“We both know that you did. A scientist should never make assumptions, Drawtood. I did—I assumed none of my children could be responsible. I was wrong.”
“Wrong,” repeated Drawtood softly.
“You killed your sister Haldan and your brother Yabool.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to have siblings,” said Drawtood.
“No, I don’t,” said Afsan. “Tell me.”
“It’s like having to face yourself every day. Except it’s not you. It’s someone who looks like you and thinks like you, but not exactly like you.”
Afsan nodded in the darkness. “Broken mirrors. Of course. I understand the choice of implement now.”
“Implement?”
“The device used for the murders.”
“I did not commit the murders, Afsan.”
“I can’t see your muzzle, Drawtood, but others will ask you that same question, and they will be able to see it. Do you wish to lie to me?”
“I did not—”
“Do you wish to lie to your father?”
Drawtood was silent for a time, and when he spoke again his voice was very small. “Only one of us children should have lived, anyway.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Drawtood.
“Didn’t you?” said Afsan.
“I—I was just putting things back the way they should have been.”
“It’s not for any of us to say who should live and who should die. The bloodpriests alone may choose that.”
“But they made a mistake. They let your eight offspring live because they thought you were The One, the hunter foretold by Lubal. But you aren’t.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So don’t you see?” There was a note of pleading in the voice now. “They made a mistake. I was just putting things right.”
“Would you have killed all of them, then?”
“It had to be done. Brothers and sisters—they’re demons. Shades of yourself, but twisted, mocking.”
“And you would have been the only one left alive?”
“If they hadn’t gotten me first.”
“Pardon?”
“They were thinking the same thing. I know they were. Dynax and Galpook, Kelboon and Toroca, Haldan and Yabool. They were all thinking the same thing. If it wasn’t me doing the killing it would have been one of them.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know, Afsan. You don’t have brothers or sisters. But look at Dybo! Look at how his sibling turned on him. It preys on your mind, knowing there’s someone out there who is you, but not quite, who thinks like you, whom people mistake for you.”
“Did any of them make an attempt on your life? Threaten you in any way?”
“Of course not. But I could tell what they were thinking. I could see it in their faces. They wanted me dead. Self-defense! It was just self-defense.”
“So you would have left yourself the only one alive.”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Toroca, maybe. Maybe I would have let him be the one. He was always kind to me. Maybe I’d have killed the other five, then taken my own life.” He was quiet for several beats. “Maybe.”
“You’ve committed a crime,” said Afsan. “What do we do now?”
“It was not a crime.”
“You must receive justice.”
“You, of all people, shouldn’t believe in justice. You were blinded by imperial order! Was that justice?”
Afsan’s turn to be silent for a time. “No.”
“I won’t submit to them.”
“You must. You must come with me.”
“You can’t stop me.”
A hard edge came into Afsan’s tone. “Yes, I can, Drawtood. If need be. You are alive because sixteen kilodays ago, they mistook me for The One. I was the greatest hunter of modern times. You can’t get past me.”
“You are blind.”
“I hear your breathing, Drawtood. I can smell you. I know exactly where you are standing, exactly what you are doing. You don’t have a chance against me here in the dark.”
“You’re blind…”
“Not a chance.”
Silence, save for the wind.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Afsan.”
“You have hurt me already. You’ve killed two of my children.”
“They had to die.”
“And now you must face the consequences of your actions.”
Another lengthy quiet. “What will they do to me?”
“There are no laws governing murder, and so no modern penalties are prescribed. But there were penalties in ancient times for taking another’s life outside of dagamant.” A pause. “I will urge compassion,” Afsan said at last.
“Compassion,” repeated Drawtood. “Have I no alternatives?”
“You tell me.”
“I could take my own life.”
“I would be honor-bound to try to stop you.”
“If you knew what I was doing.”
“Yes. If I knew.”
“But if I were to kill myself quietly, while we were talking…”
“I might not realize it until too late.”
“How does one kill oneself quietly?”
“Poison might be effective.”
“I have none.”
“No, of course not. On another matter, there are some documents in my carrying case that you might find interesting. I’ve left it by the doorway. Can you see it?”
“It’s very dark.”
“Tell me about it,” said Afsan, but there was no clicking of teeth.
“Yes,” said Drawtood, “I see it.”
“Please go get them.”
Ticking claws. “Which compartment are they in?”
“The main one. Oh, but be careful. There’s a vial of haltardark liquid in there, too. It’s a cleaning compound for far-seer lenses. Your mother asked me to get some for her; it’s quite deadly. You’d do well not to touch it.”
A long silence. “Yes,” said Drawtood. Silence again. Then: “The vial has a symbol on it. It’s hard to see in this light… a drop shape, and the outline of some animal lying on its side.”
“That’s the chemist’s symbol for poison.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You do now.”
“Afsan…?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
And that was followed by the longest silence of all.
*43*
I watched it happen, helpless to intervene.
Everything had gone flawlessly so far. The final Jijaki ark, the Ditikali-ot, had traversed the light-years to the target without incident. It had been timed to arrive a few Crucible centuries after the previous arks, bringing fauna specimens that would do better after the rest of the animals had been established.
Sliding down the star’s gravity well had gone as planned, and a double-loop maneuver braked the craft first by swinging around the gas-giant fifth planet, then around the target moon. The Ditikali-ot settled into a stationary orbit around the moon, holding position directly above the great watery rift that separated the two landmasses, landmasses that would eventually jam together into one as convective heat drove their respective plates closer and closer.
The Ditikali-ot consisted of a habitat module made of super-strong blue kiit held by a metal superstructure between the funnel-shaped ramscoop at one end and the fusion exhaust cone at the other. Restraining clips retracted, allowing the habitat to separate from the stardrive portion of the ship. The precious cargo from the Crucible, and the entire Jijaki crew—the last survivors of that race, now that war and old age had taken all their kin—began to enter the atmosphere.
Everything went fine until the explosion. The habitat careened wildly, spinning around its long axis, and plummeted to the ground.