In the Company of Others (67 page)

She felt much the same way. Reaction to stimuli was one thing. Purposeful response was quite another.

Gail no longer doubted they were dealing with an intelligence here. Grant had been right. She reserved judgment on whether he was also right that this was an elaborate trap and she might be the next prey.

Folding her hands neatly in her lap, eyes never leaving the iridescent tower that was all she could see of Aaron, Gail prepared to wait and see.

HE couldn't see, but understood vision was irrelevant—at best, an interaction with the stimulating poison of solar radiation, at worst considerable threat.

He couldn't hear, but valued the intimacy of resonance and vibration—indicators of movement—always a warning of danger.

He couldn't speak, yet knew and expressed. Concepts flowed over and through him, as they always had, but instead of being a distraction from the world, they were sharp, purposeful, as if guided. Or as if this was the proper way to construct meaning, to see the whole before examining the parts, to look to the ending, before the beginning is contemplated.

On some level, there remained a human named Aaron Pardell, a man who gibbered in stark, utter terror at the imminent loss of his humanity, revolted by the way his skin crawled inside and out in gentle reacquaintance with others.

The concept of one was comfortable, normal. There was only One.

No
, he thought desperately.
He was something else—something different.
There were more. Gail . . . Malley . . . many upon many . . .

The concept of multiple intelligences, cooperating as a species, rocked the universe. It was absorbed, tasted, ultimately accepted as a premise.

Pardell suddenly found himself able to think again, if still disturbingly unaware of his body or location.

Not those words, but those meanings—couched in what his mind read as emotion, but he knew was far more complex.

A sense of waiting . . .
expectation.

The Earthers probably had university degrees in what to say to a nonhuman intelligence. It was, of course, too late to return to the
Seeker
and ask for a crash course. Pardell groped for a way to respond, then fastened on the recognition and turned it back, trying to ask:
Identity?

Surprise
. . . as if he should be aware. A tinge of
disappointment
. . . as if he'd failed, somehow.

Pardell struggled to control what he felt, knowing it was the medium they used and quite sure he was failing miserably to make any sense. Finally, he gave up and discovered himself simply . . .
afraid.
For himself. For Gail. For Thromberg.

Reassurance
. . . but tangled in complex strands of
confusion.
A repeat of
recognition
and
welcome.
Then, slowly, a building pressure, as though the Other sought to push one concept, one framework, into Pardell's being, but his very human-ness was an obstacle.

He hadn't been aware of breathing until now, when breathing became impossible.

The pressure didn't stop, but abruptly shifted focus, as if an opening had been detected. Pardell gasped for air as
certainty
lanced through him.

There was . . .
identity.

More . . . a name.

However the information became part of him, as his lungs refilled, Pardell knew beyond question that the Quill on this planet, every fragment and piece, comprised one—person.

His great-grandmother, who'd encased him in her alien flesh, now sent waves of
approval
and
love
crashing through his body.

He hoped he'd survive her joy at being known.

GAIL might not have Petra's training in meditation, but several hours spent sitting on a grassy hilltop—in a sealed, dark blue suit at the sun's zenith, no less—pretty much guaranteed she'd nod off no matter what the situation.

“I know you're awake. We've got your vitals right here on the board.”

Grant could be annoyingly persistent in person—as a disembodied nag he was unendurable. Had Gail had something to throw at the 'bot, she would have done so long before now. “Fine. I'm awake,” she admitted. “Nothing's changed, has it?”

She'd already looked longingly at Aaron; he was still entombed in strips of Quill. She didn't dare think of what might be happening to him.
He hadn't fallen.
Cold comfort, but better than the nightmares she was trying her best to forget. Either the Quill supported him, or he'd remained standing on his own.
Both implied he lived.

“No, except the
Payette
is on her return run—successfully, I might add.”

All Gail wanted in her life right now was the ability to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She settled for sitting up straight. “What did they find?”

“Quill. From the vids, identical to these. And you'll like this—once they'd grabbed a sample, they saw a statue as well.”

“Susan Witts?”

“No. The statue was of a man. No baby. No outreaching arms.” Grant paused, as if for effect—
or maybe
, Gail thought,
because he found what he had to say too incredible.
We've made a match to the face from your data—”

Gail went through the list of names and ship destinations in her mind. “Josh McNab.”

“The terraformer whose genome was on the suits,” Grant agreed. “Witts' second-in-command on the projects and definitely one of those who received her gift of a Quill fragment. If not for your recent encounter, we might have assumed this representation was simply the Quill's response to the suits. A reflex—not communication.”

Gail stared at the innocent mound of Quill-laced grass demarking her permitted incursion on this world in no uncertain terms.

“Let me know anything further the
Payette
has to say about the Quill,” Gail ordered without thinking, then she winced. “Please.”

“Dr. Smith. Gail. I've every intention of sharing any findings with you. That's not the issue. I want you to use the pod and come back to the
Seeker!
” Grant sounded a little harried.

Gail sympathized, but said adamantly: “Not without Aaron. And short of growing wings, I've no idea how to get past them.” She waved all around her.

“The
Payette
has functioning drop pods on board,” Grant's voice was implacable. “And even if your distinguished staff refuses to recoat any of the anti-Quill suits to match this world, you did leave us one suit, you know.”

Gail squeezed her eyelids shut for a moment. The headgear might be torture, but on the plus side she no longer had to govern her every expression. Tears eased the itching in her eyes, but made new, maddening trails down her cheeks.
Sooner or later, she'd take the damn thing off if only to rub her face.
She knew it. “I didn't leave you the suit,” she informed Grant, not caring if her voice was huskier than normal. “Aaron insisted.” A safety line—
old habit
, he'd told her.

“Wise man. I'm not asking your permission or cooperation, Dr. Smith. When the
Payette
achieves orbit, I'm coming down for both of you as soon as we can get a pod ready. Understood?”

“Copy that,” Gail said wearily. “Keep an eye on Aaron while I freshen up, Commander.”

She stood and went back to the
Athena
, ignoring the Quill, walking by the blankets where she and Aaron had done their earnest best to marry one another, their hearts touching, if not their hands.

Gail was inclined to be practical. If it took cooperating with the FDs to free Aaron from the Quill, she was ready to consider it.

If Grant thought she'd leave this world without Aaron, well, she planned to be ready for that eventuality, too.

“THEY
eloped
, young Hugh?”

Malley shrugged. “You can listen for yourself, if you wish.” He looked down at what was in his hand. A portable comm link, similar to the one Grant wore in one ear except that this was slightly larger and came with a small disk attached. He'd seen the like before—the techs used them to listen to procedural instructions, play background music, or spread around jokes they'd rather not be caught saying out loud.

This one contained something quite different: recordings of Aaron and Gail's conversations from the
Athena
. . . and Rosalind's voice, which was why Malley had sought out the older 'sider.

He put his back against one of the privacy columns that formed a visual barrier between the front and back halves of the lounge, keeping his eyes on the screen. Nothing had changed in the past hours: Aaron remained entombed; Gail sat on the grass as close to him as the Quill would let her, when she wasn't getting supplies from the pod.

As far as he could tell, Rosalind hadn't looked at it once.

She took the offered recording from his hand, using her dexterous left fingers; they felt cold and hard against his palm. “So, young Hugh,” Rosalind said, seeming amused. “Dr. Smith's assumption that she controls what reaches this ship is, let's say, naïve.”

Malley nodded. “The commander could hear them on the planet, even before deploying his 'bot.” He remembered the comm link Grant wore and how quickly the Earther had reacted to Aaron's encounter with the Quill.
Secrets within secrets.
This one had been discarded the moment the 'bot activated—the FDs piping through audio as well as vid.
If you counted their vows to each other as binding
—he'd no doubt Aaron did—the newlyweds' sliver of privacy was long gone.

Not that Malley had told anyone but Rosalind about the recordings made earlier—but Grant couldn't help but spread the information to those listening.

“Aaron—if he survives—will take this eloping business seriously,” Rosalind said, confirming Malley's own thoughts, then surprised him by adding: “as will the Earther.” She regarded the silent stationer with a wry twist to her lips. “What, young Hugh? You doubt her veracity? You think this merely a ruse to keep control of an impressionable man? I hadn't thought you such a cynic.”

“I doubt everything about her.” But Malley didn't put much conviction behind the words. How could he, having watched Gail's vigil on that blue-ceilinged hill? “She put him in danger ...” He hesitated.

“And you wonder why I helped?” Rosalind finished perceptively. She took a seat at the nearest table, motioning him to do the same. Malley obeyed reluctantly. His entire body quivered with the need to do something active—an opportunity unlikely to arrive anytime soon.

“Frankly, yes.”

She steepled her hands, fingers and paddles touching only at their tips. The paddles were stronger and cruder in motion; Malley remembered she was always careful when using them together—spare parts being impossible to find. “Gail Smith bought my cooperation initially by promising to prove to me that the Quill were the real reason we've been barred from the terraformed worlds—she also promised to show me how she planned to destroy these pests.”

“
Initially,” Malley echoed. “There's been another bargain since?”

“Oh, yes,” Rosalind said contentedly. “In return for my help reaching the planet, the good doctor has promised to arrange for my partners and me to return to Callisto, where we belong. It might take several months—but we've waited long enough. You and young Aaron would be welcome with us,” she added. “Your skills are not inconsiderable.”

“You helped her take Aaron
—there—
in order to buy a ticket home?” Malley heard his voice drop into full threat and didn't care. This was exactly why the station had unspoken rules against private deals with Earthers. Rosalind was worse than a traitor to Thromberg—she'd sold out her own for personal gain.

The 'sider was unperturbed—perhaps, having faced so many battles in her lifetime, one angry stationer, however large, could-n't disturb her calm. “You do want to go home, don't you?” she asked. “If not Callisto, then to your station?”

“I can't go home, can I?” Malley rejoined fiercely. “Ironic, isn't it? They think I've done what you have—sold out to the Earthers. I might as well kill myself and save my friends the trouble, as go back.”

Rosalind snicked her fingers together. “Such passion, young Hugh. Really—you should learn to pay close attention to your elders. We might just know more than you do about life and its risks.”

Malley closed his lips to stop his instant, hot-headed response. Instead, he found himself considering what Rosalind was—not just what she'd done. This woman had absolute control over the extreme fringe of the 'sider population, those spacers who'd never believed in integration with the station or forgiven the past. There'd been rumors she'd somehow blackmailed Thromberg and the Earthers in order to join this mission—no details. It was clear she'd bargained away Aaron's ship without a second thought; she'd done the same, now, with Aaron himself. “What do you know that I don't, Rosalind?” he asked, making the effort to bring his voice to something resembling level and polite.

“For one thing, you will be most welcome back on Thromberg—a hero's welcome, in fact—now that we have proof the Quill are as harmless as we've always said.”

“Harmless?” Malley thrust his arm toward the screen. “You call that harmless?”

“What do you see there?” she countered. “What do you
think
you see? I'll tell you what's really there: young Aaron, frozen in one of his usual fits. The Earther, unharmed after hours spent with the Quill—”