“That's what I figured.… It was an accident, he fell; he was too damned fragile, he'd been in space too long. I never intended to kill him. But that doesn't make much difference, under the circumstances. So I think we'll just say he was alive when we left him. His body'll freeze out here, nobody can prove he didn't fall after we left—if anybody ever even bothers to investigate. Anybody could see he drank too much.”
“Yeah … anybody.” The wind was rising, butting against Dartagnan's body; the dust shifted under his feet, eroding his stability.
“I'm sure you can construct a moving account of our mission, even without film—a portrait in words of the grateful old man, the successful conclusion of our business transaction.…” Siamang brushed the metal container fixed at the waist of his suit. “Do a good, convincing job, and I'll make it more than worth your while,” Dartagnan felt more than saw the aggressor's eyes assess him, behind Siamang's helmet-glass. “What's your fondest wish, Red? Head of our media staff? Company pilot? Maybe a ship of your own? … Name it, it's yours.”
“A ship,” he mumbled, startled. “I want a ship,” thinking wildly.
“Done,” Siamang bowed formally, offered a gloved hand. Chaim took the hand, shook it.
Siamang's heavy boot kicked the bottom of his crutch, it flew free. Dartagnan landed flat on his back in the dirt.
“Just remember your place, Red; and don't get any foolish ideas.” Siamang turned away, starting back toward their ship across the lifeless plain.
Dartagnan belly-flopped into the airlock, lay gasping for long seconds before he pulled himself to his feet and started it cycling. He removed his helmet, picked up his crutch, started after Siamang into the control room. The vision of Mythili Fukinuki formed like a fragile blossom in the empty desolation of his mind; he forced his face into obedient blankness, hoped it would hold, as the image in his mind became reality.
She stood at the panel, arms folded, listening noncommittally to Siamang's easy lies. Chaim entered the cramped cabin, she glanced at him as Siamang said, “Isn't that about all, Red?”
“I guess so, boss.” He nodded, not sure what he had agreed to. He stopped, balancing precariously, as her eyes struck him like a slap.
“I'm afraid that's not all, Demarch Siamang.” Mythili pushed away from the panel, set her gaze of loathing hatred against Siamang's own impenetrable stare. A small knife glittered suddenly in her hand. “There's the matter of a murder.” She gained the satisfaction of seeing Siamang's self-confidence suddenly crack. “I didn't like what I heard when you talked to your father, and so I monitored your suit radio. I heard everything.” She looked again at Dartagnan, and away. “And I intend to tell everything, when we get back to the Demarchy. You won't get away with it.”
“Never underestimate the power of a woman.” Siamang smiled sourly, flexing his hands. “I don't suppose it would do any good to point out that if you turn me in you'll be out of a job; whereas if you were willing to play along, you could have any job you wanted?”
“No,” she said, “it wouldn't. Not everybody has a price.”
“I didn't expect you would, in any case. But I expect you're getting a great deal of pleasure out of doing this to me, Fukinuki.… Unfortunately, there's another old saying, ‘Never underestimate your enemy.’ I'm terminating your services, Mythili. You're not getting a chance to talk.” Siamang produced the gun, raised it.
She stiffened, lifting her head defiantly. “You won't kill me. I'm your pilot, you need me to get you home.”
“That's where you're wrong. As you pointed out to me, Red here is a qualified pilot. So I don't really need you anymore. You've made yourself expendable. Drop the knife, Mythili.” His hand tightened. “Drop it or I'll kill you right now.”
Slowly her fingers opened; the knife clattered on the floor. Siamang picked it up.
Dartagnan swore under his breath. “But, boss, I'm not qualified to pilot anything like this—”
“A ship's a ship.” Siamang frowned. “You'll manage.”
“Chaim—” she turned to him desperately, “help me. He won't kill us both, he'd never get back to the Demarchy if he did! Together we can stop him; don't let him get away with this—”
“I'll kill you both if I have to, and pilot the ship myself.” Siamang's eyes turned deadly; Dartagnan saw the dilated pupils clearly now—and believed him.
“He's bluffing,” Mythili said.
Chaim caught her gaze, pleading. “Mythili, for God's sake, change your mind. Tell him you'll keep your mouth shut. Go along with him, it isn't worth it, it's not worth your life.”
She looked away from him, deaf and blind.
“Save your breath, Red. I wouldn't trust her anyway … she's got too much integrity. And besides, she hates me too much; she'd never change her mind. She's just been waiting for a chance like this, look at her—” Anger strained his voice. “No. I think we'll just drop her off somewhere between here and the Demarchy, and let her walk home. And in the meantime—” he moved toward her suddenly, “—we might as well have a little fun.” He blocked her as she tried to escape, threw her back against the instrument panel, ripping open the seal of her jumpsuit.
“No!” Dartagnan cried.
Siamang turned; held her, struggling, against the panel. Dartagnan glimpsed her face beyond him, the loathing and the fresh, sudden terror; her shining, golden skin. Siamang pulled her away from the board, twisting her arm behind her. “Okay, Red, if you want her first. She's sweet on you anyway.…” He pushed her at Dartagnan.
Chaim caught hold of her, dropped his crutch, fighting to keep his balance. “Mythili …”
She spat in his face, pulling her jumpsuit closed. Siamang laughed.
Chaim let anger show. “Forget it; I'm not interested.”
“Don't do me any favors, mediaman—” She was flint-on-steel against him, her outrage burned him like a flame.
He let her go, wiped his face; he said roughly, “Believe me. I'm not doing you any favor.”
Siamang smiled as the possibilities registered. “Yes, I like it.… All right, Red; we'll do it your way. But there's no reason why I still can't have some fun with little Fukinuki, first.…” He reached up, began to unbutton his jacket.
“Yes, there is.”
Siamang looked at him. “Oh?”
“It's getting late, the ship's batteries are running down. And besides, the wind's rising. If you expect me to get us up out of here safely, I don't want to wait any longer.… Won't you get enough pleasure watching her die out there—?” Dartagnan's voice rose too much.
Siamang smiled again, slowly. “Okay, Red, you win.… Get into a suit, Mythili, before I change my mind.”
She walked wordlessly past Dartagnan, clinging to the shreds of her dignity; he watched her put on a suit. She fumbled, awkward, made clumsy by gravity and nervousness. Wanting to help her, Chaim stood motionless, turned to stone.
She turned back to them at last, waiting, the helmet under her arm. “All right,” she murmured, barely audible. “I'm ready.…”
Siamang crossed the cabin to her side, reached behind her head to the airflow valve at her neck. She shuddered as he touched her. Dartagnan watched him tighten the knob that shut off the oxygen flow, watched his body tighten with the effort.
“Put on your helmet.”
She took a deep breath, put it on. Siamang latched it in place, motioned her toward the lock. She went to it, stepped inside, jerkily, like a broken doll.
“Red.” Siamang gestured. “You do the honors.”
