In the Company of Others (35 page)

There's been an incident
—Gail gave a tight nod that sent Grant back to his seat, one hand cupped over his ear comm as though the report was still coming in.
Past tense
, she told herself. Whatever was done—whomever had died—was beyond changing now.

She wanted it otherwise. But her place was at this table, just as it was Rosalind's. Doubtless, the 'sider would have preferred the bridge of one of her extorted ships, over sipping oolong tea with Earthers.

“Bad news?” Rosalind asked.

Gail weighed several choices, then smiled. “An update. I like to keep posted.”

“How is young Aaron?”

“No change—which is why I've made this offer.”

Rosalind locked the appendages forming her left hand around her cup and turned it, released and readjusted her grip, then gripped and turned the cup again.
A habit
, Gail thought, taking advantage of Rosalind's sudden preoccupation to ram half a biscuit into her mouth. She was going to have to start carrying snacks in her pockets at the rate she was missing meals.

The tray of tea and warm biscuits had relaxed tensions, as had rearranging the seating so they were comfortably spaced around the table. Courtesies were never meaningless—especially, Gail reminded herself, in places where the living was hard and people had to share to survive.

“Your offer.” A hairless brow lifted. “What makes you so sure I have access to young Aaron's ship?”

Gail washed down her biscuit with tea before saying: “A hunch. If I'm wrong, I'm sure you know someone else who does.”

“In order to look for clues to young Aaron's—predicament.”

“Exactly.”

“And in exchange for the
'Mate
's location and entry codes, you offer to take a delegation of Outsiders with you to prove to us that the Quill exist, that Earth's paranoia has been valid all these years, and—lo!—you, Gail Smith, are about to save the day.”

Gail poured herself more tea and offered Rosalind the same service. “Just so,” she said pleasantly.

It gained her an honest laugh and a closer look from those challenging pale eyes. “Deep spacers know the Quill, Gail. Not by rumor and lies. Records, firsthand accounts passed down from generation to generation. All say the Quill are harmless, helpful things. Toys to make the translight passages easier to bear. You can understand why true spacers never bought into the Reductionist hysteria about murderous aliens.” It was Rosalind's turn to sample a biscuit, the only sign she'd been living on station rations for twenty years being the slowness with which she chewed and swallowed. Then she said: “Mind you, that's not something for casual talk on Thromberg. You've noticed their tendency to scream first and check the tag later.”

“If you're so sure about the Quill and Earth,” Gail challenged her, “come with us. Prove it once and for all.”

There were fine age lines etched at the corners of Rosalind's lips and eyes. They tightened now, as if she steeled herself against a quick response she'd regret—or as if, Gail hoped, she was considering the offer.

“Another option,” Rosalind said finally. “You take myself and one other with you. You permit us to bring our own communication equipment, so we can reach our people here as necessary. And—one of our ships makes a goodwill trip to Callisto at the same time.”

Gail opened one hand, palm up. “I'll put through a request for clearance—that's all I can do. If Sol refuses ...” She left the obvious unsaid. The 'siders had tried the blockade once. It had most likely cost Rosalind her hands.

“Excuse me, Dr. Smith,” Grant said quietly. “There's an incoming call for you.”

The commander wouldn't interrupt for anything less than a major crisis—or Titan.
There's been an incident
. . . Gail fixed her smile a little more tightly in place and stood. “Please forgive me, Rosalind. Perhaps you'd care for a tour of the bridge with Captain Tobo?” She gave Tobo a look he returned with an imperceptible bow.

The 'sider's eyes shone with anticipation and she put her cup aside. “I would. Thank you.”

“We'll resume our discussion back here in half an hour, then.” Gail waited until Tobo had escorted the taller woman out the door before turning to Grant.

He'd hurried to her desk to key in the comm, but paused before finalizing the link. “Who first? Titan or Thromberg?”

“Both? Lucky me. Who sounds less hysterical?” Gail asked, walking by him and dropping into her chair. She glared at the pending call lights.

“Unfortunately, it's a tie.”

Gail raised her hand to cue the comm, then stopped and looked up at Grant. “What's going on in the lab? Is it Pardell?”

He shrugged. “I'd left orders not to be disturbed, so Aleksander just passed along the highlights. No one's dead—although I'm told Sazaad came close and Malley was critical, but is now out of danger. Odds are, they tried to take each other apart. I'll send someone down to get the details.”

“Go yourself.”

“Dr. Smith—”

“Go,” she insisted. “The science staff won't listen to anyone of lower rank—when they listen at all. And Malley knows you. We can't afford mistakes among our own. Deal with whatever mess is down there and get back here as fast as you can. Tobo should be able to keep our guest fascinated and out of mischief long enough.”

A hint of a salute as Grant turned smartly and headed for the door. Just shy of it, he turned and stood looking back at her with an unfamiliar expression.

“Yes?” she suggested.

“Before we left Titan, I'd had—concerns—about the chain of command on this mission, Dr. Smith.” Grant paused, then said. “I don't anymore.”

Before she could react, he'd left.

Gail smiled to herself, then her smile faded as she prepared to take the calls waiting on her desk. Thromberg? She thought she could guess the content of that message. Now that she had the beginnings of an agreement with Rosalind and her forces, that call should be easily handled.

Titan? It all depended on what Reinsez had spewed forth in her absence. She thought it unlikely his opinion of her was as high as the commander's had been.

His entire body had been asleep, the way a foot goes numb in one position then complains with ferocious pins and needles of sensation when moved.

There was nothing wrong with his head.
Malley had just been talking to him—where was he?

Opening his eyes might help.

The concept of sight led to other interesting thoughts. His mind raced along, considering the sense of touch—
his didn't seem to be working
—hearing—
there were sounds, he just did-n't understand them
—taste—
definitely old vomit, he knew that one
—smell—
flowers?

There couldn't be flowers here. He recognized the smell because a woman—a woman with no hands—had held a tiny treasured vial to his nostrils and commanded he learn the word
lilac.

Lilac? His thoughts traced botanical concepts, his imagination painted a world with browns, purples, and greens, under the arch of a turquoise-blue sky.
Malley wouldn't like it.

Malley.
The name intruded, disrupted, threatened. Other things floated upward with it, turning on their backs to reveal faces, lips drawn back in death, eyes protruding in accusation.

He had done something terrible.

Lilacs. The smell of lilacs.
The taste of vomit.

“No!” A primal sound, like the howl of air from a blown air lock, sucking life outward until there was nothing but cold, dark metal.
Malley hated air locks.

A splash, as if a container of water had spilled nearby. Another, closer.
He was splashing?

Where was he? Thoughts of location, vectors, time, and distance flipped past one another. Images of places resolved into one—a huge empty space, filled with people who turned to reveal their faces, lips drawn back in death, eyes protruding—

“No!”

This time he knew the scream was from his throat. The pain of it was a welcome anchor to what had to be reality. He groped for more, fearing visions.

Light.
He was floating in light. No matter how wide he opened his eyes, the illusion remained.

He happened to narrow them. The world gained sides and edges. He looked down, finding a body with tubes protruding from it, floating in lilac blue bubbles.

A hand appeared, dripping blue liquid, etched in gold and purple. An artificial hand.
A deadly hand.

Faces turned with dead smiles and eyes—

“No!”

“Get the remotes—we need those cuffs back on—”

More reality?
It seemed unlikely, since it wasn't Malley's voice.
Whose was it?

A cold, steely grip fastened on him, somewhere, a leg. It was on his leg.
It was a dead hand.
He leaped upward, heaving free of the tubes with sudden, sharp twinges of pain, shedding water and illusion at the same time.

Aaron Pardell found himself naked, draped half over the side of a strange bathtub, and confronting a roomful of strangers.

He took a gasping breath and another, then asked the only question he could think of: “Anyone seen Hugh Malley?”

“NO, SIR.”

Gail drew another small circle beside the larger one.

“Yes, sir,” she said at the appropriate moment, then dragged a heavy thick line through both.

Not that the voice on the other end, Departmental Secretary Carlos Vincente, cared whether she agreed or disagreed. The point was to make a noise whenever Vincente paused for breath. It reassured the man she was paying attention. Gail added a series of squiggles to each end of the line. “Of course, sir.”

“I don't think you're listening to me, Dr. Smith.”

Maybe she'd underestimated him.
“Of course I am, Secretary Vincente,” Gail said, carefully coaching her voice into something approaching respect. “I've heard every word.”

Not that it had been pleasant hearing.
Gail stared down at the tip of her now-broken stylo. Reinsez had indeed contacted Titan University without her knowledge, consent, or even a reasonable briefing beforehand. As a result of his hysterical prattle, Titan U, in the persona of Secretary Vincente—the voice of power in the Department of Xenological Studies—wasn't pleased.
No
, Gail thought, tossing her stylo into the recycling bin,
not pleased at all.

“I think we should continue this discussion face-to-face, Dr. Smith. How soon can you be back at Titan University?”

Gail closed her eyes and counted to three. “Secretary Vincente. There is everything to lose and nothing to be gained by interrupting our project before it has properly begun. I will forward a complete, updated report on our present situation—which is, I assure you, quite stable—”

“The esteemed Dr. Reinsez—”

Can suck vacuum.
“My colleague and I were unfortunately out of communication before he chose to make his preliminary report, Secretary,” she said out loud, priding herself on the smoothness of her voice. “Once he has been made aware of all the facts, I'm sure Dr. Reinsez will agree there is no need for concern.”

“Your report—and a conversation with Dr. Reinsez—before I leave my office today. Both to be satisfactory, or the
Seeker
is recalled. Titan out.”

His
office. Translight comms allowed him to diminish her, to make it seem as though they were down a hall from one another when reality placed her at the limits of humanity's settled space. The silence in
her
office descended like a blanket. Gail took in one deep breath after another, surprised to find her hands shaking.

She hadn't anticipated Vincente's reaction.
Some face-saving whining about risk factors and being obsessively careful, yes.
But not this threat to her mission. There must be more opposition to her project back on Earth than she'd imagined, perhaps extending right into her own department at Titan. She'd bumped others from the waiting list for the
Seeker
. The Reductionists on the university council had voted against her budget requests—nothing new. They always tried to scuttle more deep-space spending . . .

The
why
didn't matter. What mattered now was cooperation. She had Tobo's—she needed Grant's as well. She was almost sure she would have it. Almost wasn't good enough.

Time was her enemy, speeding forward to when she either had to produce a willing Reinsez and a soothing report of all things nominal . . .

Or take the
Seeker
where Titan couldn't follow or interfere.

In stark contrast, Thromberg had been utterly reasonable.
No, make that utterly desperate
, Gail corrected herself, replaying the earlier conversation through her mind. Station Chief Nateba had tried to bluff—but only briefly. She'd tried to deny the existence of the Outsiders, talking instead about criminals and terrorists from Outward Five—even implying such were responsible for the attack on
Seeker
personnel.

When Gail mentioned Rosalind Fournier was aboard the
Seeker
and that they'd had surveillance 'bots recording the takeover of the station's freighters by 'sider crews, Nateba's bluster had collapsed. Station Admin, it seemed, had become completely, if belatedly, aware that Thromberg was vulnerable to a segment of its population hitherto completely disregarded.

They wanted her help to disarm the 'sider ships. In fact, they demanded Earther protection.