boss. I … don't remember much about it.”
“You told me you hated my stinking guts, Red.”
He froze. “I'm sorry, boss, I didn't mean it, I didn't know what I was—”
Siamang grinned forgiveness. “It's all right, Red. I don't blame you at all. In fact it's just what I wanted to hear … I wanted to hear you say what you really thought, just once. Because you also said that I'd given you what you wanted, and that was all that mattered. I know I can trust you now, Red; because I'm sure we understand each other. Isn't that right?” Mockery traced the words. His hand struck Chaim's shoulder lightly.
Dartagnan smiled. “Sure boss. Anything you say.”
Dartagnan watched the elongated crescent of the asteroid Mecca grow large on the viewscreen, and gradually eclipse as he maneuvered them into its shadow. Siamang hung behind him, watching; oblivious, Chaim watched only the intricate, expanding pattern of strangely familiar ground lights below them. He began to pick out ships—the tankers like gigantic ticks, bloated or empty; the small, red-blossoming tows. He listened to the disjointed, disembodied radio communications, almost thought he could see the ships making way for him. He spoke calmly to the ground controller, explaining who he was, and boosted the response for Siamang to hear: the encouragements, the welcomings—interspersed with the terse, anxious coordinates to guide an inexperienced pilot down to the bright, scarred surface of the docking field. Their ship closed with the real world; Dartagnan felt the slight, jarring impact of a perfect landing rise through its structure. In his mind he compared the slow ceremony of docking to the terrifying urgency of their descent to the surface of Planet Two … remembered sharing the pride of a job well done. For half a second, he smiled.
The field was curiously empty, their helmet speakers strangely silent, as they disembarked at last and made their way along a mooring cable toward the exit from the field. One guard met them, greeting Siamang with deference, cleared them to pass downward through the airlock into the asteroid's heart.
“Where the hell is everybody, Red? My father should be here, where's our media coverage?” Siamang's voice frowned. “I thought you radioed ahead about our arrival.”
“I did, boss; you heard me. They must be waiting for us inside.”
They were: Dartagnan followed Siamang along the corridor that dropped them inward from the surface, his broken camera floating at his shoulder, and saw his fellow mediamen clustered in wait on the platform at the city's edge. A surprisingly sparse crowd of curious onlookers, surprisingly quiet, bumped and drifted among them.
He watched the crowd flow forward to meet them, let it surround him, letting the mediamen get it out of their systems. “Demarch Siamang … Demarch Siamang … Hey, Red—?” He glimpsed the city, past and through them … a kilometer in diameter, towers trembling faintly, glittering in the shifting currents of air. Colored plastic stretched over fragile frames filled every square meter of ceiling, wall, floor, here where gravity was barely more than an abstraction: A manmade tribute to the magnificent generosity of nature, and the splendor of the Heaven Belt. The splendor made sterile because nature had turned its back on man; man the betrayer, who had betrayed himself. Chaim saw Sekka-Olefin's future, in a sudden, strobing nightmare of horror overlying every crystal-facet wall, every stranger's face that closed in on his own …
And then he raised his hands, raised his voice into the familiar singsong of a media hype. “Ladies and gentlemen … my fellow Demarchs …” Silence began to gather. “I'm sure you all know and recognize Demarch Siamang. But there's a side of him that none of you really knows—” he stretched his silence until the silence around him was absolute; every eye, every pitiless camera lens was trained on him where he stood, with Siamang complacently at his side. He took a deep breath. “This man—is a murderer. He went four hundred million kilometers to Planet Two, to save Kwaime Sekka-Olefin, and wound up killing him instead, over that box of—stolen—computer software you see there in his hand.” He turned, bracing, saw Siamang's face, the perfect image of incredulous amazement.
Siamang's eyes were blank with a fury that only he could read. “This man is a psychotic. I don't have any idea what he's talking about. I obtained this salvage from Sekka-Olefin in a legitimate business transaction: and he was perfectly alive when we left him—”
A stranger pushed forward, touched Dartagnan's arm; golden-brown eyes demanded his attention, assured, analytical. “Are you Chaim Dartagnan?”
Chaim nodded, distracted; Siamang broke off speaking abruptly, “Who the hell are you?”
“My name's Abdhiamal; I'm a government negotiator … Demarch Dartagnan, what evidence do you have to support your charge?”
“Now, listen, Abdhiamal—” Siamang interrupted, indignant. “No one needs any government interference here, this is simply a—”
“Demarch Dartagnan has the floor,” Abdhiamal said evenly, his eyes never leaving Chaim's face. “You'll be permitted to speak in turn. Dartagnan?”
Dartagnan almost laughed; triumph filled him, overwhelming gratitude made him giddy. He kept his own eyes on the media cameras—his damnation, his salvation, his weapon.… “He got hold of my camera. I don't have the recording of the murder. But he bribed me, to cover the whole thing up.… This's the corporation credit voucher, made out to me—” He spread it between his hands, held it out to the thousands of hungry eyes behind every camera lens.
“That's a forgery.”
“And this—” Dartagnan pulled open the collar of his jacket, “is a recording of the transaction.” He twisted the jury-rigged playback knob on the note recorder he had ripped out of his spacesuit; he heard his own voice, “… I want it in writing, before I do my part to keep you clear of that murder.” And Siamang's, “All right, Red.”
“That was an accident!” Siamang's voice slipped out of control. “I didn't mean to kill Olefin, it was an accident— But ask him about Mythili Fukinuki, ask him about our pilot: That was no accident. He murdered her in cold blood; there was nothing I could do to stop him. He's a madman, a homicidal maniac—”
“Mythili Fukinuki's not dead.” Dartagnan turned to watch for the second it took to register on Siamang's face. He smiled; he turned back again to Abdhiamal, was surprised at the surprise he found in the amber-colored eyes. “At least … I don't think she is. When I was alone with Sekka-Olefin he claimed a human could survive in Planet Two's atmosphere; he said he'd breathed it himself. Siamang wanted to space her, because she overheard Olefin's murder … I told him to put her out on the surface instead. He was on drugs, I couldn't stop it or he would've killed us all. It was the only thing I could think of.…” Ashamed, he looked down, away from the memory of her face:
“Better than that, as far as you're concerned.” Abdhiamal smiled, without amusement. “Mythili Fukinuki returned to the Demarchy before you did, in that prospector's ship. She reported everything that happened … except the fact that you weren't actually trying to kill her, Dartagnan.”
Dartagnan laughed incredulously. “My God, she would … she would!”
Abdhiamal smiled again, at something he saw in Dartagnan's face. “As far as the Demarchy's concerned, your testimony leaves it up to her whether she wants to press her charges of attempted murder against you. But with a confession, and both your evidence and hers, I'd say the case against Demarch Siamang is a little more clear-cut.… You see, Demarch Siamang,” he looked back, “this isn't a news conference; consider it more of a preliminary hearing. The Demarchy had already been informed of Demarch Fukinuki's testimony and evidence before you arrived; your father is being considered an accomplice, pending further questioning. All we needed was your version; and we have that, now.”
