes widen as she sees how little money they have left.
“Docking rights on Kismet are exponentially more expensive than they were thirty years ago. When I made my calculations, I allowed for price increases, but the rate of inflation has gone far beyond my expectations.”
“What’s inflation?” Noemi asks.
She is not from a capitalist society, he reminds himself. She can’t help her ignorance. “It’s when money loses worth, and so prices rise. Exponential rises in inflation are common in periods of extreme political upheaval, such as wartime.”
Noemi frowns, and the expression etches a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows, the one she gets when she’s facing a problem. He is learning how to read her. “Are we going to have enough credits left over to buy the part we need?”
“If the rate of inflation for parts is similar to the one for docking rights, no.”
She sighs. Behind her, the semiclothed dancer finishes her antigrav routine and bows; a few people have the manners to applaud. “If we’re not going to be able to buy it, then I guess we’ll have to steal it.”
Already she has become more pragmatic. Abel wishes he could encourage this trait, but he can’t. “We can attempt to do so, but security for ship parts will probably be tighter than they would be for thermomagnetic devices.”
“Aren’t ship parts cheaper?”
“Yes, but they are regularly sold in stores that will have security to prevent shoplifting. The thermomagnetic device will probably be found in a larger apparatus we can steal from with little fear of being caught in the act.”
“All right, fine,” Noemi says. “Then we’ll earn money. We’ll find work. Something that lets us get paid quickly.”
He’d hoped she would be more discouraged. More intimidated. That she would show him more weaknesses… but why? His programming won’t allow him to work against her. Observing her flaws would only gratify him on this new emotional level he doesn’t entirely understand.
Disappointed, he turns his attention to the motley outfits chosen by the Vagabonds milling around them. They wear oversize garments layered over basic leggings and shirts, complete with work boots of varying heights. Scarves of different colors have been knotted to serve as hats or headdresses, belts or shawls. Utility belts are slung around waists and over shoulders. Is this a matter of style or of function? Abel suspects the latter motivation is stronger. Everything but the boots could clearly serve more than one purpose, if needed.
A plainer sign ahead reads ORCHID FESTIVAL WORKERS REGISTRATION, and many Vagabonds have crowded close. Noemi brightens, which is as close as he’s seen her come to smiling. “Of course. The festival—that’s why so many people are on Wayland Station. They’re hoping for temporary work there.”
“Then we’re in luck.” Abel guides them into the part of the throng that looks most likely to be a queue.
Directly ahead of them stands a couple only a year or two older than Noemi herself, both dressed in Vagabond clothes. Abel’s acute hearing can’t help but pick up on their conversation.
“The first thing I’m going to eat is cinnamon toast.” This is from the female of the couple, a tall woman whose skin color, long braids, and accent suggest Afro-Caribbean ancestry. He had noticed her speaking to Noemi during the Cobweb inspections. “No, no, wait! Do you think they’d have fresh fruit, Zayan?”
“What I’d do for a mango,” sighs Zayan, a male slightly shorter than her, whom Abel would guess to be a native of India or Bangladesh. “You’ve got to try one, Harriet. If they’re half as good as I remember, they’re like a taste of paradise.” The two of them grin at each other and clasp hands tightly—but then the girl with braids, Harriet, catches a glimpse of Noemi and waves. Noemi gives her a little smile. Is she attempting to befriend the Vagabonds? Surely not. That would only endanger their cover story.
Replaying the conversation between Harriet and Zayan, Abel notes that food shortages must have increased. Mangoes weren’t rare on Earth when he left.
“As long as they’re hiring,” Harriet says—a throwaway comment, it seems, but it makes a nearby middle-aged man with a beard turn around and scoff.
“Positions filled up months ago. You had to register remotely, didn’t you know?” The bearded fellow laughs at the two young Vagabonds, as if they’d told a joke. “There’s no more work here. Give it up.”
Disappointing, but Abel feels sure they can come up with another employment possibility. But the young couple in front of them looks stricken, so much so that Abel fears both may be in danger of fainting.
“Hey,” Noemi says awkwardly, her hands clasped in front of her. “It’s going to be all right.”
“It isn’t, actually.” Harriet sniffles and wipes at her face. “Why didn’t we check? If we’d only just checked before we paid the dock fee—”
Zayan puts his arm around her. “We’ve stretched the rations this far, haven’t we?”
“This is our last week.” Harriet’s voice trembles. “You know it is.”
Zayan takes a deep breath. “Let’s just… sit, all right? We can’t think straight when we’re this tired and hungry. If we can’t eat, we can rest.” With a nod toward Noemi, he leads Harriet to a small bench beneath yet more holographic advertisements, where the two of them embrace tightly.
Noemi’s dark eyes never leave Harriet and Zayan, even as Abel walks her to the side of the corridor. She whispers, “Won’t anyone feed them?”
“It seems few people have much to spare.”
“The people coming to this Orchid Festival thing have enough to spare. They could share if they were decent human beings.”
“Human beings and decency don’t always go together.” Abel blinks, somewhat surprised he said that out loud. Quickly he moves the conversation along. “We’ll have to devise another means of income.”
“How?”
He takes another look down the corridor, with its gaudy, titillating advertisements. “At this point, our swiftest and most reliable means of making money is prostitution.”
Noemi takes a step back, her mouth an O of astonishment. “You—you didn’t just say—you think I should become a prostitute?”