Dartagnan laughed again; his laughter was like tar. Abdhiamal failed to see the joke. “I've had this conversation before. What else can I do? I haven't got a chance in hell of getting a media position with a corporation after I sold out Siamang and Sons—”
“After you brought a murderer to justice,” Abdhiamal cut him off.
Dartagnan smirked. “It all depends on your point of view. But I'll never make it as a mediaman. If I learned anything I learned that, the hard way, these past megasecs. And I'm no damn good at anything else; at anything that takes any brains or guts or talent.…” The suit twisted in his hands, the reflected image of his face tearing apart.
Abdhiamal thumped the slick wall surface beside them with a hand. “If you need to suffer that much, Dartagnan, why don't you knock your head against a wall? It makes as much sense.”
Dartagnan looked up, expressionless. “It doesn't pay as well.”
“At least when you've stopped punishing yourself, your body won't have to go on paying for the rest of your life.”
“It's too late for that.” His hands pressed his stomach again. He watched the cluster of suited workers across the room fasten helmets; watched the air lock hatch unseal, open, release a cloud of spent strangers and swallow up a new sacrifice. Another line began to form; his line. Beyond the meters-thick seal of metal the actual manufacturing area lay in the open vacuum of Calcutta planetoid's dead and deadly surface. Since the Civil War the factory's production capacity had steadily deteriorated, and the amount of radiation it spewed into space had climbed correspondingly. The war had destroyed the critical symbiosis of technologies that produced sophisticated microprocessor replacement parts for plants like this one; the resulting jury-rigged repairs had eaten away at its efficiency.
“What do you want from me, Abdhiamal?” Dartagnan began to pull open the seal on the radiation suit, impatiently, nervously. “Or did you just come here to kick me when I'm—”
Abdhiamal reached out, stopped him from pulling the suit on. “I came to make you a better offer. I've been in contact with Kwaime Sekka-Olefin's relatives about the settling of his estate.”
Dartagnan's arm stopped resisting his grip. Blinking too much, he said, “And—”
“And they feel you deserve some consideration for bringing his murderer to justice. Since I knew you were interested in prospecting—”
“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.