“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.” But, God help me, maybe I'm saving your life—and mine. He looked back at Siamang, leaned down to pick up his crutch, covering sudden inspiration. “I've got a better idea. Instead of spacing her later, put her out here, now, in a suit with the valve jammed. The sun's going down … she'll suffocate or freeze … and we can watch, to make sure she's dead. A tragic accident.” He felt her anguish, her helpless rage; felt a hot, stabbing pain in his stomach.
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.”
Dartagnan hobbled to the control plate, counting seconds in his mind. He could barely see her face, staring back at him, saw her mouth move silently: Damn you, damn you, damn you! … He thought there were tears in her eyes, wasn't sure.
He nodded, whispering, “Goodbye, Goody Two-Shoes. Good luck—” His hand trembled as he reached out to start the lock cycling.
He turned back with Siamang to the control panel, watched the viewscreen, waited. The seconds passed, the lock cycled. She appeared suddenly on the screen, stumbled as the wind gusted … fell, got up, fell again as she tried to run, trying to reach the sheltering dome, too far away. The shifting, slate-blue dust slipped under her feet; she fell again, tried to get up, couldn't. At last he saw her try to free the frozen valve one final time … and then unlatch her helmet. She raised her head, too far away for him to see her face; he dragged a breath into his own tortured lungs. She reached for her helmet again, frantically … crumpled forward into the dust, lay coiled like a fetus, lay still.
Dartagnan made himself look at Siamang; looked away again, sick. He sagged down into the pilot's seat, reached for the restraining straps. Siamang turned back from the screen, the obscenity of his pleasure fading to stunned disgust. “Get us out of this graveyard.” He moved past Chaim, toward his own padded couch; stopped, turned back. “By the way, this time it was premeditated murder. And you did it, Red. Keep that in mind.”
Dartagnan didn't answer, staring at the screen, looking down at the empty seat beside him.
He took the ship safely up through the atmosphere, learning that getting up off a planet's surface was much simpler than getting safely down. He rendezvoused, docked the shrunken landing module at last within the stretched, arachnoid fingers of the parent ship; he heard his father's voice directing, guiding, encouraging … knowing with a kind of certainty that after what he had seen and done on the world below, he couldn't make a mistake now.
On board the main ship again, he moved through the levels to the control room, found their flight coordinates already in the computer. Mechanically he took the ship out of orbit, barely conscious of what he did; as he turned away from the panel Siamang congratulated him, with apparent sincerity. Dartagnan pushed on past, wordlessly, and ducked into the aluminum-ringed well. He reached Mythili Fukinuki's cabin door, stopped himself, and with a sudden masochistic urge, opened it and went inside. He slid the door shut, drifted to the bed, pulling off his jacket, his shirt, one boot. He forced his aching body into the sleeping bag, settled softly, mumbling, “Good night. Goody Two-Shoes.…” And finally, thankfully, he slept.