Heaven Chronicles

“The Mother? They're going to give me his ship?” Dartagnan's intensity jerked them off-balance.

Abdhiamal clutched at the wall-brace. “No,” he said gently. He let Dartagnan go. “Not exactly. They're offering you first chance to buy it.”

“Buy it?” Dartagnan's free-drifting hand became a fist, and Abdhiamal thought for a split second that it would hit him in the face. But something in his expression stopped it; Dartagnan's body sagged. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“They know you don't have the money, Dartagnan. That's why they're not asking for payment up front.” Dartagnan's head rose slowly. “They're only asking half what the ship's really worth. And they'll give you a certain amount of time before you have to pay them anything. You can use the ship to hunt salvage in the meantime. If you're any good as a prospector, you'll be able to pay it off.” He made it sound as fair and reasonable as he could, drawing on his years of experience as a negotiator. He didn't say how hard he had had to pressure Sekka-Olefin's relatives to wring even that concession from them.

Dartagnan let the radiation suit slip from his hand again. He looked away, aware once more of the space beyond their own small cone of contact, the heavy, murmuring despair that filled the room. He studied the new line forming for work. And then he kicked the suit aside. “Let's get out of here.”

III

Mythili Fukinuki stood before the instrument panel on board the Mother, her feet barely resting on the floor in Mecca planetoid's slight gravity. She held her concentration on inventorying the ship's functions; trying to hold back the memories that the sight of the control room raised in her. This was not the first time she had worked at this panel; not the first time she had moved silently and alone through the levels of this immense spider-legged ship's belly. But not entirely alone, the last time.…

She blinked convulsively, dissipating the glistening film of double-vision; the golden skin over her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hands. She would never forget that she had shared this ship with Sekka-Olefin's corpse on the journey back from Planet Two. She could not stop reliving the nightmare that had preceded it, or the grueling sideshow of a trial that had followed. No matter that Sabu Siamang had been declared guilty and sent into exile on an uninhabited rock—he had still ruined her career and contaminated her entire life, and no punishment would ever be enough to repay that wrong.

Or to repay her for the way he had destroyed the fragile net of trust and—and—(her mind would not shape the word) feeling (inadequately), that had formed between herself and Chaim Dartagnan. She saw Dartagnan suddenly in her mind's eye, his hands upraised in habitual apology, begging the forgiveness she could never really grant him in her heart. She shut her eyes tightly, setting his image on fire, burning it away. Siamang had stripped that image of illusions; had proven that at his core Dartagnan was only a self-serving coward after all, willing to do anything to save his own life. And although he had done all he could to bring Siamang to justice, still she could never forget.…

She looked up sharply from the panel's glowing displays at the sound of someone entering the ship down below. She pulled her face back into an acceptable cypher, smoothed her hands along the cloth of her utilitarian flightsuit. This must be Wadie Abdhiamal's arrival. She had agreed to meet him here, to discuss the specific terms under which she could make this ship her own. Could they spare it? Resentment made her face twitch. She had lost her job as a Siamang company pilot because she had testified against Sabu; and all Sekka-Olefin's relatives were offering her in return was an impossible dream. She was no prospector—and yet she would have to somehow, miraculously, shape-change into one if she was going to meet the price they were asking for this ship. And this ship was her only chance at a life with any dignity or freedom, now that her job as a pilot was gone forever. No one else in this damned, twisted society would let her do the job she was trained for, and because she was unmarried and sterile, her only alternatives were deadly or degrading. She had to succeed; she had to.… Her hands knotted.

“Demarch Fukinuki.” Wadie Abdhiamal appeared abruptly, rising up through the concentric railings of the drift-well at the control room's center. He had left his pressure suit down below; he was faultlessly dressed, as always. “I'm glad you're punctual.”

Mythili nodded, managing a strained smile of welcome. “Demarch Abdhiamal. You're late.” Her smile broadened barely, fell away again all at once as she saw that he was not alone.

Abdhiamal pushed off from the railing, drifted to one side of the well and settled, leaving the opening clear. She watched another head materialize in his place, shoulders, arms, body … Dartagnan. Dartagnan. The word repeated over and over in her mind as she tried to believe what her eyes showed her. “Dartagnan!” Surprise shouted it, and anger, and betrayal as she realized what his presence here must mean. “What's he doing here?” She turned toward Abdhiamal furiously; knowing the answer, making the question an accusation.

“Mythili?” Chaim caught himself on the well-railing, jerked his rising body to a halt.

She glanced at him: a split second of the incredulous look on his face told her that he was no more a party to this than she was. She looked back at Abdhiamal before Chaim's eyes could catch and hold her own. “You had no right to do this to—to us! I won't work with him—” Her hand shot out.

“I'm afraid you'll have to, if you want this ship.” She heard the vaguely condescending tone that Abdhiamal could never quite keep out of his voice when he spoke to her. “Sekka-Olefin's relatives agreed that the ship should go to both of you, since you had an equal share in bringing his murderer to justice.”

“Equal—?” She choked back the rest, looking from face to face again, feeling a cage close her in. “Whose idea was that? I suppose you think this is all terribly clever, Abdhiamal, setting me up like this—”

“Wait, wait,” Chaim put his hands up, palm-out, in the placating gesture that set her memory on edge. He finished his ascent into the room, dressed in a drab gray-white jumpsuit like her own, with no mediaman's camera slung at his shoulder. “Abdhiamal, what is this? You mean we share in this—?” His hands spread, taking in the ship around them, but his eyes stopped at her face. “Why the hell didn't you say something?”

Abdhiamal smiled, smugly omniscient. “If I had, would you both be here now?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Her refusal went directly to Dartagnan.

“That's why I didn't tell you.” Abdhiamal shrugged slightly, tugged the hem of his loose jacket back under his belt. “Listen—the two of you tried to do something worthwhile, the right thing. And you weren't rewarded for it, you were punished. I'm only trying to do my job, which is to see that things are settled fairly. This is the best I could do. It's up to you from here on.”

“Thanks, Abdhiamal,” Chaim said, as though he meant it. “Even if we can't keep this ship, I'll always appreciate this,” looking back at her again.

Abdhiamal nodded. “I appreciate the appreciation.”

“I hope you'll do us one more favor, then, Abdhiamal.” Mythili pressed her hands together fitfully, avoiding both their gazes. “Get out of here, and leave us alone—”

Abdhiamal bowed his acquiescence, and glancing up she couldn't detect any change in his expression. He moved toward the exit well.

Chaim threw an apologetic glance after him. “Thanks again, Abdhiamal.”

“Let me know what you decide.” Abdhiamal disappeared into the well.

Mythili turned back to the control panel, listening to the echoes recede through the ship, filled with sudden claustrophobia. To be alone in this place with one man—this one man—was to feel the hull close around her in a way that it had not when she shared it with the two of them. She punched in a sequence on the panel, clumsy with haste, opening the segment of wall that became a port above the viewscreen.

She looked out on the docking field abruptly: on the ungainly insectoid forms of volatiles tankers clutching the flaccid sacs in which they transported unrefined and semi-refined gases to the Demarchy's distilleries. Immense ballooning storage tanks ringed the eternally eclipsed field, obscuring the light-hazed horizons of Mecca planetoid. Beyond the field's fog of artificial light she knew that a starry black infinity of space lay on all sides, and that she was not a prisoner.…