In the Company of Others (42 page)

His own.
All he could call his was gone. Even his past. The Earther, Gail Smith, had not only taken it—she'd dared impose a schedule for its return, slotted a time between upcoming tests for him to view what his parents had left behind, like some contraband entertainment vid Sammie might run late in a cycle and charge admission to see.

Pardell stared at the shabby chess set in his trembling hand, made himself recognize it, remember the games he'd played with Raner—with himself. He found space for it in an upper drawer, behind his carefully rolled socks.

A soft knock on the door made him jump. The sounds were all unfamiliar here, on this new ship. Fewer echoes, longer vibrations. He was almost distracted into contemplations of architecture and interference zones, but the knock repeated, as softly, but insistent.

Probably a tech, come to get him ready for the Earther's experiments.
Odd, to come in the dead of ship's night.
Pardell shivered but went resolutely enough to open the door. He'd given his word—

Only it wasn't a tech at the door. It was Gail Smith.

Come to see what she'd done?
Pardell glared down at her, speechless. At first, he was simply so choked with fury he could-n't begin to sort out which accusation to spew into her face, then, abruptly, he realized this was no ordinary visit. He could-n't imagine what to say to this apparition.

The Earther was alone. And wet. Her hair dripped water on the floor and over her bare feet, as though she'd just come from a tank, too. She wore some kind of robe over shapeless pink trousers. Her face bore the strangest expression—not really an expression at all, he decided, but a state, as if a soul-deep weariness bruised her eyes and hollowed her cheeks.
Perhaps
, Pardell conjectured to himself almost wildly,
she'd come to apologize.
If so, likely she'd planned the conversation as carefully as everything else she appeared to do. Even her disheveled appearance could be a ruse.

Here and now, he couldn't bear to hear anything about the
'Mate
, least of all from her. “Dr. Smith,” Pardell began. “I—I wanted to thank you for ...” he groped vaguely at the cabin behind him, saying anything that came to mind, “. . . for saving my things. And for giving me—Malley and me—quarters on your ship. And the medical care. I appreciate all your staff did for me. For us.”
Was she listening?
Her face didn't change—but Pardell felt more confident with each sentence, as though the courtesies built a protective wall between them.

“We aren't freeloaders,” he went on, picking plain, clear words. “I know what you want from me—Malley's told me some of it. Dr. Lynn, too. I'll help you as I can, for what good it does. Whatever it takes to earn my keep and Malley's.” Pardell didn't bother adding what they both knew: he'd be paying his way with what he was, not what he could do.
As if they'd need a 'sider's skills on a perfect ship like this
, he reminded himself bitterly.

Gail still didn't speak. Instead, she took a step forward, the toes of her small foot coming to rest on the softer, warm-colored flooring of his Earther quarters as if asking his permission to enter. Pardell stepped back in a reflex to put more space between them, inadvertently giving her room to come in another step.

“These are yours,” she said at last, holding out a small bag he hadn't noticed until now. “There's a reader inside, or you can use the room's console.” Her voice was low and feathered, as if she'd only just regained her breath.

Pardell took it, cautiously, in case her fingers moved unexpectedly and came too close to his, From the feel, it was full of data cubes and he didn't have to ask what they were.
Or whose.
The records from the
'Mate.
“A little schedule change, Professor?” he snapped, the flare of his anger so swift and sudden he shook with it. “I thought it wasn't my turn to see these until tomorrow.”

“I've seen all I need to see, Mr. Pardell,” she said quietly. “What I came to find—it was there, and I thank you. They're yours, now.”

“Mine.”
What was the matter with her?
Pardell studied her face, his anger not fading but now joined by growing suspicion. “What's on these?” he demanded. “Why are you giving them to me like this?”

“Do you want me to tell you?” she asked. “I will, if that's what you wish.”

It was like having all the gauges on his suit flare red at once. “Was I—made?” he shot at her. “AmIamonster? Is that what's on these, Dr. Smith? Proof I'm a freak?”

He watched Gail put one hand on the doorframe, as if for support. “It shows your birth,” she said evenly. “It shows how your parents were killed almost immediately afterward—by the Quill—but not before your father was able to save you. He put you into the
'Mate
's shuttle, which I have to assume returned on auto and docked with the ship in orbit.” Her voice stopped, then continued. “The rest . . . ? Family records, accounts, cargo logs, personal things. I didn't go through it all. And there are letters. From your great-grandmother.”

At least his mind stayed put. Pardell wasn't sure if it was the shock of learning he'd had a family or the shock of how he'd lost them, but he was grateful to whatever let him keep his eyes fixed on hers and his back straight. He tossed the bag of secrets to his bed.
Later and alone,
he promised himself. “You could have sent these, Dr. Smith,” he said coldly.

“There are many things I could have done differently,” she replied, making no sense at all.

Or too much
, Pardell decided, disturbed to feel a wave of compassion pushing aside his righteous anger. This troubled self-doubt hadn't been part of the woman who'd taken over Sammie's or caused a riot in the stern ring. Now, he judged her almost fragile, as though the wrong word could shatter whatever determination had brought her here, and strip away the dignity that let her face him. He pressed his lips together, then said, reluctantly, “Raner—the man who raised me—used to say there's no point regretting choices, only living with them the best you can.”

“Living with them.”
Did her eyes sparkle with tears before she lowered her head and hid them?
“That's harder, isn't it?”

“I suspect it is,” Pardell answered, as much to himself as the Earther.

“Thank you, Mr. Pardell.”

They were still out of balance.
He looked around quickly, then opened the drawer he'd filled before she'd arrived, taking out his chess set. He held it for an instant, before turning to face her. “Dibs, for the
'Mate
's records,” the 'sider explained, feeling better as he passed her the small box. It didn't matter what she thought of the gift—what mattered was what it cost him to give it.

The Earther likely had no idea she'd put him in her debt. “Finders keepers” was the rule on-station, and no one begrudged the finder when, more often than not, the original owner was dead anyway. Returning the found was exceptional courtesy.

He'd underestimated Gail Smith's perception—or there was something about being here, both alone and vulnerable, that encouraged understanding. “Dibs. We're even, then,” she acknowledged softly, holding the box in two hands, then bringing it close to her heart, as though precious. “Good night, Mr. Pardell.”

Pardell stood in the doorway of his cabin, watching his enemy walk away down the deserted corridor, her bare feet silent on the flooring. Somehow, his rage dissolved and left at the same time, leaving only a peaceful sort of weariness behind.

“Thank you, Dr. Smith,” Pardell said softly, when he was quite sure she wouldn't hear.

UNCARING who could hear—and there were dozens in the lab this eventful morning—Gail hummed tonelessly to herself. She kept her hands deep in her lab coat pockets, fingers pushing around the inevitable lint, and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet in anticipation. The lab computer was digesting the latest test results. In the past three hours they'd already learned remarkable things about Aaron Pardell, including mapping the veining of his skin, taking base-line readings of several sorts, and proving conclusively only human touch caused the adverse reaction. Her scientists were lining up to examine his metabolism and nervous functions, let alone explore the gold writhing beneath his skin—spurred by Temujin's failure to find anything.

Between their requests and her own ideas, Gail was already busy planning the afternoon. If the results went as she thought likely, she'd simply move along to the next experiment in the sequence. If they differed—ah, that was the splendid part of science, to be faced by the unexpected turn of events.

Gail deliberately kept her mind on the work—on finally doing what she'd hoped to do all these years. It was infinitely preferable to dwelling on her guilt-driven visit to Pardell's quarters last night. Grant had found out, of course; inconvenient as well as embarrassing, since her door guards now had direct orders to disregard her commands when it came to moving around alone without Grant's approval. Dangerous, he'd called it. Among other, less polite terms.

Nonsense
, Gail said to herself. The only danger she'd exposed herself to was being a fool in front of the 'sider.

Gail glanced involuntarily at the dark-haired man seemingly asleep in a chair set close to the nearest bank of instruments, trying to make it appear that she was checking on the progress of Aisha's latest trial. Pardell had appeared with the techs first thing this morning, ready and, if not exactly eager, then willing to participate in whatever they had in mind. He'd greeted her no differently from the rest, with a polite smile and nothing at all to read in his hazel eyes.

Last night might never have happened.

Others would have exploited that moment of weakness, Gail knew, and should have been relieved. But, perversely, she found herself wanting to talk to Pardell. She wanted to ask what he'd thought of the records she'd brought—how many he'd seen, what he'd felt learning about his parents, about Susan Witts. His “nothing happened” attitude made that impossible; she couldn't doubt it was intentional.

So, instead, Gail turned back to her list of pending experiments.

“Starving you today, Aaron?” The just-arrived Malley didn't quite bellow the question, but he'd obviously meant the words to carry past his friend.

Pardell, who must have been startled, didn't so much as twitch—likely a relief to the techs assigned to check for any loosening of the abundant sensors stuck over the 'sider's head, as well as his bare arms, chest, and shoulders. It had taken longer than anticipated to apply the sensors using remote handling arms; they'd already found it was hopeless trying to use gloves of the thickness required to protect both Pardell and anyone touching him. The 'sider helped with what he could reach. Philips was becoming quite adept with tongs, if prone to nervous tremors while using them.

“We're doing some preliminary measurements on his metabolism. Mr. Pardell can eat when we're finished. Which should be soon,” Gail said, fixing the unrepentant stationer with a warning glare, “provided you don't interrupt what's underway.”

The man in question cracked open one eye. “You heard the professor, you big oaf. And I told you last night I wouldn't be joining you for breakfast.”

Malley shrugged shoulders that would have made two Pardells and grabbed a stool to sit on, all the while passing a deceptively casual eye over the apparatus engulfing his friend. “Just routine, huh?”

“Routine, it is.” Pardell's lips stretched into a grin. “You don't need to stick around, you know. It was nice and peaceful before you arrived.”

Gail thought Malley would look taken aback at this, given how the stationer had been campaigning like some medieval champion on his friend's behalf. Instead, he appeared relieved, chuckling deep in his throat before saying: “And who'd keep an eye on these lovely ladies for you?”

“As if you need me for an excuse,” Pardell replied.

They continued to exchange friendly banter, even drawing a blush from Benton, whom Gail didn't think could blush. Meanwhile, Gail accepted a sheet of results from one of the techs, making a show of reading it as she reconsidered the two from Thromberg. She'd obviously missed something important during that time when Malley was the force to be reckoned with and Pardell lay comatose in the tank. Malley, bold, bright, and daring, wasn't the leader here—not if she read his body language, the tones of his voice correctly. Instead, he deferred to his friend; he sought, consciously or not, reassurance about the state of his universe from Pardell, not the other way around.

It had the weight of a revelation.
Malley's single-minded anxiety hadn't just been the caring of one friend for another—it had been the gallant desperation of a faithful knight for his fallen king, or perhaps more like the terror felt by a man who finds himself rudderless and adrift on a featureless ocean.

And now that Pardell was back on his feet, regardless of the situation, Malley was free to simply enjoy himself and leave agonizing over their situation and future to his friend.

Pardell knew
, Gail decided, suddenly caught by a look from the 'sider as he glanced idly around the room—unable to deny she'd been staring. She recognized both assessment and challenge in his eyes. If they'd thought Malley was protective of Pardell . . . now, Gail knew, they'd have to deal with Pardell's sense of responsibility for the stationer.

And of the two, she thought Grant should worry more about now-homeless Pardell, with his knowledge of starships—and deadly touch.