Heaven Chronicles

occasion. Siamang's eyes raked them with disdain. “This is an outrage. This is entrapment—” He looked back at the cameras. “People of the Demarchy, are you going to stand by while a fellow Demarch is persecuted by the government?”

“The people asked me to come here, Siamang. Save your rhetoric for your trial; in the meantime, consider yourself confined to your home.… And I'll take charge of the software—” Abdhiamal held out his hand. Chaim recognized a kind of gratification on the government man's face; realized that Abdhiamal was hardly older than himself, behind the mask of his self-assurance. In the Demarchy, a government agent earned less respect than a mediaman; and had considerably less influence.

Siamang passed the container to him, entirely in control once more. He faced Dartagnan again, at last; Dartagnan tried to read the expression behind his eyes, couldn't. Siamang reached out abruptly, caught Dartagnan's arm, jerked the voucher out of his hand. Chaim watched him tear it up, watched the pieces drift as they sought the lines of gravitational force. “You'll never have a ship now, Red.” A final mockery showed in Siamang's eyes, edged his voice. “But I hope you never stop wanting one, so you'll never stop hating yourself for this.”

Dartagnan smiled, filled with a terrible pride; smiled with a sincerity he didn't know he still had in him. He shook his head, met the aggressor's eyes at last. “Believe me, boss, I never wanted a ship, or anything, half so much as I wanted to see this happen… to see truth win out in this lousy business, just once, because of me.” He turned the smile on the cameras, and on the men behind them.

Siamang's escort led him away, to the rim of the ledge where an airbus waited. The handful of mediamen swarmed after them, onto the bus, into air taxis; Dartagnan stared at the bobbing mass of striped canopies, whirring propellers. The remaining crowd of strangers around him began to disperse, drifting over the ledge into the city, leaving him alone with Abdhiamal. “What about me?”

Abdhiamal shrugged. “You're not going anywhere, are you? Your further testimony will be needed when they call a trial; somehow I expect you'll want to be there. I'd hate to see Siamang promo his way out of a guilty verdict now.”

Dartagnan frowned. “He won't, will he—?”

“I doubt it. Public opinion's had too much time to build against him. His father couldn't do much to help him, because he didn't know enough about the situation.… You know, your fellow mediamen seem to be a lot more interested in the murderer than in your having exposed him.” Abdhiamal looked at him.

Dartagnan grinned weakly. “It figures … I just paid 'em the biggest insult I could think of. Besides, a mediaman follows the smell of power … it smells like money, in case you're interested.” He leaned down, picked up a corner of the ruined credit voucher. The full impact of what he had given up caught him like a blow. “Easy come, easy go.” He laughed, painfully, embarrassing himself. “That reminds me—what about the software, the salvage; what happens to Sekka-Olefin's money, now?”

“The artifacts will be sold at a public auction; Siamang and Sons being disqualified from bidding, of course. Sekka-Olefin's relatives have put in claims against it; the money will be distributed among them, since he didn't leave any will stating what he wanted done with it.”

“But he did! He told me what he wanted done with it. He didn't want it to go to his relatives; he wants it used to establish a colony on Planet Two, against the time when the Demarch's not habitable anymore—” Chaim broke off, realizing how it sounded.

Abdhiamal looked at him, tactfully noncommittal. “Do you have any proof of that?”

“Yeah. Every word of it, on film … at the bottom of a well. A gravity well—” He swore. “His goddamned relatives'll never listen. He was right! And it all went for nothing, because of Siamang.” He saw the crystal city through a haze of death, knew he would have to see it that way for the rest of his life: the towers decaying, the fragile thread of life coming apart. “That stinking bastard …I hope they vote to space him. Because that's what he's done to their future, and they'll never even know.…” His voice shook, with bitterness and exasperation.

“At least you've done something to try to make it up to him.” The voice wasn't Abdhiamal's.

He turned back, incredulous. “Mythili?” She stood beside him, materializing out of the diminished crowd; Abdhiamal had moved away, discreetly. “Mythili.” He started toward her. She pushed away, out of his reach. He stopped, pulled in his hands. “Sorry … I'm just … I'm glad. Just glad to see you.” He noticed the patches of pink, healing skin on her cheeks and nose. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Some frostbite. Some burns, from the cold. I was a mess for a while. But I'm fine.”

He nodded too, unthinking. “I'm glad. The old man was right, then—Sekka-Olefin. He told me that it was possible to live—”

“I know.” She looked down abruptly, rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I heard you.”

“Do you believe it?”

She still looked down. “Yes … yes, I believe you, now, Chaim. But why did you do it? We could have stopped him; you could have—”

“—gotten us both killed?” Shame kindled anger. “Why didn't you just keep your mouth shut, like I did? Everything would've been okay.”

Her eyes flashed up. “Because I'm not like you! … I know, it was stupid. I know that now.… But I couldn't have hidden it anyway; he would have known. I'm not good at hiding what I feel—” She bit her lip. “I'm not like you, Dartagnan.”

He let his breath out slowly, said stupidly, again, “I'm just glad you're all right … I saw you, on the viewscreen, saw you take off your helmet. And then I thought I'd been wrong, that you—”

“I thought so, too.” She laughed, tremulously, at the ghost of memory. “The air was so thin, so cold, I thought I couldn't breathe. I panicked, and I blacked out. The noise and heat when you lifted off saved me, it woke me, or I would have frozen to death instead. I almost didn't get up again … I thought I'd already died.”

“You repaired Olefin's ship?”

“Yes … It's a good ship, and the Mother is a fantastic ship; he must have spent a fortune—”

“He did. Literally. On a dream.”

“I brought his body back; a pleasant companion, for a trip of three-plus megaseconds.” She shuddered. “Three and a quarter megaseconds, with a dead man, and frost-burned lungs, and memory.… God, how I hated you, Chaim! How I hated you … and yet—” She wouldn't look at him.

“I know,” he said. “I know. Three and a half megaseconds with Siamang, and memory; wanting to kill him, and afraid he'd kill me. But you were there. I could feel you, helping me get through. Helping me survive to make it right. I always planned to tell the truth, Mythili, I never meant to do anything else.”

“So the end justifies the means, then?” Her voice teetered on the edge of control.

He didn't answer, couldn't.

“I won't press charges against you.” She turned away.

“Mythili. Don't go yet—” She looked back at him, he groped for words. “What … what will you be doing now? Are you still working for Siamang and Sons?”

“No. Siamang, senior, fired me, after I made my accusations.” She almost smiled, not meaning it, “I'm hoping one of his competitors will offer me a job.…” hopelessly. “So you won't have a ship of your own, now, either—?”

“No.” He looked down, at the torn corner of the voucher still wadded in his hand. “Not now … but someday, I will. And when I get it, I want you to be my partner. I want you to—to—” To stay with me. His mind, his eyes, finished it, uselessly.

“Good-bye, Goody Two-Shoes,” she whispered. She shook her head. Her own eyes were mirrors of memory, for the face of a man who had tried to kill her; a man who had lied too well. “I might forgive you … but how could I ever forget?” An anguished brightness silvered the mirror of her eyes, she turned away again.

“Mythili, wait!” He fumbled in the sack of his belongings, pulled out the book of poetry. “Wait; this belongs to you.” He held it out.

She came back, took it from his hand without touching him. Confused anger startled her face as she recognized the title. “What are you doing with this?” pain and grief, “Shiva, isn't there anything that you wouldn't pry into? You'll never have a ship! You'll be a mediaman all your life, because that's all you were ever meant to be.” She might have said “whore.”

“I will get a ship. If it takes me the rest of my goddamned life, I will.… And when I do, I'll find you! Mythili —”