In the Company of Others (15 page)

“Not enough, obviously. Or you wouldn't be here.”

Odd how Sammie's speech patterns changed at whim. Pardell drew his mind back from its tentative leap into distraction, fiercely determined to keep to the here and the now. “I'm here because I need more than warnings, Sammie,” he told the bartender. “It's no good for me to hide where I'm deaf and blind. I don't know what's happening. I can't find out what the Earthers want.” He paused, then went on in a voice that surprised him by shaking with anger: “And now it's more than me—they've taken Hugh Malley.”

Sammie blinked once. Pardell felt more than saw Tanya and a couple of others move closer. “You know for a fact Malley's with the Earthers?” Sammie asked, reasonably enough, “Man's been in trouble before without your help, Aaron.”

“Syd Denery was there. Said four from Station Admin came for Malley—took him right out of his shift—made up some story about Malley's opinion being important in a redesign of the factory.”

Tanya laughed once. “That would do it.”

Pardell kept his eyes on Sammie, whose face was gradually twisting into a scowl. The bartender was unofficially the most influential person in this section of Thromberg. Nothing happened here Sammie didn't know about—nothing was decided by the residents without consulting with Sammie first. “Not routine,” that worthy spat after due consideration.

Pardell nodded, “That's what Denery said.”

The scowl deepened. “Didn't think Forester would make the connection between you two—it's not as though he's ever down here. Or would have noticed.”

“Someone did.” Before that sounded like an accusation, Pardell added: “Who doesn't matter. And if Admin's taken Malley inward or stern to ask about me, we can pity the fools who have to talk to him. But if it's the Earther ...” He let his voice trail away.

“Seems to me they don't need to ask Malley a thing.” This interruption came from Tanya, who stepped forward until she stood against her grandfather's desk, a vantage point allowing her to glare down at them both. “If they want you that bad—well, it's working just fine, isn't it? You aren't playing it smart.”

He didn't quite smile. Tanya should have been a mother by now; she had all the fire and no one to protect. It didn't pay to cross her in this mood, but he had no choice. “We don't know what they want,” Pardell stated, his voice flat and level. “All we know is they're changing things.” He hesitated. There was nothing to be gained by talking about Rosalind's reaction—'sider business would only make them uneasy.

Sammie's look sharpened, as though he knew Pardell could have added more but chose not to; he only said: “You said you wanted help. What kind?”

Something tight inside Pardell eased, and he took a deeper breath to cover it. “I need to find out what's really going on: where Malley is; what the Earthers want; how far Forester will go to back them.”

An unexpectedly eloquent wave of a thick-fingered hand. “I can ask some questions. No guarantees they'll be answered—or how fast. No matter what the Earthers are really after, they've sent people running for sealed sections. There's talk of stockpiling, Aaron Pardell. That's serious trouble, true or not.”

Pardell closed his eyes for an instant. Worse and worse.
Damn her.
This place that worked so well on the surface depended on the most fragile balance of trust and mutual self-interests. Any push—any at all—could destroy it. He looked at Sammie, putting all his determination into his voice, saying: “We have to know the truth about them. If it's only me on their list, that's going to help—but the longer it takes to be sure, the less people will believe anything but their fears. I have to talk to the Earther—Dr. Smith.”

A stern look from her grandfather quelled Tanya's outburst before it was more than an indrawn breath. “It can be arranged,” Sammie told him bluntly, an unusual admission of the power he could exert if he chose.

“Thank—”

“But,” Sammie continued, interrupting Pardell's gratitude, his own tone heavy, “it's not your decision or mine to make.”

Pardell searched the other's face, reading nothing in those suddenly worn-looking features but grim sincerity. “Whose is it, then?” he asked, honestly curious.

“There'll be a meeting. That's all I can say.”

“To decide when I can talk to the Earther.”

Sammie waved a finger at Pardell, looking irritated. “Not when.
If.
”

Pardell swallowed hard, a physical action that helped to keep down the questions he desperately wanted to ask. No point pushing Sammie—not if he wanted help. But he couldn't help one slipping out: “Whoever they are . . . why would they care? How could what I do possibly matter to anyone else?”

He didn't really expect an answer, but Sammie drummed his fingers on the metal, a soft counterpoint to his words: “You know how it's been, Aaron. Immie, stationer—or 'sider—we've survived by taking care of our own without Earth interference or help.” Sammie paused until Pardell nodded impatiently. “What you don't know is there's another side to it. It's nothing to be proud of, but it's the way things are. Haven't you ever wondered why folks here never call their families in Sol System and ask for handouts? We have families, you know. Some of them well-off and even powerful. But no one here goes begging to Earth for personal gain.”

“Thromberg Admin controls the comms—” Pardell ventured, flashing to his conversation with Rosalind and her paranoia about Earth, hoping he wasn't meeting its partner here of all places.

“Admin? They have nothing to do with this. Listen, Aaron. There are rules here. We all obey them, 'siders as well as everyone else. You enter on the right. You share. You don't butt ahead in line. And you don't contact anyone off-station without permission. No deals on your own.” He lifted his hand and slammed it down, making Pardell jump.

“You try,” Sammie continued in almost a whisper, although it hardly seemed anyone else so much as breathed in the storeroom. “You die.”

“WE have a—small problem, Dr. Smith.”

Gail cocked her head, although there wasn't a vid pickup on her desk comm. “Did you not notify me that Mr. Malley was on his way to my office, Tau?” Second on this shift to Commander Grant, Comm Specialist Tau was one of the few in the First Defense Unit Gail had come to know—but not because of his obvious competence. No, poor Tau was a man so utterly reliable and practical, Tobo had managed to trick him more often than any of the others on the trip here. Eventually, Grant had had to ask her to intercede.

There were some strange, unidentifiable sounds through the speaker, then Tau's voice came again, somewhat breathless. “To be precise, Doctor, I notified you that Mr. Malley had—arrived—at the air lock, with his escort.”

“Don't keep either of us waiting, then. Bring him up here.”

“That's our problem, Dr. Smith. He—ah—doesn't want to come on board.”

A corner of Gail's mouth twitched as she imagined what might be happening outside her ship. So much for Grant's insistence on having this meeting take place in her office. “Stay put,” she ordered, then shut off the comm and grabbed her cloak. Thromberg kept its interior too chill for her taste.

If they'd tried any harder to make the man welcome, someone would be in the hospital
, Gail decided a few moments later. From the way everyone stared at her, she'd surprised them all by walking out the air lock—a happy circumstance directly related to there being only one guard at her door at that moment, and that one seemingly traumatized by the choice of following her quick exit or staying behind to call in a warning.

No, if they'd set out to make a spectacle out of what should have been a discreet visit, they couldn't have been more successful. Malley was standing to one side, dressed in what had to be protective gear from his workplace. The broad belt, worn and ripped overalls, and heavy shoulder padding did nothing to diminish his startling resemblance to a gladiator.
The man was beyond massive
, Gail decided admiringly. And beyond annoyed.

Her own eyes narrowed as she ignored the station personnel, busy helping two of their members up from the floor plates, and four of Grant's people, arrayed between the entrance to the air lock and the ship. Instead, Gail studied Malley's face. He'd noticed her arrival as well, standing motionless except for perhaps a slight heaving of his chest. One of the tears on his left sleeve looked fresh.

It was the sweat that cued her. He'd hardly exerted himself enough, in this cold air, to have beads glistening on forehead and cheekbones, a runnel passing in front of one ear to slide under a jaw that was, literally, clenched to the point of pain. His eyes kept darting past her to the open air lock. Their pupils were dilated despite the bright lighting.

So.
Gail heard the pound of footsteps behind her and could see for herself the ring of curious onlookers gathered at a discreet distance—for Thromberg—which meant at least two hundred people could hear anything said. “Welcome, Mr. Malley,” she said calmly, stepping completely away from the air lock. “Let's not bother going inside, if you don't mind. I feel like taking a walk. Would you join me?”

She wondered if anyone else saw and understood the flash of surprised gratitude—and shame—that swept across Malley's face. Before Grant, who doubtless was either behind her or listening in, could argue, Gail walked right up to Malley and slipped her hand under his arm. It felt more like a steel girder than flesh, yet there was a feather-soft trembling perceptible under its surface. She'd been right: more than anxiety or distrust—possibly a full-fledged phobia. The cause didn't matter. They'd never get this man into the ship of his own free will.

Malley nodded stiffly, accepting the direction she indicated. Gail had the distinct impression that not only would any direction away from the air lock have been acceptable, but that only her hand on his arm kept him from bolting.

“My apologies, Mr. Malley,” she said quietly, steadily, as though she dealt with distraught men three times her mass on a daily basis. “I'd no idea the Administrator would be so zealous in interpreting my request to meet you.”

Unlike Grant, Malley matched her shorter strides without obvious effort, perhaps a consequence of life in the crowded Outward Levels, she thought, where he must rarely be able to stretch his legs. They were hardly inconspicuous—Grant's people had quickly moved to enclose the two of them within a box of blue-gray, matching them step for step—but it felt private enough.

“You should be flattered, Dr. Smith,” Malley replied, his deep, low-timbred voice running through her bones like a distant rumble of thunder—a sound she realized he'd likely never heard. “Forester isn't prone to being zealous about anything—let alone requests.”

An educated voice, at that, now seemingly free of discomfort. Gail tilted her head to look up at him and promptly discarded all preconceptions she'd had about this conversation and this man. “Mr. Malley, I'll not waste your time or mine,” she said bluntly. “I know you're friends with Aaron Pardell. I need you to convince him to talk to me. It's vital.”

“Vital? Aaron?” Malley repeated, not bothering to deny her knowledge. “Nice enough guy,” he went on, deepening his already low voice an improbable octave. “But a pretty lady like you could do so much better.” He pressed his arm against his side to gently imprison her fingers, and smiled down at her as if they were strolling alone under moonlight, instead of on a cold deck in the middle of a throng of nosy strangers.

Gail yanked her hand free, hearing a choked-off cough from behind. Grant. Malley's flirting had been a deliberate attempt to put her off-balance—she couldn't believe she'd let him startle that much response from her. When she checked Malley's face, there was nothing warmer in its expression than a mild satisfaction. “This isn't a joking matter, Mr. Malley,” she said evenly. “Do you want me to get into issues such as why Mr. Pardell isn't registered on-station? We know what's outside—”

Malley startled her again, this time by the speed with which he stopped, took her arm in one hand and put the other across her mouth to silence her. Gail met his eyes; the urgent message in them made her wave back her alarmed guards without hesitation. The big stationer bent down until his breath warmed the skin of her ear. “If you'll talk like that—here, in the open—you don't know enough.”

He released her, then stood back as though equally prepared for her guards to attack him or for her to resume their walking conversation. Involuntarily, Gail licked her lips and tasted the salt from his hand. “Understood,” she said finally. “Let's go somewhere private. You pick the place,” she added immediately, seeing him swallow and reasonably sure it was the thought of the ship, not her offer.

“My sort doesn't get up here much,” Malley pointed out.

“The Docking Administration Office isn't far.” This from Grant, who'd obviously had more than enough of being a spectator. His lips were now pressed into a hard line and the look he threw Malley was one of clear threat. Malley grinned in acknowledgment.
Not a man who backed down
, Gail concluded, adding another piece to the puzzle.

Grant had been right. The office was attached to the outward curving wall of the docking ring, between two sets of ship-sized air locks. It was little more than a roofless box housing some station staff, a countertop, and the seemingly inevitable line of people waiting their turn. Gail let Grant sweep everyone out of the room, willing—this time—to stand back and let her troops perform a little intimidation. It worked on the office staff, who protested only weakly; it seemed to amuse Malley.