In the Company of Others (46 page)

His voice seemed to come out of the darkness, low, even, soothing. Gail shut her eyes to listen more closely. “We've been together all our lives, you know,” Pardell was explaining. “Raner needed advice on how to raise me. There were so few babies, but Mrs. Malley—she was a wonderful mother. I'd watch her holding Malley when he was hurt or just tired. She'd take him into her lap and rock him until he fell asleep.” A touch of amusement in his voice. “Until the time came when there was more Malley than lap and she had to put him beside her or be crushed.”

Somehow, Gail could see the moment Pardell was remembering, only she saw the other child, the one standing at an uncrossable distance, imagining how it would feel to be cuddled, to be held and made safe. She shuddered involuntarily, filled with pity.

It was as if her lower arm had brushed against an open flame. She lurched away, hearing the stool clatter to the floor, the alarmed calls of startled techs and guards . . .

And over it all, Aaron Pardell's cry of pain.

HIS agony was gone.
A shame
, Pardell thought savagely,
since that was the easiest to bear.
Anything was easier than remembering the soft feel of her skin, the very instant they'd both . . .

PAIN.

Gail had fallen to the floor, huddling there with her right arm clutched to her chest. He remembered how tears had spilled from her eyes and her lower lip had trembled. But she hadn't blamed him.

Why would she
, Pardell raged,
when she already felt such overwhelming pity?

PITY.
He'd seized upward, breaking most of the probe connections, before somehow leaning to the other side of the table before worse happened. She'd understood and left his care to the techs who'd rushed over, using the handling arms to help straighten him on the bed, cleaning the embarrassing remains.

It was quiet again. The techs had left him. Gail was long gone.

Pardell lay there, his arm over his eyes to make something closer to true dark, and tasted vomit.
What had made him think the Earther saw him as anything but a freak? What had made him reach out to her?

Whatever it was, he wouldn't do it again.

HER right arm and hand tingled suddenly. Gail clenched the fingers into a fist for a second. Nothing like the searing pain of that instant.
What remained was all in her head
, she reminded herself, having tested her arm quite thoroughly after—after she'd been a fool. Two days later, you'd think she'd be over it.

What had she thought she was doing, half-dozing against Pardell's bed as though they were old friends, chatting the night away?
She should have gone to her own bed, or at least held the urge to talk to the man until ship's day, or chosen some neutral or interesting location, or had someone else there.
Been awake!
Anything would have been better than her carelessness just as Pardell was reaching out and trying to gain some control over his life. She'd never forget the horrified look in his eyes.

Hazel, with green flecks.
She'd examined them often enough to know. Like his mother's, Gabrielle Lace Pardell.

The computer chimed, displaying its conclusions in a moving, three-dimensional array. Gail made herself attend to it. This early, the lab was relatively peaceful, but soon there'd be upward of twenty scientists and a seething multitude of techs milling around. She liked a head start, especially before others came bustling up with their own findings and questions.

She spun the data array to examine it from the opposite side.

“Something didn't work out?”
Malley should wear a bell
, Gail decided, mustering a smile of greeting.
Not to mention he had some kind of internal radar telling him when she least wanted to see him.

“No, everything's fine. Did you get a good night's sleep?”

He yawned theatrically, then grinned down at her, eyes bright and challenging—as always. “A very good night, thanks. Not too much sleep. And you?”

Her cheeks felt suddenly warm. Innuendos in that deep, rich voice came out a great deal closer to invitation.
He knew it, too.
Gail reminded herself that the stationer was an outrageous flirt. Her reactions had nothing to do with taking his attention personally, but simply that no one else on board, including the chastised Sazaad, would dare talk to her this way.

Not that she couldn't feel the heat from his body through her lab coat. The man was a walking furnace. Little wonder he preferred the sleeveless vest over the coat the stewards had altered to fit. Someone less charitable might think it was so others could appreciate the muscles bulging from shoulder to wrist. That same someone might think Malley practiced bulging in front of a mirror.

“I slept very well,” she told him blandly, then fell silent.

Pardell was coming their way. On seeing her beside Malley, he turned to talk with a couple of techs, the act of avoidance deliberate and quite unmistakable. Gail pretended not to notice, but the stationer wasn't fooled.

“So . . . what did you do, Gail?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Our Aaron's usually the forgiving sort. A natural gentleman. I've never seen him quite this—adverse—to meeting a lady.”

Gail twisted her lips. “I don't know.”

“Really.” Her answer didn't please Malley. She could tell by the way his eyes hardened with speculation, looking to Pardell then back to her. “Something personal?”

Perhaps there was a reason
, Gail realized, abruptly.
A reason they all needed to know
, little as she enjoyed the thought of talking about that night. Steeling herself, she took the stationer's arm. “Over here, Malley.” He let her pull him closer to one wall of the lab, where temporary cubicles had been formed to house equipment sensitive to interference. “Whatever's bothering Aaron,” she told him, “I think it started when he—and I—had that accident two nights ago.”

Malley knew what she meant. Gail was reasonably sure the entire ship's complement had known before she'd even made it back to the privacy of her quarters—a privacy disturbed within minutes by a thoroughly outraged Grant who seemed to think it was her fault.

Maybe it was. It didn't change anything.
“I wouldn't ask, except that it's important to the research, Malley,” she said as earnestly as possible. “Is this normal? Does Aaron usually try to avoid anyone he's touched? He didn't with you.”

“He's wallowing in something, that's for sure,” Malley muttered, more to himself than to her. “If that's what it is . . . stay here a minute.”

Gail watched the stationer stride through the milling techs, head and shoulders above most, until he caught up with Pardell. She could follow their conversation without being close enough to hear words—Malley wasn't being subtle. First he pointed at her, then threw both arms in the air as though making some point that required volume. Pardell shook his head almost continually. Then Malley shrugged and came back to her—alone.

Gail kept her expression set to neutral interest. Whatever the stationer had said about her, she knew it was likely to be embarrassing at best, especially with the audience nearby. But she had been honest: her feelings about the night of the accident were irrelevant—Pardell's were not.

“Well?” Gail demanded. Might as well get it over with—she had work to do, and now, thanks to the stationer's idea of a private conversation, far too many who'd be watching her every move for the rest of the day.

Malley's face was impossible to read. “Aaron says he apologizes for having misinterpreted your interest in his welfare. He says—” Malley seemed to gag on the next part, but struggled on as though he'd sworn to repeat what Pardell had told him word-for-word, “—that he appreciates your position on this ship and understands that you were only being professional.” The stationer drew in a deep breath, then almost bellowed: “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Gail bit her lower lip for a moment. “I don't know, Malley.”

After six days of Aaron Pardell
, Gail added to herself,
she only had more questions.

“YOU'D think after six days, I'd be able to win at this,” Pardell complained cheerfully.

Grant laughed and used the back of his wrist to clear sweat from his forehead. The drops caught in the dark curls on his chest and lower arms glistened in the table's illumination, except where three broad and parallel scars traced what the Earther referred to only as “camping misadventure” from left shoulder to lower right rib. Those on Thromberg kept their scars because they had to. Pardell wondered, but never asked, why this Earther chose to cherish his. “You'd think after that long, you'd get tired of losing,” Grant quipped. “Your serve.”

Win, lose. The game was more than its outcome
, Pardell thought, tossing up the small white ball and swinging the paddle. The complexity of directing and anticipating the ball's movement pleased that distractible part of his mind. He toyed with torque and rotation, while enjoying the effort of trying to match the Earther's grace and speed.

Perhaps Ping-Pong, though not a game played on Thromberg, was a favorite pastime of the Earther military. Grant was possibly good enough to play competitively—Pardell suspected the man had slowed his own game down, at least in the beginning, just so the newcomer could return the occasional volley.

Regardless, Pardell was grateful for more than the new skill and exercise. The
Seeker
's enforced day/night cycle found him sitting up reading or wandering aimlessly through those areas he'd discovered were safely vacant while others slept. The aloneness was somewhat welcome. Not that he complained, but occasionally the press of enthusiastic, curious people in the lab grew uncomfortable. Malley knew the signs and could be all too blunt about getting others to back off.

On the other hand, Pardell soon found pacing the vacant halls was also numbingly boring, until he'd encountered Grant, who apparently didn't sleep much either—or kept very strange hours—and who professed to need a partner for his game.

A watcher, beyond doubt.
But a surprisingly agreeable one.
It could be worse.

“Aha!” He'd scored a point.

“Didn't see that one coming,” Grant confessed proudly. “Much better, Aaron. At this rate, we should set up a doubles' match against Szpindel and his comm tech.”

Pardell hesitated. One of the things he'd grown to like about these post-midnight games was that they played in shorts only, Grant claiming to need the change from his uniform. He'd known Pardell's sensitivity to light and had the regular lighting of the gym dimmed except for the table and wall surfaces.
Malley's deduction
, Pardell supposed, since he'd never told anyone how bright light made the veins under his exposed skin crawl unpleasantly; there were enough strange things about him.

Raner's advice: stick to friends, avoid strangers, and don't show what could stay hidden.

The first time Pardell had stripped down, he'd almost hoped Grant would stare or be uncomfortable, so he could be properly insulted. Instead, the Earther had ignored his gold-veined skin and taught him the rudiments of Ping-Pong—including how the ball felt driven into your cheekbone or rib cage at a high velocity.

Have someone else here?
A stranger?

“On the other hand,” Grant said as if he hadn't noticed Pardell's lack of reply, “maybe we should drag your lazy friend in for a game.”

Malley? With a Ping-Pong paddle?
Pardell laughed as he lunged to catch Grant's next serve. “He's quick. But I'm not sure how long your table would last. I'll ask him.”

“How is he finding it, by the way? The ship—moving about.”

Pardell just missed the ball and peered at Grant.
A real concern or probing for information about potential hazards?
From what he'd learned of this man, likely both. “Malley's fine. He's used to not thinking about space while inside a station. He'll get used to not thinking about space while inside a ship.” Pardell loved knowing he was moving translight, sidestepping time and space the way the
Merry Mate II
had done, his atoms cushioned within the initiation matrix of the ship so they didn't really exist—but did. These were imaginings he didn't try to discuss with the stationer. “Dr. Lynn and the others are keeping him too busy to think about it much.” If Pardell's return serve was a little skewed, Grant was gracious enough not to comment.

Malley'd settled right in, almost one of the crew, as if his intellect had been waiting for the science sphere and all its toys. Pardell had seen the stationer walking the daytime corridors trading jokes and knowing names, just as he would on the station.
Nights?

He wasn't always in his quarters at night, just as on the station. Pardell studiously avoided finding out where the stationer went. It wasn't to exercise in the gym.

The next volley lasted longer than most. He found himself leaping from one side of the table to the other, smashing the little ball triumphantly, watching Grant mirror his movements. Again. Again. Then, suddenly, he had to lean too far forward to make a shot and scrambled back in time to hear Grant's return whistle past his ear.

“Game,” Pardell said, saluting the Earther with the paddle.

“Barely,” Grant admitted, grabbing two towels and tossing one at Pardell. “Let's head down to the crew lounge and see what's up for breakfast.”

The crew lounge was in the command sphere, a section of the ship Pardell had visited only once, during an afternoon's tour with Grant.