Yes

DATE: Year 308-B. Sol 384

LOCATION: The Tumble (Sun-Mars L5)

STATUS: Indenture Contract Negotiation

-We are burning for The Tumble. Your ship is clamped to our hull. Try not to worry about the paint, Delavan told Jimi over the radio.

-She doesn't like piggyback rides. Her gyro gets confused.

-Then she better get used to it. You’re cargo now. Until you close the deal, Delavan said.

The Tumble didn't have gravity; it had centrifugal force and the weight of desperation, and the Cold Moon's skiff had deposited Jimi there, in mid-flight, to tumble into it. The Tumble, run by the Inner Belt Cooperative.

It was a floating city in space, built from smashed together cargo containers, dead engines, and hollowed out asteroids, spinning just fast enough to keep vomit on the floor. It was the solar system’s drain. Wash outs, flunkies, exiles and stubborn survivors ended up here.

Jimi walked through the bazaar, his hydraulic arm whirring softly. He kept the servo-strength low. You didn't flex in the Tumble unless you wanted to start a riot.

The mood in the corridors was ugly. The price of algae paste, the Slurp, had tripled in the last half cycle. The MTC was blaming the Orbital Winter, the increasing flight times between planets and space settlements as orbits diverged, but something else was happening. Somebody was hoarding foodstuffs, from the source. The White Ships weren't docking anymore. The food had stopped flowing.

Jimi pushed through a crowd of starving miners and found the bar. It didn't have a name, just a dinghy neon sign that said YES.

Inside, the room was divided by a literal line painted on the deck plates in UV-reactive white paint. Dwellers in rusted suits, drinking fermented engine coolant, smelling of ozone and sweat congregated on one side of the line. The other side had a pressurized bubble of filtered air for richer patrons.

And standing right on the edge of the line, peeking into the bubble wantonly, was Himalaya Market.

He was impossible to miss. He wasn't wearing an exoskeleton. He wore a flight suit of woven white fabric that looked softer than anything Jimi had ever touched. He didn't have a tank on his back; he wore a sleek, silver collar. It was a rebreather that cost more than Jimi’s ship. Life was a lot less heavy for some people.

He was a Pristine, his skin flawless, glowing with health. He stood a head shorter than the stretched-out Dwellers, the effects of being raised on Earth-like gravity in the confines of the Sagan Cities, but looked twice as strong. He radiated the kind of confidence that usually got people robbed.

-I’m telling you, Market was mouthing off to a skeptical miner. The blockade is a paper tiger. The MTC is afraid of Earth because they know they don't own it. It belongs to us. To the people who are willing to breathe the air.

-Poison air, the miner grunted. I’m hungry.

-Then eat, Market said. He reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out a red fruit. An apple. A real, biological, grown-in-the-dirt apple.

The bar went silent. That was fifty chits of calories in one hand.

Market tossed it to the miner. Then he pulled out another. And another. He started tossing them into the crowd like he was feeding pigeons.

-The Earth is an orchard! Market shouted, smiling like a lunatic. This is what waits for us! Not the Slurp. Life!

-That’s rich coming from a Saggie, one of the miners scoffed before biting into an apple.

Jimi watched from the shadows. He’s going to get himself killed, he thought. And then I’m going back to the Pits.

He stepped forward, his heavy boots clanking on the deck.

-Save the sermon, Market, Jimi said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Market turned. He looked at Jimi, at the rusted hydraulic arm, the scratched helmet, the prayer beads on his wrist. Market looked delighted to meet him.

-A skeptic, Market said. And a scavenger, by the look of that rig.

-I can keep you alive, like I have myself. I’m almost 40. I hear you're looking for a navigator for The Marley.

-I’m looking for believers, Market corrected him.

What a pigu, Phoenix thought.

-You can’t believe in material things, you’ll be let down every time, Jimi said. You need a mechanic.

Market smiled, about to launch into another speech, when something moved behind him.

A small shadow detached itself from Market’s leg.

It was a child. Wildborn.

The child couldn't have been more than six. He was a Lanky, limbs too long for his torso, a head too big for his neck, black eyes and wide. He was wearing a tragedy of an exo-suit. It was a chest piece made from a flattened traffic sign, legs reinforced with PVC piping, and a yellow helmet that looked like it belonged to a mining drone.

He didn't speak. He just stared at Jimi.

-This is Bit, Market said, his voice softening. I found him in a container on Phobos. He’s, he’s shy.

Bit was one of the terms of endearment used for children under the age of three. When they survived early childhood they were finally given names. Phoenix was sure Market didn’t know this, but he didn’t say anything.

Market reached out to pat the kid’s head. The kid flinched. It was barely visible, but Jimi saw it. Bit didn't like the Pristine hand. It was too soft. It felt fake compared to the gunk the child was used to.

Bit took a step toward Jimi instead. He tilted his oversized helmet, looking at Jimi’s left arm, the massive, scarred hydraulic claw.

Jimi didn't move.

-Careful, kid. The servo drifts.

Bit reached out. His gloved hand, tiny and trembling, touched the exposed piston of Jimi’s elbow. He ran a curious finger over the weld lines, tracing the scar where Jimi had fused the industrial loader to the flight suit.

Market watched, surprised.

-He hasn't let anyone but me within three meters of him for a month.

Bit looked up at Jimi. He tapped the metal arm twice.

Jimi felt a weird tightness in his chest. He looked at the kid.

-Yeah. It's a Type-4 Loader. Good torque. Bad lag. Type-4. Type. Four. It’s a higher number but it means it’s worse. Everyone wants a Type-1 but there are barely any left yet.

Jimi looked at the kid, he wasn’t used to children but it clearly wasn’t tracking. Bit nodded solemnly. He stepped closer, standing in Jimi’s shadow, turning his back to Market.

Market looked at the two of them.

-The boy knows, Market whispered. You aren't just a mechanic. You’re a guardian.

-Don’t you start, Jimi said, before looking down at Bit. He thought about the MTC beacon in his pocket. He thought about the betrayal waiting at the end of this trip. Low odds they’d even make it that far. He could just bail here, pick up work on a ship and, and then what? The Martian Trading Corporation had The Mighty Sparrow, and that was his life.

-I’m a pilot, Jimi growled. Fifty chits a day. No sermons.

-Okay, Market responded, handing Jimi an apple. Welcome to the Pilgrimage. We leave on the next beat.

Jimi caught the apple. It felt heavy. Bit was still standing by his leg, vibrating with the silent hum of the station. He passed the apple to Bit, who smiled eagerly and ate the thing in three bites, hugging Jimi's leg tightly.

Great, Jimi thought. I just adopted a shadow.