In the Company of Others (36 page)

On general principle, Gail had thought it wiser not to remind Nateba that the
Seeker
was merely a research vessel, and her crew was hardly capable of locating and disarming who knew how many locked, guarded, and probably booby-trapped ships' engines before the 'siders could retaliate. Grant's FDs? Maybe they could deal with one ship, one threat. She sincerely doubted his solitary unit could make any difference to the end result, not that Thromberg could know how many troops she had.

So rather than promise protection they couldn't give, Gail had advised the station to take standard collision precautions, while she continued the negotiations interrupted by Nateba's call.

In other words, suit up their residents and close any airtight doors.

Gail chewed her bottom lip savagely. The moment the words had been out, she'd wished them unsaid.
Of course they didn't have enough suits
, she lashed at herself again.
How could they?
She'd done her best to cover the mistake, to head off any panic. The riot they'd witnessed on the docking ring would be nothing compared to what could happen—
what would happen
—if the stationers believed their air was at risk.

She'd promised—Titan U had better not find out how much she'd promised.
Among how many other things Titan shouldn't know?

When had things spiraled out of control like this?
Gail dug the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw spots.
It was the damned station.
Nothing was normal here—nothing went as predicted.

There's been an incident
. . . her thoughts kept flashing to the lab—the least of her worries and responsibilities. She'd sent Grant to deal with it.
He would.

Gail stood up, brushing the creases from her tunic.
One problem at a time.
Rosalind Fournier was on the bridge.

Everyone—everything—else would have to wait in line.

EVERYONE was waiting for him
, Pardell realized, taking another throat-searing breath. The air told him the truth immediately—he wasn't on the station or any 'sider ship. This had to be within the
Seeker
.

His eyes adjusted to the lighting; his bared skin ached with it, but he wasn't about to ask for any favors—not until he understood the cost.

Everyone was watching him. Pardell clung to the side of the tub, feeling more than slightly ridiculous. At least being embarrassed helped fight down the fear. He swallowed, pushing back the taste of bile.

Nearest were a matched pair of Earther troops—no, make that a set of four, as two more, identical uniformed figures pounded in through a doorway. No, not identical. One was a woman. Pardell heard an odd sound and looked down. A dark-haired man wearing some kind of fancy suit was propelling himself along the floor in a very undignified fashion. Away from the tank.

There was another sound. He pulled himself up farther and managed to turn to find its source.

Two white-clad figures were standing over a crumpled form. A very large and familiar form. “Get me out of this thing!” Pardell shouted, scrambling desperately. Water—or blue liquid—splashed everywhere as he tried to rise to his knees and climb out, but he couldn't gain purchase on the slippery floor of the tank and fell, cracking his chin painfully on the upper edge.

“Is it safe to handle him?” This plea from one of those near Malley hit Pardell even harder.

He drew himself up again, holding very still this time, as if that might calm those staring at him into making sense. “What's happened to Malley?”

“He touched you.”

That was a little more sense than Pardell wanted. “You made him—!” he choked out angrily.

“No!” One of the white-clad figures, an older woman, stood and came close, but not too close, Pardell noted. “We thought you were dead. There was no higher brain function. Your friend said something about trying a defibrillator—then touched you.”

Malley, you idiot!
Pardell swallowed once, then tried to think. “Is he still breathing?” The question should have been impossible to ask, but he heard the words come out of his mouth with a hard clarity that sounded like someone else's voice.

“Yes.”

“Irregular—but steady,” from the one kneeling beside the stationer's left side.

Relief made the room spin, and Pardell gripped the tank edge until it stopped. He'd knocked Malley out before. The circumstances had been different—
God, they'd been playing around as kids
—but Malley had roused pretty quickly. Once, Raner had been nearby. Pardell struggled to remember what his foster father had done, besides give him the scolding of a lifetime. “Use just one finger,” Pardell told them. “Touch any bit of bare skin quickly and lightly. If you don't feel anything like a static charge, you can handle him. Otherwise, you'll have to wait a few minutes.”

“No, Philips—” the woman cautioned fearfully, but not in time to stop her partner from following Pardell's advice. With almost comical care, he reached out and just brushed Malley's bare arm with a fingertip, then gave it a firm poke before looking up expectantly.

“Nothing,” Philips told Pardell. “We can move him now?”

Pardell nodded and sagged against the side of the tank. “If you have a crane handy,” he said dryly, startling chuckles from a few.

Better that
, he knew,
than letting them stay afraid of him.

Even if they should be.

OF several scenarios Gail had built in her mind on the way to the bridge, she had to admit finding her Captain and the grim leader of the Outsider rebellion sitting in the command chairs, laughing together, hadn't been one of them. She paused in the doorway, making her FD shadows stop at her heels, and considered.

The phrase dropped into her thoughts with the suddenness that marked most of her best, deepest insights. True, it warned against risking everything at once. But, far better, it meant having everything in her hand.
Soon
, Gail promised herself.

“I'm glad the Captain has kept you amused, Rosalind,” she said, moving forward as if never having paused. “My apologies for the interruption.”

Rosalind's pale cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered, an animation sweeping years from her face. Gail noticed more than a few appreciative looks. “No apologies necessary, Gail,” the 'sider told her with a pleased smile. “Tomoki has been spinning me tales—”

“Tales?” Tobo interjected. “Hardly tales. All true, my dear lady. All true!”

Rosalind arched a brow. “If so, you are remarkably well-preserved for so traveled a pilot, my dear Captain.”

Before Tobo could cheerfully continue to protest his dubious innocence—having heard some of his wilder yarns before, Gail could only imagine which he'd decided to tell the 'sider—she said: “I've been contacted by Station Admin,” and watched caution wipe away Rosalind's laughter and replace it with serious attention. “They are understandably anxious whether any of your ships remain poised to be detonated against Thromberg. I told them I would seek to obtain your reassurance.”

Rosalind stood up, making the simple motion elegant and meaningful. “Did you also speak to your superiors at Titan University and request clearance codes for our ship?”

Two could play grace.
Gail inclined her head then lifted it. “I requested. They refused. Adamantly. Until the
Seeker
returns with proof there is a way to detect and destroy the Quill, no vessel from outside Sol will be allowed to enter.”

They might have been alone on the bridge. Gail waited, knowing Rosalind understood exactly what she was offering. And its price.

The 'sider looked around the bridge, her expression one of hunger, then locked her eyes on Gail's. “I have the codes for the
Merry Mate II
,” she said simply.

Just as Gail felt the surge of triumph, an emotion she carefully kept to herself, FD Krenshaw approached from her right, holding out a message slip. “From the commander, Dr. Smith,” he informed her as she took it in her hand. “He's waiting for a reply.”

Gail read:
Pardell is not only alive, he's awake and appears quite rational. In my opinion, we shouldn't delay questioning him about his ship. Shall I proceed? Grant.

Gail folded the paper neatly once, then again, and tucked it into her pocket. “Tell the commander to keep watching Mr. Pardell and to notify me immediately of any change in his condition,” she told the waiting FD, not surprised when he didn't so much as blink.
Grant's people were good.
“Otherwise, he's to leave the situation as is.”

“Young Aaron has not improved?” Rosalind's expression was unreadable.

Gail knew her own face looked properly sympathetic.
Sharing the anxiety of a family member.
It was one of the easier ones, since it masked guilt so well. “I'm told he's in no danger. There's full life support available if he does decline before we are able to revive him.” She gazed steadily into Rosalind's icy blue eyes. “Would you like to see him before we go to the
'Mate?
Check over our hospital facilities?”

The 'sider's eyes shifted, as if she were uncomfortable, then came back to hers. She shook her head. “I'm sure your facilities are better than anything else available. If what might help him is on the
'Mate
, we shouldn't waste time obtaining it.”

Rosalind paused, then went on with the brutal directness Gail was coming to expect from her. “I choose not to see young Aaron when he is—mindless. His father would care for him during such episodes. I could not.”

From anyone else, this would have been a confession of weakness. From this woman, it was a statement of fact, a personal assessment she revealed not as an excuse, but to prevent further well-meaning attempts to put her into a situation where she wasn't qualified or willing to act. Gail's estimation of Rosalind rose, even as she felt for Pardell.

He wouldn't appreciate her pity. He wouldn't appreciate her stealing the family skeletons from his ship either. Gail hardened her heart. Pardell was a test subject . . . an opportunity. Besides, she was saving his life and potentially the lives of everyone on Thromberg. Surely, if he was the man Malley claimed, he'd understand that was more important than maintaining his right to privacy.

As Gail began ordering the preparations necessary to follow Rosalind's directions to Pardell's ship, she hoped he would understand why she hadn't dared wait for his approval.

Not if Titan was ready to recall the
Seeker
.

“NO reply.” The Earther commander dismissed the messenger, folding the page before putting it in a pocket.

Pardell took another sip of water. It tasted peculiar enough. He wasn't about to try the thick yellow liquid Malley was pouring down his throat.
Typical—Malley treated his body like a dump tank at the best of times.

Some things stayed the same no matter where you were. But here and now?
Not routine,
rang in the back of Pardell's thoughts like an alarm klaxon.

Malley'd survived his own stupidity. Pardell's mind gratefully skittered away from any other option. He'd survived as well—very well, according to Dr. Lynn.
Not your typical physician
, he thought, still fascinated by the insect life decorating her lab coat and festooning her intricately braided and bound hair. He might have been alarmed, but for her gentleness with the remote handlers when she needed to touch him, and the pleasant sound of her voice.

And Malley seemed to like her.

Right now, the big stationer seemed fully recovered and in his element, performing introductions, pulling up chairs and stools so he and Pardell sat like honored guests, generally acting like someone who'd checked his brain at the door.

Classic Malley
, Pardell decided, studying his friend without being obvious about it. The message was coming through loud and clear, passed through the subtle, almost unconscious signals they'd developed between them through years of mischief—as well as real peril.
We're in trouble, Aaron. Big trouble. This time it's your fault—I'm expecting you to get us out of it.

There was more to read from his friend. Malley was scratched and dented, even more than usual. They'd taken care of him—high-tech, state-of-the-art medicine
—altruism or was Malley worth more to Gail Smith than a means to find her freak 'sider?

A shudder rocked him and Pardell quickly set down his drink to avoid spilling it. He'd made enough mess of the place getting out of the tank. The techs were still mopping it up.

“Cold?” Malley asked him doubtfully. The stationer was in bare sleeves and sweating.

Pardell, on the other hand, was fully dressed in new clothes, complete with soft gloves. It had been quite the scene, really, Pardell thought as he shook his head in answer.
No, not cold. Not his body anyway.
The Earthers had done exactly the right things to reassure him. They'd focused on Malley, several working together to gently lift the stationer to a portable bed, then bustling around with every move showing professional skill and personal concern. Only one had stayed near Pardell, and that one, Benton was her name, had quickly lowered a side of the tank so he, and quite a bit of liquid, could escape it. The liquid collected in drains on a platform. She'd brought him a stool and a blanket, putting both within reach and stepping back. Soon, there'd been a parade of others offering him a bewildering array of towels and clothing.