In the Company of Others (14 page)

Not much of a place, even for a hideyhole, but it sufficed. The innermost layer of the whipple shield overhead had been rammed through the interior wall plates and down into the floor, coming heartstoppingly close to opening up this part of the station to vacuum. Engineers and techs had stabilized it with sprayed cement and left well enough alone. People didn't like the look of it.
Fine by him.
Pardell listened to his heartbeat and nothing else for a count of one hundred and one, then heaved aside what looked like a twisted mass of worthless plastic but was a panel woven from the least appealing scraps they could find.

He paused, using his wrist lamp to survey the interior of the cavelike space. Malley'd surprised a trio of 'tastic heads in here once. Unfortunately for the trespassers, it had been after the stationer had reached his full growth and temper. Pardell preferred a more cautious, limb-preserving approach and kept himself ready to retreat if necessary.

The thin beam of light slid down the ominously tilted slab of metal forming the roof and two walls of the shelter—some of it melted and re-formed—then briefly investigated any pile of scraps large enough to hide an unwelcome guest.

Or a welcome one. Pardell's face burned unexpectedly at the all too clear memory of surprising Malley with a lady friend. The faint light had seemed a welcome and Pardell had hurried inside, only to confront a bewildering tangle of slow moving limbs and far more exposed flesh than was sensible out here where skin would freeze to metal. Aghast that his friend would bring anyone else to their hidden place, he'd hesitated a moment too long. No, in honesty, he'd been mesmerized by the sight of gentle touching, fascinated by their soft sounds of pleasure.

Malley's outraged roar when he'd realized they were being watched had not been one of those. Pardell had slammed on his helmet and run back to the air lock, cycling through it faster than was at all safe, knowing full well Malley would never follow him into vacuum.

They'd never spoken of the incident, but ever since, as now, Pardell made sure to check every corner of the room before committing himself to stepping inside.

Pardell shook himself. He was well aware of his own limitations and, while sometimes desperately envious, it was only right his closest friend should enjoy what normal people did with one another.

Pardell tore off his suit glove, rubbing that hand over his face as if to rub away the entire notion. It didn't help that his heart began to pound and his breath came treacherously faster.
I'm an adult
, he told himself furiously, embarrassed at this lapse into adolescence even alone and unwatched.
I have greater concerns than wanting to know how it feels to touch a woman's flesh, to be touched, to . . .

Not to mention those were the very last thoughts he needed in his mind when negotiating with the Earther. He winced, then focused on the here and now, deliberately removing his suit one piece at a time, rolling up any still-sticky pieces of tape—discarding those now-useless strips whose adhesive had finished outgassing to vacuum—and putting each into a suit glove for later.

They'd put in hooks and made structures that were faintly chairlike—the place was quite homey, if you didn't mind decorating with what even Thromberg considered disposable. Most of the material against the walls and coating the floor was insulation. The cold could kill you, the moment you forgot about it.

Malley's suit hung, limp and musty, to the left of where Pardell hung his own. Although he was in a hurry, Pardell gave it a quick check. Malley hated wearing the thing with a passion, even though a suit had saved his life once. Pardell expelled a frosty breath in exasperation. The battery was low again. No need to wonder why—Malley had a tendency to plug an extra heater into it, especially when he came down here to worry away at some equation or problem at all hours of his night cycle.

Pardell gave it a quick recharge from his own suit battery. It was a dark, never-mentioned truth that there weren't enough suits for everyone on the station. Not even close. Although he'd chosen to live Outside, Raner had done what he could to make sure his family and friends had suits for their children. Malley's still had the leg fabric from that original gift. He and Pardell had used it to extend the arms on this one. Good thing Malley had finally stopped growing.

Pardell's hands dropped away from their fussing over the other suit. He was wasting time. It was morning for those running odd-cycle. Malley would be on the recycling floor, heaving metal fragments and engaging his coworkers in debates on the nature of consciousness between loads. If he wanted to catch him—and get Malley's help accessing the comm system in the factory—he'd have to hurry before the morning shift broke for rations. Depending on whether Malley had students, he could head off in any direction, leaving Pardell waiting for him in the corridor where he'd doubtless have to endure everyone's questions and apologies about last night at Sammie's.
No thanks.

Pardell pulled the mags from his boots, tucking them neatly beneath his hanging suit, then stood up straight, looking down at himself until he was almost cross-eyed, making sure his coveralls were as tidy as possible. There was nothing he could do about the wrinkles at each joint and around his waist—those came with being a 'sider and spending most of your time crammed inside space gear.

After making sure the panel was across the opening, and pausing to listen for any sign he wasn't alone, Pardell left. As always, he did so with the smallest twinge of worry. Their cave wasn't a complete secret, as were his other hiding places. Leaving his suit here felt dangerous, despite Malley's assurances of its safety. Those assurances rang somewhat hollow at best, since Pardell knew perfectly well his friend hoped one day he'd forget about the
'Mate
and stay inside Thromberg for good.

Not likely. The
'Mate
was home and security. Leave her? Not unless Pardell had a new future and a new ship.

“'Bout an hour ago, wouldn't you say, Denery?” Lang looked up from the cards in his hand, frowning a bit in concentration.

“Less,” Syd Denery replied quickly. His face, usually cheerful, was presently drawn in worried lines that had nothing to do with his chances at beating Tommy Lang at rummy.

Pardell looked from one man to the other, trying to grasp what they were saying. “Station Admin came down here, mid-shift, and just took Malley with them?”

Both nodded. “Didn't bother explaining,” Denery said, anticipating Pardell's question. “Then again, when do they?”

“Who was it?” The lights flickered, once, and all along the narrow space, workers began getting to their feet, ready to return to their shift. He hadn't been quick enough to make it before the break. If only he had—Pardell eased out of the way, pressing his back against the wall beside Denery's chair.
Habit as well as courtesy.
It was easier for him to avoid the moving mass of people than expect all of them to avoid him.

Lang folded his cards and tossed them into the pile on the table. “I take it there's no time to win my dibs back this round, Syd,” he grumbled as he stood. “'Bye, Aaron. You coming?”

“Be right there, Tommy. Cover for me if I'm slow—right?” Denery waited until the other left with a nod before saying: “There were four of them. Faces I didn't know. Anzetti said he'd seen a couple of them before—wasn't sure where.”

“Did they say anything? Why they wanted Malley in particular?”

The off-shift was trickling into the corridor, claiming their turn at rations and chairs. Denery slid to his feet, coming to lean beside Pardell and speaking in a quiet voice that nonetheless sent shivers down Pardell's spine. “Spouted some nonsense about having him talk to Station Admin over improvements to the line down here. As if that would happen. But you know Malley. He'll grab any chance to blow off steam about how things are done.”

“So they—or whoever sent them—knew exactly how to get him to leave without kicking a fuss or calling over the floor boss.”

A flicker of something grim in Denery's eyes. “That's my guess. I don't like it, Aaron. It's not routine.”

Not routine.
Stationer code for dangerous, since anything unexpected in Thromberg was considered a threat. It usually was. Pardell nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. “Earthers,” he breathed the word, rather than say it out loud, with all these ears in range. Denery paled but didn't argue.

Instead, he looked up at Pardell and said urgently: “You get home, Aaron. Hear me? There's nothing you can do. You wait and I'll—I'll get word to you somehow when Malley's back.”

Pardell had to smile. “Syd, you don't have the slightest idea how to get a message Outside and we both know it.”

“I know when my friends are in sewage up to their eye sockets, that's what I know,” the little immie said firmly. “Just you listen to me, Aaron. Please. And stay out of Sammie's—at least for now. Forester's left his people there.”

“Sammie must love that.”

Syd Denery snorted. “No doubt. Heard he's charging them rent for their table. You listen to me,” he repeated, lifting one hand as though to put it on Pardell's shoulder, then stopping just in time. “You get home and stay there. This is probably nothing anyway. We should be feeling sorry for whoever has to listen to Malley ranting about alpha sorting protocols and bin sizes.”

“I will, Syd,” Pardell said earnestly, though not specifying which suggestion he planned to follow. “And—thanks.”

When you grew up in a place, you knew that place. Pardell might not have spent every waking moment on the station, but he and Malley had been determined wanderers as children—too full of energy to stay close to either's home and too full of themselves to stay where it was safe. He'd had the Outside as an extra playground, true, but it was the tunnellike Inside that had fascinated them both. They'd explored every nook and cranny within their section of Thromberg. Since many of those had been addons following the riots, or subdivisions built without consulting the station's engineers, it was entirely likely the youngsters knew it better than anyone else.

So Pardell hardly needed to glance at level numbers or corridor codes to find his way from the recycling floors to the back entrance to Sammie's. Once there, he hesitated, automatically easing to one side to let staff and others pass him with a generous margin, and considered what Denery had told him.

Station Admin had taken Malley someplace. If the Earther was involved—Pardell couldn't help but focus his ire on one Earther in particular—then Malley might even be on the
Seeker
by now. His ship.

Pardell was consumed with sudden jealousy. The
Seeker
was his opportunity. His big chance. But the feeling faded just as quickly. He knew, beyond doubt, that Malley had been taken to get to him, not as a substitute. Someone knew them both, well enough to know Malley was the key. The why of it was easy. If they thought Pardell would refuse to step forward, if they were in too much of a hurry to hunt for him, then this was the logical ploy. What it said about their ruthlessness—about her ruthlessness—left Pardell cold.

It definitely changed his plans.

“Aaron Pardell?” the voice went from welcoming to scolding in the space of the two words. “What are you thinking—get in here!”

Pardell followed Tanya inside. The back of Sammie's was a combination of living quarters and storeroom. Sammie kept his remaining family close. He'd been one of the first businessmen to come on-station and, during the glory years, had sponsored more and more of his kin to join him. Since the Quill, he'd lost fourteen all told, including Tanya's father and grandmother to pneumonia during a lockdown that left the medical supplies on the wrong side of the sealed bulkheads.

The rest slept here on beds made from crates of beer. Since Thromberg's one and only brew had a life expectancy of about a week, those beds were in constant flux, frequently being dismantled at the most inconvenient times, according to Tanya and her sibs. The room itself followed the original curve of what had been a freight-capable hallway. Curtains darkened the half set aside for those on the opposing cycle. The entrance to the bar itself was locked from this side. Sammie preferred deliveries to come in the same way as customers.

There was the smell of something cooking from one corner. The tavern received a bit extra in the way of rations to sell at the bar—the balance sheet meant most of that extra came out of the family's allotment, so Sammie rarely let it leave the storeroom. Pardell politely declined an offer to share, after putting his own bag of rations on the nearest table. It would either be there for him later, or replaced with another. Those inside Thromberg observed the courtesies as well as any 'sider.

As he'd hoped, Sammie was home, sitting behind the sheet of metal that served as a desk. On seeing who followed his granddaughter inside, the bartender waved him over impatiently. “Pardell, you're just ten kinds of fool lately, aren't you?”

“Nice seeing you, too, Sammie,” Pardell said, sitting on the nearest bed and pretending not to notice how quickly Tanya pulled the door closed despite the cloying warmth and smells inside. “Hear you have regular customers now.”

The bartender exposed several misplaced teeth in a hungry grin. “Payin' ones at that. I could use more o' them types.” Then he put his hands flat on the desk and stared at Pardell consideringly. “You'd be better elsewhere, Pardell.”

“So people are telling me.” Pardell didn't try to keep the emotion from his voice. “Means a lot, Sammie.”