In the Company of Others (20 page)

Malley released her hand but stayed. His voice deepened—a sign he was troubled, Gail now suspected. His eyes were haunted. “That's what you meant—when you said knowing why you needed Aaron would change everything.”

“Yes.”

“Not everything,” Malley disagreed. “He is my best friend. My brother.”

Gail didn't flinch, aware Grant had gathered his people again, aware time was growing short and nothing guaranteed any of them would live once they left this room. “You know him better than anyone, then. Would Aaron Pardell want to help the people on this station?” she asked very softly. “Is he like you?”

“He's better than I am,” Malley said, almost to himself. “We kid around, but when push comes to grab, Aaron's the kind who'll do without before seeing anyone else go hungry. Always been that way. Everyone who knows him is happy to give him room, no question.”

“So if he knew why I needed him, he'd want to help.”

“Dr. Smith—”

Gail ignored Grant. “Am I right, Mr. Malley?”

The stationer nodded very slowly, then his eyes narrowed as he stared down at her. “It doesn't matter. Aaron's a soft touch—I'm not. I've lost track of the number of times I've kept him from starving himself in a good cause, which doesn't mean I don't still do it. I'm not prepared to believe you that this project of yours is safe for him. I do believe you haven't told me anything close to the entire truth.”

Grant interrupted again, but kept his distance. “Dr. Smith—they've left the
Seeker
. We must go to whatever air lock we can reach and start signaling our location.”

“Talk to Pardell,” Gail continued pressing Malley, trusting Grant to physically haul her away if things became truly urgent. “Keep the transmitter and contact me when you can—I'll send you more information, if that's what it's going to take. Just talk to him about it.”

Malley looked almost convinced, then looked past her to Grant. “Your man's right. You have to get moving.”

“Mr. Malley. Hugh.”

“I'll come with you as far as I dare,” Malley said instead of answering her directly, taking her arm and shoving her in Grant's direction. Gail didn't bother objecting—the man seemed incapable of noticing how much she disliked being pushed hither and yon.
Besides
, Gail admitted honestly, following Grant as they hurried toward the leftmost door,
stationer manners were legitimately the least of her worries now.

IT wasn't fair
, Pardell grumbled to himself. Oh, the air lock hadn't been sealed, but he'd foolishly expected anything to do with the stern docking ring to be in pristine condition. He should have known better—Thromberg showed her stress marks everywhere.

He secured Malley's suit and tugged a hammer from his waist belt. The outer door appeared to have not been opened—or lubricated—during his lifetime. With a careful air of “I'm busy working” for any observers, he began smacking the 'lock's emergency manual release, his other hand holding tight during each blow so the force didn't knock his mags free of the station plate. He'd automatically clipped a line from his suit to a ring designed for that purpose, but it would look pretty embarrassing to have to haul himself back into contact, through an Insider mistake.

Three smacks and the handle budged a quarter turn. He wrestled it the remaining distance, then waited impatiently for the interior clamps to disengage. The air lock should evacuate itself automatically to receive him, a quick process that for some reason was now taking an eternity. Pardell dared a quick look around.

There were suited figures emerging from the smaller globe of the Earther's ship.

Nothing to do with him
, Pardell told himself. He turned back to the 'lock. The indicator was red; clamps were still in place. Choosing a spot at random, Pardell struck the door again with his hammer. Maybe the Earthers would assume this was a malfunctioning air lock and choose one of the others within an easy walk. Maybe they were out doing pointless maintenance on a ship obviously perfect. Maybe they'd never used suits before and wanted to go for a stroll in vacuum.

Pardell told himself the sweat burning one eye was due to his suit protesting its longest use in years and tried to keep from looking around again.

But he couldn't help it. The indicator flashed green just as he turned around—almost certain he'd see a row of figures closing in on him, figures in new suits with only one owner and full tanks of air, maybe even propellant rigs that worked.

He was wrong—they'd moved away from him. Pardell froze in disbelief, so ready for confrontation or worse he found himself gripping the hammer as if somehow it could be a weapon. How could they be ignoring him? After all, the Earther spy 'bot had practically touched his helmet.

But they were moving away. In fact, the first pair were now passing within the terminator, suit lights flaring as the station's own shadow caught them in its darkness, the rest following.

Like him, each of the figures carried an extra suit.

Pardell swallowed what saliva he could find in his mouth.
Not routine,
an alarm hammered in his mind. Something was wrong. Something major. These Earthers weren't an attack force—all they carried of any size were the suits.

They were a rescue.

And who would be with any Earther in trouble inside Thromberg?

Damn. Damn. Damn.
Pardell used the word as well as his hammer to reset the stubborn air lock release back into its closed position—safety for anyone trying to exit as well as covering his tracks.

Then he grabbed Malley's suit and headed after the Earthers, quite sure this time he was being a fool and not a hero, but seeing no alternative.

A GHOST station, peopled by discarded things. Gail watched where she stepped, trying to avoid the litter of paper, trampled boxes, and, more rarely, food—all items presumably dropped as their owners answered their passions and ran to join their neighbors. Surely some must have run in the other direction, she thought uncomfortably, worried about family or friends. Perhaps not. There were no children here: a suddenly ominous difference.

As long as they were alone and unobserved, Malley appeared willing to stay with them. A good thing—he'd remembered enough of his own trip to the Admin offices and then to the
Seeker
to guide them on a route different than the one they'd been brought along, claiming it was faster. Gail kept to herself the obvious: that speed made it the likeliest route for the mob as well. She found herself straining to see ahead, worrying about catching up to stragglers.

“Feels like the damn aft ring up here,” Malley said after a long silence, punctuated only by the rapid thud of their boots. Their pace was short of a run, but quick enough.

Gail thought she was the only one to hear, being beside the stationer—Grant and Tau were in front, with Loran way ahead and the other two a comfort behind. “What do you mean?” she asked, willing to be distracted.

Malley glanced at her, then shrugged. “Deserted. Empty. No one lives in the aft ring—it was too damaged. There's air, but no heat. We don't have many places like that. So this feels very—strange. To me. I guess you're used to it. Being alone in a place.”

Listening to the sounds of six pairs of boots marching in quick time, Gail was inclined to grin at this, but answered him seriously. “It depends on where you live, Mr. Malley. On Titan, everything's orbital or under domes. Space is still at a premium. Not so much as here—” a masterful understatement, Gail thought, “but most share accommodations, eating areas, hallways. You have to go to Earth or Mars to find enough room to be alone. Even there, people seem to enjoy being crowded into cities.”

“But you've been in the open?” Malley asked, maybe a little too nonchalantly. Gail looked up out the corner of her eyes and saw his jaw clench once, spasmodically.

“It's not necessary,” she said quickly, trying to imagine a life spent entirely within walls. “And a sky—well, it's like a roof, really.”

“Really,” he repeated, from his tone not in the least fooled by her efforts, but perhaps appreciating the attempt. “I'll take your word for it, Dr. Smith.”'

“Gail,” she corrected, for no particular reason, unless it was that her title, from Malley, felt more like a challenge than an acknowledgment of rank.

“Left corridor,” Malley called out softly. Loran, hearing this, checked back over her shoulder for confirmation, then went left at Grant's nod. They carried their weapons hidden in pockets, ready for use but not in plain sight. More of Malley's advice. Gail hoped it would be enough.

“Slow up!” The warning came suddenly from Malley. “There's a junction ahead with the main corridor to the Outward Five levels. It's where I came up. The stern docking ring and 'locks begin just past that point.”

“What do we watch for?” Grant asked, signaling his people ahead with caution. Malley hung back and Gail stayed with him.

“You'll know trouble if you see it. Could be no one's there. They could have locked it down already.”

“Or?” Gail whispered, as they all fell silent, eyes fixed on Loran as she eased to the wall's end.

“Or there could be some ruckus underway down-corridor—if stationers from up here tried to storm past our folks to get Pardell. There's not much good will between the levels.” From the apparently unconscious way Malley's hands kept forming fists as he spoke, Gail was reasonably sure he would have vastly preferred an active role in whatever might be happening.

Loran's hand moved in an all-clear motion, sweeping them forward. Grant didn't let them hesitate in the opening, although Gail took a quick look as she ran past. Opening? There was none. A few steps in, the corridor ended at a massive steel plate that must have been swung out from the walls, then spot-welded in place. It wasn't airtight; just people-proof.

“Well, that's a relief,” Mitchener said from behind Malley.

The stationer muttered something under his breath, then said louder: “Sure. If you like your riots made official and your friends locked on the other side.”

Gail knew what Malley didn't bother adding: that had been his way home.

A strange vibration in the floor plates began shuddering up through Gail's feet. She started to reach out to halt Grant, to ask him what it was, then she heard a sound—like the ocean crashing against the rocks outside her family's oceanfront home in the south of France. There were gull-like noises as well. It was almost soothing . . .

Until Gail put the vibration and sound into context. Ahead of them were large numbers of moving people, shouting, smashing things. They were about to catch up to the inhabitants of this place.

Then she did reach out for Grant, but he stopped before she could touch him, motioning them against the far side of the hall. Loran came back at a breathless run, panting out the unnecessary. “Around the corner, where it opens up to the ring proper. We can't go any farther, sir, without being seen. There must be thousands—” She sucked in air, then said more calmly: “There's an air lock closer to us. Best we have troops coming from it, than stand outside knocking in plain sight, sir. In my opinion.”

Grant gave a short laugh. “My preference, exactly. With your permission, Dr. Smith?” He held up a transmitter.

Gail glared at him and waved impatiently. Thinking about a mob and being close enough to feel and hear the power of hundreds of enraged people were completely different things.

“That's my cue to head elsewhere, Gail,” Malley said into her ear.

Startled, Gail turned her head before Malley drew away, and found herself nose-to-nose with him. Before she could so much as blink, the big stationer grinned and planted a quick, light kiss on her cheek. Then he was off, running back the way they'd came.

“I take it we let Malley leave?” Grant commented, one corner of his mouth deepening.

Gail narrowed her eyes. “Think you could have stopped him?”

The commander's mouth spread into the beginnings of a real smile. “Probably not quietly.”

“Sir?” Tau came forward with the transmitter. “They're at the outer door now. Sasha's predicting three minutes to get it open—equipment's not in AA shape. Then they'll be through, with our suits. It's a passenger egress, designed for hand luggage as well. We're in luck.”

“Why?” Gail asked.

“It could have been one of the emerg locks,” Grant explained almost absently. “Those fit a max of two, maybe three, suiting up inside at a time. We'd have to defend the air lock through three complete cycles minimum to get everyone suited and out. Lots of time for mistakes.” He checked his wristchrono. “As it is, we should all be able to enter, lock up, and suit without undue risk.”

“You didn't mention this potential problem when you brought up this plan, Commander,” Gail said icily.

“It wasn't a problem, Dr. Smith. The FD's orders are to get you to safety. Any air lock would have done that. This is just—more convenient—for the rest of us.” His brown eyes were frank and his matter-of-fact tone dared her to argue.

She didn't. His orders dealt with the continuation of her project, not an evaluation that the life of Gail Smith was worth more than any of the others now leaning against the wall, waiting through a very long three minutes.

Had this been an unnecessary risk?
Gail asked herself, thinking over the past hours as critically and dispassionately as possible. Without Pardell and his ship, was the project already a failure? Yes, she was sure of it. The others didn't realize how key this individual was to her plans—if they had, knowing how difficult and unlikely it was to find one person on one of these stations, Titan U would never have let her have its flagship.