She strode to him, right to the barrel of the gun, and, letting it press into her abdomen, she reached up, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled his head down to where she could kiss him.
She had no idea how to do it, except what she'd seen in movies. But she was apparently doing it well enough. The gun stayed in her belly, but his other arm wrapped around her, pulled her closer.
In the back of her mind, she remembered what Bean told herthat the last thing he had seen Achilles do before killing Bean's friend Poke was kiss her. Bean had had nightmares about it. Achilles kissing her, and then in the middle of the kiss, strangling her. Not that Bean actually saw that part. Maybe it didn't happen that way at all.
But no matter how you cut it, Achilles was a dangerous boy to kiss. And there, was that gun in her belly. Maybe this was the moment he longed for. Maybe his dreams were about this-kissing a girl, and blowing a hole in her body while he did.
Well, blow away, she thought. Before I watch you kill Virlomi for the crime of having compassion for me and courage enough to act, I'd rather be dead myself. I'd rather kiss you than watch you kill her, and there's nothing in the world that could disgust me more than having to pretend that you're the ... thing ... I love.
The kiss ended. But she did not let go of him. She would not step back, she would not break this embrace. He had to believe that she wanted him. That she was in his emossin' tent.
He was breathing lightly, quickly. His heartbeat was rapid. Prelude to a kill? Or just the aftermath of a kiss.
"I said I'd kill anyone who tried to answer Graff," he said. "I have to."
"She didn't answer Graff, did she?" said Petra. "I know you have to keep control of things, but you don't have to be a strutting yelda about it. She doesn't know you know what she did."
"She'll think she got away with it."
"But I'll know," said Petra, "that you weren't afraid to give me what I want."
"What, you think you've found some way to make me do what you want?" he said.
Now she could back away from him. "I thought I'd found a man who didn't have to prove he was big by pushing people around. I guess I was wrong. Do what you want. Men like you disgust me." She put as much contempt into her voice, onto her face, as she could. "Here, prove you're a man. Shoot me. Shoot everybody. I've known real men. I thought you were one of them."
He lowered the gun. She did not show her relief. Just kept her eyes looking into his.
"Don't ever think you've got me figured out," he said.
"I don't care whether I figure you out or not," she said. "All I care about is, you're the first man since Ender and Bean who had guts enough to let me stand over him."
"Is that what you're going to say?" he asked.
"Say? Who to? I don't have any friends out there. The only person worth talking to in this whole place is you."
He stood there, breathing heavily again, a bit of the craziness back in his eyes.
What am I saying wrong?
"You're going to bring this off," she said. "I don't know how you're going to do it, but I can taste it. You're going to run the whole show. They're all going to be under you, Achilles. Governments, universities, corporations, all eager to please you. But when we're alone, where nobody else can see, we'll both know that you're strong enough to keep a strong woman with you."
"You?" said Achilles. "A woman?"
"If I'm not a woman, what were you doing with me in here?"
"Take off your clothes," he said.
The craziness was still there. He was testing her somehow. Waiting for her to show ...
To show that she was faking. That she was really afraid of him, after all. That her story was all a lie, designed to trick him.
"No," she said. "You take off yours."
And the craziness faded.
He smiled.
He tucked the gun into the back of his pants.
"Get out of here," he said. "I've got a war to run."
"It's night," she said. "Nobody's moving."
"There's a lot more to this war than the armies," said Achilles.
"When do I get to stay in your tent?" she asked. "What do I have to do?" She could hardly believe she was saying this, when all she wanted was to get out.
"You have to be the thing I need," he said. "And right now, you're not." .
He walked to his desk, sat down.
"And pick up your chair on the way out."
He started typing. Orders? For what? To kill whom?
She didn't ask. She picked up the chair. She walked out.
And kept walking, through the corridors to the room where she slept alone. Knowing, with every step, that she was monitored. There would be vids. He would check them, to see how she acted. To see if she meant what she'd said. So she couldn't stop and press her face against the wall and cry. She had to be ... what? How would this play in a movie or a vid if she were a woman who was frustrated because she wanted to be with her man?
I don't know! she screamed inside. I'm not an actress!
And then, a much quieter voice in her head answered. Yes you are. And a pretty good one. Because for another few minutes, maybe another hour, maybe another night, you're alive.
No triumph, either. She couldn't seem to gloat, couldn't show relief. Frustration, annoyance-and some pain where he kicked her, where her head hit the floor-that's all she could show.
Even alone in her bed, the lights off, she lay there, pretending, lying. Hoping that whatever she did in her sleep would not provoke him. Would not bring that crazy frightened searching look into his eyes.
Not that it would be any guarantee, of course. There was no sign of craziness when he shot those men in the bread van back in Russia. Don't ever think you've got me figured out, he said.
You win, Achilles. I don't think I've got you figured out. But I've learned how to play one lousy string. That's something.
I also knocked you onto the floor, beat the goffno out of you, kicked you in your little kintamas, and made you think you liked it. Kill me tomorrow or whenever you want-my shoe going into your face, you can't take that away from me.
In the morning, Petra was pleased to find that she was still alive, considering what she had done the night before. Her head ached, her ribs were sore, but nothing was broken.
And she was starving. She had missed dinner the night before, and perhaps there was something about beating up her jailer that made her especially hungry. She didn't usually eat breakfast, so she had no accustomed place to sit. At other meals, she sat by herself, and others, respecting her solitude or fearing Achilles' displeasure, did not sit with her.
But today, on impulse, she took her tray to a table that had only a couple of empty spots. The conversation grew quiet when she first sat down, and a few people greeted her. She smiled back at them, but then concentrated on her food. Their conversation resumed.
"There's no way she got off the base."
"So she's still here."
"Unless someone took her."
"Maybe it's a special assignment or something."
"Sayagi says he thinks she's dead."
A chill ran through Petra's body.
"Who?" she asked.
The others glanced at her, but then glanced away. Finally one of them said, "Virlomi."
Virlomi was gone. And no one knew where she was.
He killed her. He said he would, and he did. The only thing I gained by what I did last night was that he didn't do it in front of me.
I can't stand this. I'm done. My life is not worth living. To be his captive, to have him kill anyone who tries to help me in any way...
No one was looking at her. Nor were they talking.
They know Virlomi tried to answer Graff, because she must have said something to Sayagi when she walked over to him yesterday. And now she's gone.
Petra knew she had to eat, no matter how sick at heart she felt, no matter how much she wanted to cry, to run screaming from the room, to fall on the floor and beg their forgiveness for ... for what? For being alive when Virlomi was dead.