In the Company of Others (41 page)

“Aaron's sleeping in the next room,” Malley told her in so calm, so friendly a voice, only the cords standing out on his neck betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way. “They're taking good care of us both. Prime stuff, all the way. Real orange juice.”

“Thank God.” That break in the words. She was crying now.

“So Sammie and the others—which others, Tanya?”

“All sorts. Immies. Stationers. Some 'siders. They needed a bigger place to meet—Sylvie grabbed her extra sweater. It's cold in the aft—” her voice faded.

“Docking ring,” Malley said, words falling like rocks now. “They've gone after Aaron's ship, haven't they? That's why Syd's drunk himself stiff—he couldn't bear to think our own would turn on Aaron like that.”

Sobbing now. Tanya never cried.
Heaven knew what the rest at the bar would think at the sight.
“Malley—I tried to stop them. They don't think Aaron's in control of it any more. They're—afraid.”

“Listen to me, Tanya,” Malley said “You get there—or send someone reliable. Those are Earthers on Aaron's ship right now. They've gone to get his stuff, hear me? If anything happens to them, you know Earth is going to send troops in—they'll want heads bagged and ready to go. You get the word to them that Aaron's here and staying here. Where he's safe from his friends.” This last with a bitterness that made Pardell close his eyes briefly.

“I'll do it, Malley. But you're wrong about his friends. Tell Aaron,” her voice choked, then went on: “Tell Aaron his friends stayed here. All of us. We know what he is—and it isn't what they say. Syd and the rest, they told us it wasn't Aaron's fault. Those out there—they're parents and parents' parents. They want to protect us. They've been doing it so long now, they don't know what to protect us from anymore. Tell Aaron that, Malley. Make him understand it, if you can. Please.”

“I'm not sure I do, but I'll try. You keep the comm, Tanya,” Malley said gruffly. “Damn Syd can't hold his beer at the best of times. I don't know when I'll be back your way. But I will.”

At Malley's signal, Taggart switched off the unit and the sounds of Sammie's Tavern were gone.

Pardell listened to imaginary echoes; it was easy in the complete silence surrounding him. Without looking up, he turned and walked away.

He didn't know what his face showed.

He did know he didn't want anyone, even Malley, to see it.

“STATIONERS and immies with 'sider help. That's a new Sone,” Rosalind pronounced, the curl of her lip and disdainful tone suggesting this wasn't a development she personally favored in the least. “You do have a talent for stirring the pot, don't you?”

“I'd say your spoon was in this one as well,” Gail retorted.

They were still in the
Merry Mate II
, but Grant had moved them into the air lock—tight quarters, but the sturdiest available. Most likely, he also wanted them close to the only exit. They'd had a terse report from one of Grant's people. Malley had succeeded in contacting the station and identifying those outside. It remained to be proved if he'd accomplished more than that.

Still, the ship had been quiet for several minutes. When Gail had ventured this was a positive sign, Rosalind had reminded her about the launchers and how the stationers were likely welding the small rocket packs all over the hull. Quietly.

Ironic
, Gail told herself. To come so far, with all the latest technology at her disposal, only to be stopped in her tracks by the very people her success would help most. She supposed it was her own hubris, not to have laid all her cards out in front of the station, to assume she could breeze through here, grab what she needed, and leave.

The comm link activated. From the slight distortion, it was from
Seeker
.

“I want to talk to Dr. Smith, please.”

The voice was male, but unfamiliar. She didn't know all of Grant's people. “This is Dr. Smith.”

An odd pause, as if the other person was checking something, or hesitating. “Yes,” Gail prompted. “What is it? Do you have any word on Malley yet? Was he able to talk some sense into these people?”

“Can Rosalind Fournier hear me, too?”

Oh, no
, Gail thought, feeling the blood draining from her face and hands.
It's Aaron Pardell. Who'd authorized him—?

“Yes. This is an open signal, young Aaron,” Rosalind's voice came through Gail's helmet. She couldn't see her, or anyone but Grant and Bennett from her position, squeezed at the rear of the
'Mate
's airlock. “I am pleased you are—back.”

“You let them on my ship, Rosalind.” His statement wasn't quite an accusation. There was a note of puzzlement, Gail decided, as if Pardell groped for understanding rather than condemned. “You gave them my codes.”

“You were unconscious, young Aaron,” Rosalind informed him, the truth as she knew it. Then her voice acquired a sharper note: “Or were you?”

“It doesn't matter,” he said, to Gail's surprise.

“Can we open the air lock without being attacked?” Grant asked impatiently, obviously not caring who gave them the good news.

“I want my things.”

“We have all of your ship's data, including personal logs,” Gail said quickly.
He couldn't mean the rags hanging in the corridors.

“What personal logs? Rosalind? What is she talking about?”

“A layer of encrypted records that predate Raner's, young Aaron. From your family. The Earthers knew it was here.”

“We don't have time for this,” Grant muttered. Louder: “Pardell. You can discuss anything you like with Dr. Smith once we're back on the
Seeker
. Is it safe to go outside or not?”

The calm, gentle voice seemed impervious to the commander's parade-ground snap. “Rosalind? Show them where to find the readers from my cabin. And Myriam's sketches. There are some things in my trunk. Just bring it all. And don't forget the
'Mate
's certification. It should come off the wall pretty easily. I'd like to keep that.”

Gail could see Grant's face inside his helmet and it looked apoplectic. “Mr. Pardell,” she began, unsure if the 'sider was taking some bizarre revenge on her or had left some of his brains in the tank—but quite sure she was going to talk to Tobo about who'd let Pardell take over this comm link.
When she was back on board.
“This is Dr. Smith. We'd like to bring your things, but this is an emergency situation. There simply isn't time—”

“I'm not crazy, Dr. Smith, You see, that's my life you're going to pack up for me. I think it's only fair, considering you're the one who made it impossible for me to continue living it. And there's plenty of time.” The gentle voice became even softer, but somehow Gail felt a chill running down her spine, as though each word was an icy finger. “Anyone can leave the
'Mate
without harm, as long as it isn't me. You've made sure of that, Dr. Smith. Those outside the ship—stationer, immie, 'sider—they're going to wait and see. They need to be absolutely sure Malley told them the truth, that I'm leaving with you.

“You wanted me, Dr. Smith,” Pardell's voice continued. “By making sure no one else does—you've got me.

“And don't forget my socks. They should be dry by now.”

A rough estimate? She'd been in the shower stall twenty minutes—about a quarter of the time it had taken to scour every conceivable personal belonging of Mr. Aaron Pardell out of its cupboard, box, and corner, everything tossed into bags or tied in bundles, then ferried through the ship's dank, dark corridors to the air lock. The seemingly-permanent, fifteen-degree list of the
'Mate
hadn't helped.

Gail wasn't going to begin to guess how many trips she'd made herself. She had blisters on both feet from her mag boots.

Rosalind hadn't touched anything, simply led the way through the dying ship, pointing the paddles of her right hand toward this or that.
Garbage, all of it.
Gail could have replaced everything with brand-new equivalents from the
Seeker
's storeroom.
Especially the socks.

She sat in the corner of the stall, water beating on her knees and the back of her head, unable to understand why she had blisters on her feet.

Her motives were always crystal c1ear. Gail prided herself on self-knowledge, of admitting to herself anything and everything that might affect her goals and how she went after them. Of all the tools at her fingertips, she valued her own mind and its honesty above all.

So why hadn't she just lied to Pardell?
He wouldn't have known until they were back on the
Seeker
; too late then for more than a recrimination or two. She'd taken worse from people far closer and far more powerful and never . . .

... hidden in a bathroom.

Gail lifted her face, closing her eyes and mouth as water pounded against them, breathing through her nose. She was tired, that was all. Add the relief of being underway—of leaving that hellhole . . .

The glory of being the Salvation of Humanity, of being remembered as Gail Veronika Ashton Smith, Destroyer of the Quill, of showing Titan University and all its doubters she'd been right all along . . . none of it was worth the price. It wasn't worth those who'd died.

Oh, yes. They'd destroyed it. She hadn't watched, but the report came from the bridge. She'd known they would. After the last trip with Pardell's things, each time having someone peer into their lighted helmets and poke any body-sized package, suited figures had swarmed over the
Merry Mate II
, attaching their launchers, getting set to pluck the starship from Thromberg like a sliver from a festering wound.

Her bottom was getting sore. Not to mention her skin was becoming almost as swollen and wrinkled as Reinsez's. Gail couldn't make herself move, not when outside the bathroom waited the consequences of her actions.

Was that it? Was she afraid if they knew the truth, there'd be a mutiny?

Once the shuttle was safely inside, Captain Tobo had sent the
Seeker
soaring away from Thromberg, then put First Officer Szpindel at the helm for the night shift. It was as if Tobo could finally believe things were back to normal and could relinquish command. Neither had questioned the sealed course she'd provided, based on information peeled effortlessly from the
'Mate
's stolen records by the redoubtable Bennett and Wigg, information now locked in her office safe. Tobo because he would know what was inside—Szpindel because he didn't.

Grant hadn't said a word, beyond commands to his on-shift second, Tau, to have Rosalind Fournier settled comfortably and under constant surveillance. Gail had no doubts the commander immediately went to listen to all incoming and outgoing messages. Would he contact his superiors once he found out she was disobeying Secretary Vincente, or would the military's chain of command hold?

The rest of the ship? The crew obeyed orders and spent leisure time in the rec facilities; the science sphere bubbled with excitement that likely wouldn't be affected by her bending or even breaking Vincente's nose. She hadn't picked rule followers.

Her new guests? Rosalind had gone peacefully to her new quarters, although the
Seeker
didn't pick up her colleague as promised. Technically, their arrangement had been to transport Rosalind and one other 'sider. With Aaron Pardell conscious, that's just what they were doing.

Gail fumbled for the faucet and turned off the water, but didn't get up. Had anyone told Malley they'd left the station—that the
Seeker
had gone translight? Probably not. When they did—
when she did
—better have tranks at the ready. Would it matter to Malley that she was glad he was still on board? That they needed him?

Pardell.

She had to tell him. What she knew . . . what she guessed . . . what she hoped.

What she knew—Gail pressed her forehead against the damp, chilled skin of her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. They'd had no trouble finding the coordinates of the planet—it even had a name,
Pardell's World
, one of those excruciating ironies the universe so enjoyed.

She knew too many names.

Oh, she'd worried about her reputation—fancied herself clever in how she'd save it, known herself in charge, congratulated herself on her secrets . . . until Gail had watched these two bring their child into the light of day and die doing it.

Gooseflesh spread up her arms as water evaporated.
What could she possibly say to their son?

Gail staggered to her feet and out of the stall, not bothering to dry off. She had to go to Pardell. Whatever she told him . . .

WHATEVER the Earther wanted from him, it couldn't be worth this.
Pardell wished he could be like Malley, and relieve his rage by throwing whatever was handiest into a wall. Instead, he smothered it and unpacked his things with exceptional care. He sorted the broken to one side of the bed for mending—they'd been careful, but many of his belongings were too old or fragile for much handling. Whatever remained whole he tucked into the array of closets and drawers he was now supposed to call his own.