In the Company of Others (28 page)

And he had more important needs. “Where's Aaron?”

“There.” Smith pointed to a long, coffinlike box a few meters away. “He's—I'm told nothing's changed.”

Malley stood, surprised to be able to do so without reeling. Remarkable juice indeed. He should introduce Aisha to Syd. Wonder what they could whip up together.

Deliberately inane thoughts, keeping him from too close attention to surroundings more reminiscent of the tube and vat chambers on Thromberg than the cozy, crowded med wards in Outward Five.

No one interfered with him as he walked toward the long, white box. There were at least three guards and a handful of techs or maybe scientists, he couldn't tell which by looking, but none so much as moved. He'd seen Smith's hand signal and supposed he was grateful.

A flash of apprehension dried his mouth, leaving only the lingering, unfamiliar taste of the juice. What had they done to Aaron? Another step, and he could answer his own question.

They'd put him in a bath.
There were a few, pay-as-you-go bathing rooms in Outward Five—more, if you believed it, in the other levels. Joke was, Station Admin needed more washing.

Aaron's bath had being submerged in common with those places. That was it. His friend seemed to be floating—his head and neck supported from beneath—in a glowing blue liquid Malley couldn't be sure was water. The liquid frothed white along the edges of the box, rising up in the corners. Aaron's clothes had been stripped from him, even his gloves. Tiny bubbles beaded every hair and crease in his skin, reflecting light. They formed chains outlining thin clear tubes penetrating that skin at neck, elbows, and abdomen.

Broader, almost sheetlike tubing covered Aaron's groin—incidental modesty—but nothing concealed the paired cuffs locking down both arms, and those clamped around Aaron's thighs and ankles.

Malley shook with the effort it took to stand there, looking at what they'd done. He couldn't begin to guess which would be worse: to have Aaron stay unconscious or to have his friend wake up and find himself imprisoned like this.

He did know he wasn't going to wait for the answer.

Plunging both hands into the warm liquid, he grabbed the supports for the nearest cuff and pulled. The device resisted. Malley braced himself—only to be yanked away by rough hands on his upper arms. He didn't struggle, letting himself be turned and held for inspection, tossing back his head so he could glare down at his enemy from his full height.

“What do you think you're doing?” the Earther demanded, angry red spots on each cheek. “I thought you wanted your friend cared for!”

Malley was glad the guards kept hold of him. “You call this ‘care'? ” he spat. “I'm no doctor, but this isn't how you look after someone.”

He didn't expect the Earther to give him a startled look then rush to the side of the box. She had to step up on the narrow platform encircling the entire apparatus to see inside.

He was even more surprised when Gail Smith turned around, still on the platform, and ordered in the coldest voice he'd ever heard: “Get these cuffs off—now. And bring Dr. Temujin to me.”

GAIL loathed fools. They were time-wasting at best, deadly at worst. She stood on the platform, her arms wrapped around herself, overseeing Aisha and her techs using the remote arms to detach restraints a fool had put on a helpless man, aware of the rage that same fool's actions had instilled in the man whose trust she desperately needed. If Temujin had done irreparable harm to this patient or that trust, she'd leave
him
behind on the station.
Naked and cuffed.

She'd been a fool, too, blithely assuming she could leave Pardell to the care of others, more interested in the stationer she hoped to argue and coax into helping her. Gail made herself glance at Malley, seeing how the man's face had become gaunt with strain, the eyes which had sparkled with challenge now sullen and suspicious. The FDs had released him at her nod, but stood within reach. He might look too defeated to be a threat; none of them believed that.

No doubt Grant had told his people Malley was armed.

Her own state was the more legitimate worry
, Gail judged. She had a great deal to accomplish here and now, but she could feel the boost shot's expensive energy fading. Her mouth was drying. Already, her skin was goosefleshed under her clothing. Soon—too soon—her body would demand the full price for cheating the exhaustion and stress of the day's events. There were good reasons sensible people avoided the drug.
Sensible didn't cover today.
Gail tried to summon up righteous anger at everyone and anything. Unfortunately, all she could muster was guilt, as though Malley's unhappiness was her fault, like so much else gone wrong in the past hours.

Perhaps
, Gail admitted in a moment of rare honesty,
she'd been a fool there as well
, allowing herself to be charmed by Malley's intellect and boldness, fascinated by someone so physical and yet so much more complex. Perhaps. In her present state, about five minutes from collapse, Gail doubted she could muster the proper detachment to judge herself. She only knew his opinion of her mattered beyond her ability to rationalize.

Right now, that opinion couldn't be worse. There was only one way to improve it, if it wasn't already too late. Gail returned to her study of Aaron Pardell.

The reason Pardell chose to wear gloves was now obvious. To be fair, she might have reacted like Temujin, had she been the one to discover the unusual appearance of Pardell's bare hands. Blue-toned as seen through the steri-gel, the veinlike network beneath his skin was nonetheless striking. Dense from fingers to wrist, it gradually thinned to a few, thicker strands over his arms, like lacework, disappearing at the top of his shoulders. A similar patterning covered his legs and spread like a fan across his flat belly.

Her first impression, of an elaborate tattoo or body paint, changed when she observed that the network wasn't constant. A subtle pulsation traveled along the largest branches. The smaller vessels, if that's what they were, weren't always distinct, fading at seeming random, then being restored.

Maybe she shouldn't be quite so hard on Dr. Temujin
, Gail told herself, seriously considering revoking the order letting those hands float free. One breached the surface even as the thought crossed her mind. Momentarily free of the gel, the hand showed its true colors: the network gold under the white of Pardell's skin, a filigree not quite paralleling the blue traces marking his true veins. The contrast made his hand resemble sculpted stone, not flesh.

Other than this, Aaron Pardell looked ordinary enough. Gail ran her eyes over his body clinically, looking for signs of malnutrition or other abnormalities. Nothing obvious. In fact, his slight build had been misleading. Stripped, Pardell's body was lean, but muscled like a gymnast. Gail recalled how easily he'd flipped himself along the cables to avoid the spy 'bot, in spite of wearing a suit and its tanks. His face . . . she looked away, discomfited by features totally lacking even the inner concentration of sound sleep, especially when she'd seen how expressive Pardell's face could be.

They'd better run a cognitive function assessment before getting Malley's hopes too high.
Or hers.

“Come here please, Mr. Malley,” she asked him without turning, one hand indicating her left. She knew the instant he was there—not only did he block the light, it was like having a pillar generating heat beside her. “Did you know he looked like this?”

“What of it?” the voice had dropped an ominous octave. “People don't come out of a mold—except your soldier clones.”

Gail ignored the last. “Trust me, Mr. Malley. No one else has this type of—secondary veining. Has he always had it?”

“Yes. And before you ask, yes, Aaron's going to be very uncomfortable if he wakes up naked.” Malley paused, then added in a thoughtful voice: “It might be more than being self-conscious. He's never come out and admitted it, but I think his skin reacts to intense light—maybe, to some extent, to any light. I've seen him cover up in a hurry when we've been working under norm and some Admin lout turned on the big spots to catch dust bunnies.”

Gail glanced at Aisha, who nodded and dimmed the light levels within the med tank by half.

Maybe Malley took this as encouragement. One huge hand gripped the side of the tank near Gail as he asked: “What about those things you've stuck into him?”

“These are nutrient feeds,” Aisha answered from the opposite side of the tank. She pointed to the tubes entering Pardell's neck and arms. “Because the patient is unconscious, there are also—arrangements—to handle his bodily functions.”

A large finger stabbed at Pardell's abdomen. “And that one?” Malley demanded, from his tone ever-so-lightly mollified by Aisha's explanations, but still suspicious.

Aisha looked for permission, and Gail shook her head. The tube in question entered Pardell's skin exactly over one of the larger network vessels and probably punctured it. Doubtless a little of Temujin's creative curiosity. “Pancreatic sampler,” she said glibly, curious herself. “We have to assess your friend's overall health before we try any potentially stressful treatments. Anything you can tell us—any history—would improve our chances of success.”

“What sort of history?” he asked her bluntly. That deeper voice again. Malley wasn't buying her explanation.

“Has he ever been exposed to radiation, mutagenics, nerve toxins, generator emissions—that sort of thing?” This rapid-fire questioning came from a new voice, as a plump, pajama-clad Dr. Stan Temujin came dashing into the room ahead of the tech sent to summon him. He looked wildly excited—a not unusual expression, since the man was capable of passion over slime mold—and Gail had a difficult time keeping her expression properly stern and displeased. Malley's looming presence helped.

“So you're the one—” Gail laid two fingers on Malley's wrist and he stopped.

“Allow me,” she said, scowling fiercely at Temujin, at least until the man's delight at finding her with his new oddity faded into a puzzled comprehension that he was in trouble. Again. Gail sighed to herself. So many otherwise brilliant people had no control over their reactions.

“Dr. Temujin, this is Hugh Malley. A stationer from Thromberg and a friend of our patient, Mr. Aaron Pardell.”

Temujin, at a considerable disadvantage staring up at Malley, pulled his robe together over his pajamas. He had the look of a mouse noticed by a lion, which might have had something to do with his being present when Grant had had a tranked Malley carried in and put under guard. Temujin bravely offered his hand, then dropped it when Malley ignored the gesture. Gail thought that just as well, considering the grip the stationer likely possessed when in a good mood.

“Good question,” Gail said in a noncommittal voice. “Has he ever been exposed to such hazards, Mr. Malley?”

“On the station? No. Of course not. We're brought up to be careful. Outside?”
Did anyone else hear how his voice flinched past the word?
“Who knows? He's never said. There's Sammie's beer, of course.”

“You can't possibly be implying there's anything wrong with that nice man's beer,” she scolded with a deliberately straight face.

“Nice!” A snort, then a slightly easier tone. “It's not environment—not as far as Aaron knows. His skin's always been like this. Other than his sensitivity to touch, he's never been sick or broken more than one bone at a time. Bruises and frostbite. He's tone-deaf—that help?” The finishing touch of sarcasm Gail chose to take as another sign Malley was finding his balance again.

“Who knows what will be the key?” she told him honestly. “We're all playing detective here.”

Malley looked back over his shoulder at Pardell. “He's never stayed under this long. Ever. You didn't give him anything—?” This alarming growl was directed at poor Temujin, who literally jumped back in shock.

“No! Nothing except nutrients,” Temujin said quickly. Gail started to relax at this rare sign of intelligent discretion, then tensed as the man babbled on: “And an assortment of metabolic tags. you know, Gail, the 95-S series is ideal for experimenting with liver function—and I injected a marked ion trace to test—”

“Malley!!”

He'd moved quickly, but, for once, Gail found herself moving faster still, getting in front of the stationer's charge from the platform. She had no idea what Malley'd intended, but his expression didn't promise Temujin would enjoy the experience. She stood her ground, feeling ridiculous but completely determined this wouldn't deteriorate into another double shot of tranks for Malley or a flattened, if well-meaning, fool.

Malley stopped short of running her down, catching himself on the balls of his feet. The guards stopped, too, understanding her look but none too happy about it. “He—” words failed but his fists were white-knuckled. “He—”

“Yes. Dr. Temujin exceeded normal medical protocols by running some tests without permission on Mr. Pardell,” Gail finished for him. “He shouldn't have—but I assure you they weren't harmful.”

“How the hell would you know what's safe for Aaron?” Malley transferred his anger back to her.
Good
, Gail decided. She was better equipped for it.

And he had a point.
“You're right,” Gail agreed. “We don't know. But we'll have to run these and more tests in order to find out how to help him. Unless there's someone who knows more about him than you do—or information back on his ship . . . ?”