In the Company of Others (68 page)

“She's wearing a protective suit—” the stationer spat.

Rosalind laughed. “A protection the Earthers can't even explain to themselves? Smoke and mirrors, young Hugh. Nonsense to delay and confuse us so they could bring in their ships to blockade this system. I thought you were bright—don't you see it? Gail Smith is a genius, no doubt. She's tracked down the only world the Earthers missed keeping from us. But why? To seal this system before our people learn the truth. To keep it for Earth.”

“The Quill are deadly,” Malley ground through his teeth.

“Are they?” Rosalind's eyes gleamed and suddenly she pulled up the sleeve on her right arm, showing the metal cuff replacing her wrist, binding her robotic hand to the remaining flesh. “Before the accident on my ship, young Hugh, what do you think rode here most of my adult life?”

He stared at her, feeling as uneasy as if he stared into the dark maw of an air lock. “No ...”

“Yes. My father may have been killed, but not before our family saved his beloved Quill. It would wrap around no one's arm but mine. My beloved Quill,” her voice shook with emotion, then firmed. “Where's the proof, young Hugh? They brought Quill on this ship. Was anyone killed? Have you seen anyone die? Are there skeletons in the grass at Aaron's feet?”

The worst thing was, she made sense of a kind
. Rosalind must have read something of his doubt; she went on, each word like a hammer: “This is economics, not science. They want to harvest the Quill for themselves—and keep this world from your people. Of course I helped Gail Smith. Her hopeless love for young Aaron gave me exactly what I was waiting for. What you and I have been waiting for ...”

“And that is?”

“A demonstration. She's proof that people can survive on this world—and she very conveniently sent the blockade ships away on a fool's errand.”

Malley felt the blood drain from his face as he looked at Rosalind and saw the triumph of a fanatic. “What have you done?” he almost whispered.

“I think everyone is about to find out.” The 'sider gestured toward the entrance. Malley turned his head to see Grant, flanked by four FDs with their weapons out, a passage splitting through the stunned crowd as they came directly to his and Rosalind's table.

“You will thank me, young Hugh,” Rosalind was saying confidently.
As if he was listening
. “You will be a hero.”

Malley surged to his feet in time to meet Grant. “What's wrong?” he demanded. “What did she do?”

Grant's eyes were flint hard, his face a forbidding mask. He looked past Malley at Rosalind, then back to Malley. “We have upward of fifty starships on approach to this system—a system on no charts or records,” the Earther stated, his voice edged with fury. “They claim to have been invited.”

Rosalind continued to smile, her pale eyes shining with anticipation. “And so they were, Commander. Did you never think to ask how Dr. Smith calmed the panic on Thromberg? How she managed to talk Station Admin into patience? Quite simply, if bold even for her. She promised them this planet for a home.”

“Once it was free of Quill,” Grant bit off each word. “We don't know yet if we can remove them from a planet—let alone if we're dealing with another sentience! There are people on those ships, 'sider.”

“Oh, yes,” Rosalind answered, as cool as Grant was furious. “I daresay those ships are crowded to the point of risking life-support failure. Some will be tows and barges, barely capable of reliably harvesting ice and transporting cargo, let alone moving families. I seriously doubt there's an experienced crew on any—since 'siders have no interest in dirt. But you can't stop a migration, Commander, just by making the journey hazardous.”

“Migration?” Forgetting her age and rank, forgetting everything but the faces of those he'd left—he'd thought
safely
—behind, Malley grabbed Rosalind's shoulders and yanked the 'sider up to face him. “Why now? Why didn't they wait until it was safe?”

“
How did they know where to come?” Grant added, standing by Malley's shoulder as if he'd like to be the one holding her. “Dr. Smith wouldn't have told them—”

“Because,” Rosalind said, her voice faintly surprised, as though they should have guessed. “When Dr. Reinsez had me find the coordinates for his patrol ships to come and blockade the system, I sent them to my people on Thromberg as well. And when Dr. Smith so conveniently cleared that blockade, I informed them the time to approach was now—or never.”

Malley opened his hands, as if they might be contaminated by touching her. “You can't let them land,” he said to Grant, looking past to the screen where fields of Quill rippled in moving air. “You have to stop them.”

“With what?” Grant said savagely. “This ship? We're hours from full reconnection—and even if I leave the science sphere in orbit, what could the
Seeker
do on her own? This is a research vessel, Malley, not a warship.”

Warship?
Malley heard a small noise of satisfaction from Rosalind and, for a soul-shattering instant, he knew exactly what she was thinking—and couldn't help but think the same. The Earthers would do it again if they could . . . destroy any ship coming from the station, no matter who was on board. Only this time, the enemy had faces: Grant, Benton, Aisha . . .

And this time, those who would die weren't strangers from the past.

“REPEAT that?” Gail asked numbly, then said immediately: “No, don't bother. It sounded ridiculous enough the first time.”

“Ridiculous or not, Dr. Smith, I'm looking at a tactical display showing me fifty-seven ships, most of which I wouldn't trust to haul waste from Deimos to Phobos. Two didn't even make it out of translight. They are incoming and very hard of hearing. I've talked to them. Your stationer's talked to them. Hell, I had Reinsez pretending to be the Chancellor of Titan U, and it didn't make any difference.”

Rosalind Fournier.
On some level, Gail approved—the move was worthy of herself. The 'sider had backed her into the ultimate corner: deliver on all promises at once . . .

Gail understood it was nothing personal. The 'sider was powered by her conviction that the menace was pretense. She believed all the cards were hers to play.

In that
, Gail knew,
Rosalind was mistaken.

Grant's voice rang in her ears. “Maybe you can talk sense into these people—at least have them hold at a distance—” It had to be her imagination putting the words:
We all volunteered
beneath his.

“Good idea,” Gail said, her eyes never leaving Aaron. “Make sure you pipe me through as vid as well as audio. I want them all to see this.”

“Of course,”
Grant knew
, she realized, hearing acceptance heavy in his voice. “Let me know when you're ready, Dr. Smith.”

A moment passed in silence. The wind pressed against her side, ran off to chase grassy leaves around Aaron's waist, twirled once, then dashed away to wherever winds went. Gail had done her best not to move, suspecting the Quill were sensitive to any vibration traveling through the ground or air. Now, she stood, wincing at the burn in both feet—and all the way up her right leg—as nerves protested and circulation resumed. Flexing her toes in her boots helped, even though she couldn't feel them yet.

“Swing the 'bot to the other side of Aaron,” she ordered. The 'bot moved as if her voice controlled it, stopping on the opposite side as if staring at Aaron's face.

Gail could only see his back, still coated in Quill. As the sun's rays had intensified during the course of the day, they'd grown darker, less colorful—perhaps injured by the light; perhaps protecting themselves from it. They hadn't moved either.

“We're relaying vid and audio to all of the ships—some might not have the equipment to receive both.”

The 'bot should have her in view.
Gail lifted her hand experimentally.

“Copy that,” assured another voice—probably one of the deployment specialists, used to testing equipment.

“Good,” Gail said. Now that all was ready, she found herself delaying to take a quick sip of body-warm water from the straw by her lips.
Pointless?
Perhaps. But she needed her best public voice—the one with total confidence and that hint of compassionate power. She'd practiced it enough.

“Greetings from Pardell's World,” she began. “My name is Dr. Gail Veronika Ashton Smith—Pardell. I'm the senior scientist on this mission, in command of the Earth Research Council's Deep-Space Vessel
Seeker
.” She doubted Grant would leap on the comm to argue the point. “You are invited to observe Trial Number Six A of our project to determine the safety of this world for human life.”

With that, Gail disconnected the clasps holding the headgear of her suit to the neck ring and lifted it free of her head.

Her first thought, as she squinted in the direct sunlight, was how incredible it felt to have warm, fresh air playing against her cheeks. Her hair, sweat-soaked, began to dry at its ends almost immediately.

There wasn't a word from the comm, either from the 'bot's speakers or from those embedded in the suit. A measure of the man, that Grant didn't diminish this act with meaningless protest, that he left everything to her. She was grateful.

Unfortunately, Gail didn't want to die. She realized it with her next breath.
Stay calm, emotionless, cool as ice.

It wasn't humanly possible, but she tried. And failed. She looked toward Aaron, as if he could help.

LOVE.

Gail began to sob helplessly. Hopeless, desperate, her completion, their loss—she moaned and dropped to her knees, feeling as if she was being torn apart. The headgear had dropped out of reach.
Was this what Aaron went through?
How had he endured . . . she pressed her hands against her skull, trying to keep it out ...

LOVE surged again and crushed her into oblivion.

A passing reflection. A dimpling of consciousness. Nothing more.

That which was Aaron Pardell writhed with the echo.

Surprise
. . . as if he should be safe, unharmed.
Concern
. . .

Pardell found himself abruptly aware of his body, bound and motionless, every nerve ending on fire. He still couldn't see, but the impact of emotion was gone.
No. It wasn't gone.
He fought back the physical sensations and could feel something—someone—but the impression was fading . . .

Something seemed to snap loose inside him. He lashed out with
terror . . . fury . . . dread . . .

LOVE . . . longing, hope, peace
. . . drove him back.

LOVE.
It wasn't his. It belonged to Susan Witts. He shook free of confusion. Not his great-grandmother. Not
human
. It belonged to the Susan-Quill.

Suddenly, it was his. For an instant, he
was
the Susan-Quill, spread over rolling hills, in shadow and sun, near ocean and limits of desert—not the entire world. There were endings, places where he/she was not, but had been, or would be. At the same time, he/she
was
Susan Witts, mother of this world, nurturer and protector.

His partner in this union, his other self, was confused by his reaction to the natural way of things. He should detect the strange—the not-belonging. He should fear those who moved—those who ate.

And why did he not know safety lay within the barrier—the barrier that drove the strange away?

Away?
Pardell lurched free.
Madness and death!
He sent the feelings as many ways as he could. Gail was almost gone.
DENIAL!

He reached into depths he didn't know he possessed for the strength to make one last effort to communicate. He couldn't stop the Quill Effect. Only
she
had that power.

Identity . . . Susan-Quill . . .
he sent, infusing the concept with singularity, uniqueness, the need to survive.

Identitiy . . . Gail . . .
he sent, overlapping the two until they grew inseparable to his mind. As he weakened, despairing it had worked at all, or in time, all Pardell had left to send was LOVE . . .

And he feared it would kill Gail. . . .

NOT dead. Yet.
How very strange.

“Dr. Smith. Can you hear me? Gail!”

I hear you.
Funny how the words were there, just not coming out of her mouth. Bad words. Disobedient, contrary things. She laughed, and heard that sound.

“Gail. We're trying to get down there. Hold on. There's a chance we can get one of the station ships. Try not to move.”

Not moving.
That meant something. Gail rolled her head to one side, wincing as her skull wanted to come loose from her spine, and found herself staring at a maze of brown stems covered in oil. She sneezed at the musty smell. The grass? She'd been in this suit for over a day now.
Must be her.

Gail laughed again, quite impressed by her reasoning ability.
Musty Gail. That's what happened in universities when your career was going nowhere. You went musty after a few years—like Manuel. Musty Manuel. They were a team.

“Gail,” the voice was growing rather distraught.
Not very professional
, Gail thought scornfully.
There were standards to uphold.
“Dr. Lynn wants me to tell you ...” a pause, as though the voice consulted a list, “. . . your vitals indicate a conscious state, but you're in shock. Blood pressure's too low. Your pulse is thready. . . . Are you sure I should ...” This in a different tone, as if the voice spoke to someone else.