In the Company of Others (18 page)

“So you have been—or are—seeking private negotiations with yet another on the station,” Nateba leaned her head toward the man beside her, who promptly whispered something into her ear. “A person not registered. One Aaron Pardell.”

Gail could feel Malley stiffen through his arm against hers—a necessarily tight fit given how many shared the table.
So.
There was a danger to his friend in this woman's questions.
No
, Gail thought,
not her questions
—in her learning of Pardell's very existence. If Pardell was in some danger on the station, she could use that to convince Malley to bring his friend to her, given she could ever arrange another private conversation with him. The odds of that happening appeared about nil.

“I have no problem with any and all of my discussions being public, Chief Administration,” Gail said smoothly. “As I've said, I'm authorized to be here in order to further my research. I've no interest in your internal business, nor do I intend any disruption—”

“It's a bit late for lies, Earther.” The teeth were showing plainly now, and others in the room leaned forward as if scenting blood themselves. Gail tried to ignore the hot breath stirring her hair as those behind moved too close for comfort. “Or did it surprise you when we detected your spy satellite? Would you be equally surprised to know your clumsy digging into our data banks was just as obvious to us?” There was a muttering from the gathered crowd—around two hundred, Gail fatalistically estimated—after each of these announcements. Gail did take the time to turn and glare at Grant, whose face bore no expression at all. It was his “against hopeless odds” face—she'd bet on it. If it was meant to express his expectation of surviving her ire about his so-called experts' lack of stealth, it was appropriate.

Gail not only planned to survive this meeting, she intended to profit from it. “You haven't brought us here to talk about whatever the
Seeker
might—or might not—have done,” she said as much to the crowd as Nateba. “What do you want, Chief Administrator? An apology? Fine. I'll write one up for whatever you deem necessary. You want me to leave? I'd love to—but not without finding Aaron Pardell. Since this man,” she jerked her head toward Malley, “can help me and you obviously cannot, I suggest you let us get to it.”

Nateba sat up a little straighter, perhaps startled to find prey that flashed teeth in response. “Malley?” she used his name as the sum of her questions.

“The Earther's nuts,” Malley rumbled from beside Gail. She could feel his deep voice through her arm against his. “I don't know a Pardell. If I did, I'd never turn him over to her. For any reason.” This last a message aimed at her, no doubt.

“So.” Nateba considered this, again leaning to one side, then the other, listening to whispered comments from her companions. She collected opinions from those behind her as well. “Thromberg's a big place, Dr. Smith,” she said finally. “No one's denying there are those here who aren't registered with Station Admin—some always slip by. Criminals, mostly. Now, if your Pardell is one of those, I'd say he's hardly worth your time or ours. And if Malley's no help . . . seems to me you don't have much reason to stay.”

Grant moved unnecessarily in his seat, not about to rise, just letting her know he agreed with everything the stationer was saying and wanted nothing more than a peaceful exit from this crowded place. What his people and Tobo might be doing on the
Seeker
at the moment, Gail really didn't want to think about—she was aware there were FD contingency plans, particularly as related to her insistence on visiting the station in person. None of them were likely to produce the resolution she needed: Pardell—and this Malley—both in her grasp and cooperative.

“Do you think much about the Quill, Chief Administrator?” Gail asked, arching one brow. She took a sip of water, giving them all time to do exactly that. “They are an enemy we share—”

“If they exist!” This shout from the crowd wasn't worth a glance in acknowledgment. Gail knew from the settling around the table that she had their attention. The name of their mutual enemy still had that power.

“Maybe you choose to ignore the Quill. You can, tucked here on your station.” Gail smiled thinly. “I, on the other hand, think a great deal about the Quill—but you know that, of course. You've checked my credentials. I'm humanity's expert on the Quill.” Gail sharpened her tone and leaned forward. “I am not here to waste my time or yours. Thromberg isn't my destination. I've stopped here because I'm collecting human genome markers, markers crucially important in testing retrieval equipment. Pardell, who does exist, is the sole surviving descendant of a family line I need. And that retrieval equipment?” She paused for effect, but it was hardly necessary—she had them all. “It's to collect samples of living Quill tissue, tissue we must have in order to develop a way to wipe them off the terraformed worlds. Worlds, I believe, that belong to your people.”

The silence was palpable, as though everyone crowded into the room had turned to stone. Gail's initial feeling of triumph began fading. It faded further as the silence erupted into two hundred voices at once, and a huge hand around her calf yanked her painfully from her chair to land on her rump under the table. Grant was underneath almost the same instant, the three of them—for it had been Malley's painful grip pulling her down—huddling together. It would have been ridiculous, except for the look on both men's faces. For once, they seemed to be in perfect harmony, both glaring at her.

Almost immediately, Grant began leading the way to the nearest end of the table, crawling swiftly. Chair legs became obstacles as everyone around the table surged to their feet, their chairs falling to the floor and rolling this way and that. The shouts and other sounds were confusing without seeing what was happening. There didn't seem to be anyone searching for the missing “guests.”

They reached the end of the table, and Grant lifted one hand to hold her back as he cautiously climbed out. Malley, perhaps assuming she was a fool, reinforced that caution by wrapping his hand around her ankle. Gail didn't waste the breath it would take to hiss disapproval. Grant quickly leaned down to signal them out.

They—and Grant's four guards who had been held off to one side and were now silently gathered around their commander—were the only people left in the room. Three huge exit doors remained ajar.

Gail was whirled around as Malley snatched her shoulder and pulled her to face him. “Now you've done it, haven't you!” he snarled at her.

Grant, perhaps sharing that opinion, didn't intervene. Instead, as Gail stood paralyzed, he asked the stationer: “Where have they gone?”

“Where do you think?” Malley growled, giving her a shake before letting go, Perversely, Gail reached out and fastened both hands on his arm.

“Where have they gone?” she demanded. “Tell us! What's happening?”

If ever there was doom written on a man's face, she saw it in Malley's. “What's happening, Dr. Smith?” he repeated in a tightly controlled voice. “You've given very frightened people a choice of targets. Most of them are going to help destroy your ship before any living or dead Quill contaminates their only home.”

“We don't have any—!”

“And the rest?” Malley said as if he didn't hear her frantic protest—or as if it was irrelevant, which, Gail had the sickening realization, it most assuredly was. “The rest are now hunting Aaron Pardell. Thanks to you, Dr. Smith.”

UNDER the circumstances, Pardell couldn't afford the risk of traveling where others did. It didn't matter much—there were no free-run corridors leading from the Outward Five to the stern docking ring anyway. Of course, that's not where he was supposed to be going. He'd suited back up and made his way to the air lock to satisfy Sammie, who'd sent Tanya as a reluctant escort to be sure Pardell had heeded good advice and headed home. Pardell didn't think Malley would mind Tanya seeing their hideyhole. From her careful lack of curiosity, he imagined she'd visited already.

He checked his slide, taking his time despite the urgency he felt. The stationers who met in the back of Sammie's knew their kind.
There were no old fools on Thromberg
, Pardell reminded himself. He'd had to believe their warnings of the danger to Malley.

Pardell felt trapped even out here, despite the endless distances to every side but one. He carried Malley's suit strapped to his back, as if carrying the man. It had meant waiting in the air lock until he was sure Tanya had left, then sneaking back onstation to retrieve the gear.

Getting the massive stationer
into
the suit was a problem Pardell left to the unimaginable future.

He watched for others of his kind out here, aware Rosalind and others wouldn't approve, hoping to spot them first. It was almost impossible to identify one another outside. Everyone's suit bore patches and replacement parts gleaned from the same sources. Only style stood out, and there wasn't much Pardell could do to disguise his own. Few were as fast or graceful on the cables, and, though he delayed where necessary to be careful, he had to move at his best pace. He chose routes through abandoned ships, a spreading graveyard where the cable system was no longer maintained. Risky, but less likely to be observed. As for explaining why he carried an extra suit? That would take some doing. He'd rather not.

The brief rest at Sammie's had helped. He'd eaten a bit as well. Still, Pardell fought to keep his hands from shaking, blinking sweat from his eyes. This side of Thromberg was in daylight again and his suit struggled to maintain his core temperature within anything resembling safe levels.

He dropped more than slid down the last stretch of cabling, coming to rest in the shadow of a Nautilus-class private yacht. A fancy toy, brought out here during the first wave of optimism and wealth, abandoned when her holds ran empty and her crew sought sturdier quarters. 'Sider kids used to play on it. Pardell ran his glove over the sleek curve of a hull destined to swim in atmosphere as well as vacuum, distracted by thoughts of lift, drag, thrust—teased by imaginings of dropping through a cloud to come out again in sunlight.

Sunlight without an atmosphere was a far less friendly thing. Pardell wrenched his foolish, wandering mind back to the present, angry at himself again, and again tired of that anger. One day, he'd learn to focus on a task and simply do it.

Such as what lay ahead. Resolutely, Pardell leaned down and activated his mags, feeling the thump through his lower legs as his boots flattened to the station's outer plate. Thromberg's stern horizon made a paired arc before his eyes, not as smooth as the aft section had been before the 'siders attached their ships. No, the stern ring had originally been intended to receive only freighters and automated cargo barges. It was festooned with servo handling arms and other gear—now almost half nonfunctional, according to Rosalind. Still, a rare glimpse of Thromberg's grand design before the Quill.

It would take him about an hour to walk to the nearest air lock. More importantly, it would take one-quarter of a tank of air if he paced it right. Pardell hit the chin switch and read his gauges. He still had three-quarters of a tank, the difference from full being what had brought him along the cables to here.

Pardell carried one extra air tank—all he owned. It was an old emerg unit, about one-half the capacity of the one on his back, but he'd tested it before. He'd made sure the tank on Malley's suit was full, not that he'd touch it. If they couldn't both make it back, what was the point?

He took one last look at the comforting confusion of ships and cables that was home and safety, then began his march. The joke would be on him, if the air locks of the stern ring had been sealed from inside.

Thunk. Lift the heel to release. Swing the foot forward and down. Thunk. Lift the heel to release the back foot. Swing it forward . . . Pardell lost himself in the sensation of effort without struggle, satisfied to be moving in a direction that might help Malley without arguments and confusion. Everyone told him what to do. No one listened. Thunk . . . Lift . . .
Young Aaron, don't trust them
. . . Swing . . . Thunk . . .
Young Pardell, we don't want your help . . . Mr. Touch-Me-Not
. . . Lift . . .

Thunk . . . At least now, here, it was his choice to be a fool or hero, precisely which depending on several factors beyond his control.

As the slice of station making up the stern ring came closer, Pardell realized he'd forgotten one of those factors.

There were tiny suited figures ahead. Not many, and none between him and his chosen air lock, but there could be more hidden in the intense black shadows cast by the servo booms and other equipment. So far, they all seemed busy with their own tasks. There wasn't much he could do beyond hoping they were also focused on their upcoming shift change, timed, for convenience out here, to the approaching terminator as the station rolled from sunlight to darkness.

Some of those workers were at the bases of what Pardell didn't at first credit to be starships. His feet kept moving as he stared at what the
Merry Mate II
and her sister ships had been. Perhaps some of these were just as old or as ready to be scrapped in favor of newer models, but to his eyes, they were all whole and beautiful, free of the haphazard cables and piping, ready to fly.

One in particular caught his fancy, an odd-looking thing set apart from the rest. It must be docked as far to this side of the ring as possible. Since that docking placed it closest to his air lock, he was relieved to see the ship didn't have any suited figures bustling around its exterior. In fact, there was nothing near it at all, a lack of comparison that kept him from judging its true size until he was much closer.