In the Company of Others (17 page)

He'd done it, rapping out the code, opening the outer door, grateful to the quick-thinking 'sider guard who'd grabbed his hysterical friend and hauled him to the safety of vacuum. They'd been saved. Pardell had lain back on Thromberg's white outer plates, soothed by the infinite darkness in almost every direction, shuddering as much with relief as grief. Malley had clung to the guard in absolute, blind terror, losing in one instant not only his mother, but everything that defined his universe.

Malley had never, ever, been able to go near an air lock since. . . .

No
, Pardell thought, tasting the nightmare again,
his friend wasn't on the Earther ship.
Not unless they'd drugged or overpowered him somehow.

She was capable of that, he didn't doubt it, but there was no reason. What possible gain could having Malley on her ship provide? To wring the truth from him—another popular rumor? Easier to take him to the Admin offices and let Forester try to bore Malley into confession.

“Psst. Aaron. You awake?”

“Yes,” he whispered, mindful of the others sleeping in this side of the storeroom. He rolled to his feet, dropping the blanket and squinting in the dim light. It was Silvie, Sammie's daughter and Tanya's mother. “There's news? Real news?”

She chuckled softly at his qualification. “Not about Malley—although I do like the latest, the one saying he planted a big kiss on the Earther right in front of all and she didn't look too worried about it.”

Pardell stifled a laugh. “That sounds like something Malley'd pull. But I don't see the Earther taking it so well.”

He followed Silvie's silhouette to the slit in the curtain and out into the lit section of the long room. There were people he knew gathered there, a couple of faces less familiar than the others. Most were older, the type that were easier to peg as immie or stationer if you knew the signs. No 'siders, other than himself. No surprise there.

No room to spare either. They'd pushed aside the beer crates to make a half circle where the oldest sat shoulder to shoulder. He must have slept after all to have missed these preparations, although moving things quietly was something you learned about the same time as learning to walk. Others waited cross-legged on the floor. A few stood, making a shadowed back row beyond the lights.

Room for him, of course. Pardell stepped forward, nodding thanks as they moved completely out of his way when for one of their own they'd simply turn a bit and make a joke of not stepping on toes. He knew where they wanted him. They'd left one crate waiting in the middle, under the brightest light. He sat on it, keeping his back straight as he'd been taught, resting his hands in plain sight on his thighs.

Sammie still wore his apron—it was a busy time in his tavern and doubtless he was planning to be back there as soon as business was done here.
Whatever business that might be
, Pardell told himself, wishing he'd thought to at least run his fingers through his hair first and blinking grit from his eyes.

“You all know Aaron Raner's son,” Sammie introduced him briskly. “I've told you what went on last night, with the Earther Smith and Administrator Forester.”

“Half of us were there, y'old fool!” came from the back row.

“Surprised you remembered, Warren,” retorted another voice. There was a rill of laughter, quickly muted.

Sammie chose to ignore the byplay. “This meeting's been called to hear Aaron Pardell's request to contact these Earthers himself. He knows he needs your permission,” this slightly louder to be heard over a murmur of low voices—an unhappy murmur. “Tell them your reasons, Aaron,” he told Pardell. “Tell them what you want to do.”

Their sudden attentive silence wasn't comforting. Pardell was used to trying to fade into crowds, not being the center of all eyes. He struggled to find his voice, coughed once, then finally got to his feet. “Thank you, Sammie. Everyone. I didn't think so many would—”
care
, was the word trembling on his lips. He changed it to “—take the time to hear my request.

“What I'm asking is permission to find out why this Earther came looking for me, what she wants. A comm link would be enough. I've no need to meet her face-to-face.”

Someone in the back called out: “Didn't you see those dimples, Pardell?” and was shushed. But the comment broke some of the tension.

Pardell couldn't quite smile, but he felt a little more at ease. These were family, in the sense that most were Raner's friends, even if they'd likely come more in curiosity about the Earther than interest in a lone 'sider. “I saw them, thanks. I'm more concerned with what she's done with Hugh Malley.”

There were, surprisingly enough, no ribald suggestions following that. Perhaps they shared his worry. Or had some respect for Roy Malley, Hugh's uncle and sole blood relation away from Sol System. Pardell could see Roy out of the corner of his left eye, seated, as usual, closest to the door. The eldest Malley was a sour, silent man, prone to either dismiss or criticize anyone younger or who hadn't stepped on dirt sometime in their past. Seeing Roy here—well, that meant Malley's absence was something at least one other took seriously.

“So it's Malley you're worrying about, is it? Here I thought you were planning to ask for a ticket home.”

Pardell squinted but couldn't see who'd asked the question. Didn't matter—they all waited for his answer. His hopes? They wouldn't serve him well here. Or Malley. He shrugged. “You know where my home is,” he said flatly, a bitter taste on his tongue. “Think this Earther plans to fix up the
'Mate
?” Pardell paused and looked around at as many of them as he could see, finally resting his eyes on Sammie. “Sure, she talked about a job for me. We all know it was an Earther lie to draw me out. But why? Why me?”

A snort from Fy Wilheim. “We all know why, Mr. Touch-Me-Not,” the former welder growled, his hand waving toward the sound of Pardell's voice. Wilheim had lost his sight using inferior equipment and now worked even-cycle in recycling, opposite Malley's crew. Pardell knew him well enough. Not fond of 'siders—there was history, a terrible one, behind those clouded eyes. Otherwise, a fair man and one the others respected. That didn't keep the blood from Pardell's cheeks as the others nodded in agreement with the old, hated nickname. “What bothers me is how they knew you existed—and how to find you. Someone's been talking out of turn.”

Out of turn.
A death sentence in times past. Pardell spoke up before it got worse. “I can ask her,” he offered. “She won't know how we feel about that. She won't care. I can find out. The more we can learn about this, the better. It's the not knowing that's dangerous.”

“To a youngster.” This, from Silvie, produced another round of nods. “There's times it's best to keep heads down and doors locked.”

They weren't going to agree
, Pardell realized with a numb shock. They'd rather he hide down here until the Earthers gave up. They'd prefer anything to taking a risk. “What about Hugh Malley?” he asked desperately.

“We look after our own, 'sider.” There was a shuffling of feet and restless movement, as though those words out of the darkness were all they'd waited to hear said.

Pardell looked into each face, “That's it?” he demanded, no longer keeping the heat from his voice. “I can't contact the Earther—and you won't let me help Malley? It's because of me he's up there!”

Sammie moved close to him, but didn't put a comforting hand on his shoulder, as he might have with anyone else. “Hush, boy. There's nothing you can do that won't make things worse. Think it through. Here, in Outward Five, we know you both—we have a fair idea what the Earther's play is with getting Malley to the docking ring. We all understand they're hunting you, not dealing with him. But the rest of the station? They're wondering what's up. They see a stationer—one of our own—getting cozy with Earthers. They see rules being broken and don't know why.”

“What are you saying?” Pardell asked, feeling as though his lips were numb.

Wilheim answered for Sammie: “The Earther isn't Malley's trouble. She finds out he isn't her ticket to you, she's done and sends him back down. But if she doesn't do it fast enough, Malley's going to be up against the rest of the station. Only we can fix that, Pardell. No offense, but there's no good bringing 'siders into this mess.” He paused, blinking though his eyes looked at nothing, or as if somehow they saw more than he wanted. “There's no good spreading more about you either,” Wilheim went on. “Station's on edge. They'll be suspicious of anything—unusual—now.”

Roy Malley nodded, as did most of the others. Pardell sank back down to his seat. First Rosalind and now this. He didn't know if he was grateful to have others take charge, or terrified.

It didn't matter. Even as he nodded a mute good-bye to each of his seniors, Pardell could feel his own resolve hardening. The Earther was his problem and Malley was his friend.

He wouldn't abandon either.

ON the surface, it was a peaceful meeting of open-minded souls. A lie. Gail had endured its like enough times during her academic career to know when sharks cruised beneath the polite smiles and offers of refreshments, waiting for the careless or exhausted swimmer to make that one mistake.

Oh, she'd been here before. The setting didn't matter. On her own, Gail was confident she could talk her way out of what appeared to have once been a banquet hall and was now the seat for Thromberg Station's governing council.

Unfortunately, Commander Grant sat to her left, literally quivering with tension. The stationer, Hugh Malley, sat to her right, his too-casual posture just as clearly an indication of how he judged their risk.

Was it a necessary one?
she asked herself, surveying those filling the room. It appalled her still, how many individuals the station would cram into any space. The air quality had to be suffering. She found herself involuntarily taking shallow breaths, through her nose, until she realized Malley was amused.

Risk?—Not as though they'd had a choice
, Gail thought, taking a deliberately deep breath as she reached for a glass of water. They hadn't been offered anything more sustaining—she was long past regretting skipping breakfast. The stationers had moved quickly to overwhelm her guards and bring them here. They'd been made to wait for hours, apparently to face—
who were these people, anyway?
Less than a government. More than a rabble. Most were older. It was their number and determination, not their individual strength, that had brought the Earthers here. But they had something else in common. Gail struggled to put her finger on the notion. They all had the look of people who had survived and intended to keep on surviving; there was a certain hardness to their faces, a thriftiness to their movements and speech. Ordinarily, this would have been reassuring, but Gail thought again of sharks and waited for the gleam of teeth.

Sometimes, a frontal assault worked best. Besides, Gail told herself, at this rate her stomach would start complaining for her. She picked out Administrator Forester, presently standing in the row encompassing those privileged to sit at the long L-shaped table. “Since I am being treated as a prisoner, Administrator Forester, am I to assume I've committed some crime?” Gail demanded, making sure she projected her voice over the indistinct noise of so many breathing and shuffling about. “If so, I expect to be notified of any charges immediately—with the Captain of the
Seeker
linked by comm as witness.”

Any shuffling died away. Forester looked decidedly uncomfortable to have been singled out.
Good.
But he didn't answer. Instead, a woman directly across from Gail spoke. “I am Leah Nateba, Dr. Smith. Chief Administrator for Thromberg Station, You haven't committed any crime we are aware of—unless it is of stupidity.”

When sharks strike, Gail remembered, it's usually from below and fast. They go for a taste, not a hold; to test a potential prey, rather than risk the unknown. “Being uninformed can lead to several misconceptions, Chief Administrator,” Gail replied calmly. “Enlighten me.”

Nateba, as several here, had ivory-white hair in stark contrast to her dark skin. Her eyes were darker still, and not the least warm. “You have entered into private negotiations with this stationer—”

“Hugh Malley, Outward Five,” that worthy piped up. “In case Forester hasn't enlightened you.”

Gail resisted the urge to glare to her right. Nateba was doing an admirable job of attempting to impale Malley with a look anyway, for all the good it would do. Grant made an almost subliminal growling noise.

“—private negotiations, as I said,” the Chief Administrator continued past the interruption. “Explain yourself. Dr. Smith,” she added quickly, before Malley could take a breath to answer.

Something wasn't tracking
, Gail recognized suddenly. There was hostility toward Earthers here—that wasn't new. But there seemed even more hostility being directed at Malley, who she would have sworn was a person who made more friends than enemies. He was one of their own, after all. She suspected a prohibition against direct contact between the regular station dwellers and such as herself. Forester should have warned her. Instead—she glanced at him speculatively—he'd deliberately encouraged her to meet with Malley. A trap, of sorts. Had Malley been in on it? She'd guess not, given his aversion to the air lock and his passionate refusal to contact Pardell.

But Malley must have known how his people would react to their private meeting—yet he'd been the one to insist. He'd been willing to risk it.
Why?
Gail shook her head at her own thoughts. “Explain myself? There's nothing to explain beyond what I've already told Administrator Forester,” Gail enjoyed the man's flinch at being named. “I'm looking for someone on Thromberg. Hugh Malley knows him. That's all there is to it.”