In the Company of Others (30 page)

Make that desperately, since the first thing Malley learned was how much Gail Smith and these Earthers knew about the Quill—and how appallingly little he or anyone else did. While no one could confirm what they looked like now, the original Quill had borne no resemblance to any rumor or so-called fact he'd grown up “knowing.” No three-meter giants with googly eyes and long tentacles. No jellylike masses hiding in dark crawlways. The truth about them was . . . not threatening at all.

At first.

It had been deep-space explorers, Gail's work confirmed, who'd found the Quill—or found what became the Quill. They'd reported finding what looked like thin, long filaments of iridescent plastic on a distant world, a world with a thriving, alien ecosystem. Otherwise, S-9131 Sigma-D was another disappointment, cataloged and left. In those days, humanity had been looking for others, confident the universe had to be crowded with nonhuman intelligence. In those days, the search had enraptured everyone.

The explorers enjoyed a rare freedom in their search, but paid for it with extremes of isolation, boredom, and unending failure. Little wonder that they sought diversion wherever they could. The Quill were one such.

Who first discovered that the lovely filaments would cling to bare skin? It wasn't recorded. Nothing official ever was, since the explorers and their pilots weren't supposed to transport alien life, no matter how innocuous it appeared. No, all that existed were personal records and diaries. Gail had searched hundreds of these with a tenacity Malley found remarkable and others probably thought obsessed.

It was clear that filaments were taken off S-913 1 Sigma-D by someone. Why? They looked pretty. They were harmless. Some diaries claimed they weren't alive at all, since they ate nothing, changed nothing, and produced nothing. An organic oddity. A diversion.

The thought of their nemesis reduced to a diversion offended Malley—but it had inspired Gail Smith.
A digger, all right
, Malley thought with grudging approval, rereading the copy of a letter he couldn't believe she'd found—or that he could be holding in his own hands.

Malley reread the letter each time he sat on the bed, trying to imagine what it had been like before the Quill, each time angrier at how huge an accomplishment had been destroyed by so small, so human, a mistake.

There were other reports clipped to this letter. Gail, on a hunch or because she didn't appear capable of ignoring any detail, had correlated medical records and drug requests among deep-space pilots with diary entries mentioning the Quills. It was commonplace—though officially frowned upon—for pilots to rely on stress-relieving drugs. No one argued with what kept them sane and willing to fly.

Sure enough, pilots mentioning the Quill had the lowest drug use of all. In fact, they had superb records and, in many cases, accepted more and longer missions than average.

Malley couldn't blame them. Drug use, except for beer and boost, was almost unknown on Thromberg—not because people wouldn't have sold their souls for a chance to escape their reality, but because Sol System, Earth in particular, refused to allow any quantities of drugs to reach the station. 'Tastic? A local product with a limited clientele, since users didn't last long.

But what if the stationers and immies had something that could numb fear and make them happy, without causing them to space walk sans helmets?

Gail Smith argued, persuasively, that the path of the Quill to the terraformed worlds led back to S-9131 Sigma-D. It was one of the red-stamped “eyes-only” papers, that stamp explaining why news of the discovery of the Quill homeworld had never reached the station.

Gail Smith argued, just as persuasively, that the deadly Quill Effect had to be connected with the organisms' known action on the human nervous system. There were no papers dealing with how, or why, the Quill had changed from soothing pets to a menace once they reached the terraformed worlds. Had they multiplied until their tranquilizing effect actually killed? Was the Quill filament the inanimate stage of a virulent plague, released once on a suitable planet? There had been literally hundreds of possible mechanisms and countermeasures proposed, but not one had ever been tested. There remained the central problem: no Quill filaments were safely in reach.

The science was fascinating, if occasionally obscure—not surprising, given Malley's own knowledge base was eclectic and self-taught, not comprehensive. He probably would have read it all at once, but, every so often, a turn of phrase would suddenly jump out as Gail Smith's. That was usually when Malley would toss the reader aside and check on Aaron.

Besides, Malley knew it really didn't matter whether the Quill were three-meter googly-eyed monsters or mind-bending organic jewelry—they'd stolen the terraformed worlds and that was that.

Watching the techs was more worthwhile. Malley asked vague questions, more to mislead than to get real answers. They soon stopped being concerned about his presence and talked freely among themselves. Most of their efforts involved assessing Aaron's present physical state. They were monitoring everything he'd ever heard of, as well as things he didn't know could be monitored. In each case so far, their results seemed to be falling within expected norms. There was a brief flurry of excitement when one of the analyses turned up an anomaly—then calibrations were checked and the interesting anomaly vanished.

Gail Smith's so-called “pancreatic sampler” remained a mystery. Malley presumed it was an attempt to somehow intercept whatever passed through the gold vessels under Aaron's skin. The techs were silent on that one. Since no one knew if there was anything inside—or if they were vessels at all and not simply an unusual coloration—Malley intended to have this particular testing end as soon as someone in authority woke up. Which should be soon.

Patience wasn't his strong point
, Malley sighed to himself, staring down at Aaron's still form, watching the streams of fine bubbles rising up through the blue liquid.

“Philips? Get over here,” another tech, a woman named Benton, called softly.
Funny how they whispered during their night
, Malley thought,
as though someone might be asleep in a nearby closet.
Even-cycle day should be so considerate. He could have slept easily through any sounds these people made.

Philips went to join Benton, both tipping their heads to examine a readout. Malley followed casually, keeping out of the way but making sure he moved close enough to overhear.

“I can't believe you only just ran this, Benton,” Philips was saying in a fretful voice. “I thought Dr. Smith wanted it done immediately.”

Benton shrugged. “Then she should have gone and pried the equipment from Dr. Sazaad. You know what he's like . . .
middle of an experiment, oh, I'll lose all my data, oh, the universe will implode . . .
”

“I know. I know. Well, it's done now.” Philips paused, then said in a heavier voice—perhaps forgetting Malley was near. “This is the second trial?”

Malley wasn't sure why his heart started hammering.

“There's no mistake,” Benton said, pointing at a screen and tracing her finger along a flat, horizontal line. “See the base? I'm telling you, we should call this, Philips. He's gone.”

With remarkable restraint, Malley took each of the smaller techs by a shoulder instead of a throat to swing them around to face him. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

Their mirrored looks of sympathy made him drop his hands. “What are you talking about?” he repeated, or thought he did. Nothing seemed to come out of his mouth.

They spoke quickly and at once: “Only preliminary findings—” “We should report to Dr. Smith—”

“Now!” he demanded.

Philips' shoulders slumped but his eyes met Malley's. “Benton ran a cog screen—a cognitive function assessment—on your friend. There's—the baseline's flat. There's nothing. I'm sorry, Malley.”

“What do you mean—nothing?”

Benton spoke up when Philips didn't—or couldn't—answer. “It means that even though his body is still functioning, your friend, Mr. Pardell, is dead.”

THERE were things that shattered sleep, rather than simply woke a person. Gail felt alert and fragile at the same time, as though she'd forgotten to collect all of herself before leaving her bed. But the summons had been more than urgent and left no time for fantasies.

FD Picray had been on watch in the science sphere. He'd reported to the Second on duty, who'd reported to Grant—another rude awakening. Grant had wasted no time disobeying her orders not to be disturbed.

They hadn't found his ship.

The commander had intercepted her at the door to the waist, still pulling his belt through its loops and thus relieving her of a long-standing suspicion, that he slept in uniform. Together and silently, they'd taken the walkway to the second locked door, and then rushed into the science sphere proper, Gail doing her best to keep herself centered and calm and failing miserably. This was the last straw, even though she'd suspected as much.