In the Company of Others (9 page)

Her attack drove the red from Forester's face, but he didn't back down.
This was
, Gail reminded herself,
an individual who kept order among thousands of rightfully frustrated people.
“Perhaps, Dr. Smith,” he countered almost smoothly, “you and your—scientific—staff should share your reasons with us, if you expect our help.”

If?
Gail repeated to herself. She'd come a little too far to tolerate an “if” from a man like Forester. “I expect you to obey orders,” she snapped. “Or have you forgotten who runs this station?”

“Orders?” He snorted derisively. “Oh, you mean TerraCor Limited? Or Earth? If you think either of them has any authority left here, you've been badly misled, Dr. Smith. Thromberg's independent—”

“Is that so?” Gail put her hands flat on the desktop and pushed herself up so that she leaned forward, straight-armed, and stared right at Forester. “Since we are being so frank with one another, let me be totally clear with you, Administrator. I have all the ‘authority' I need to give any orders here I choose. With one comm signal from me, the food supplements ready to unload from the dozen or so Earth transports docked alongside us stay in their holds. A word to that man beside you,” a nod at the ominous Grant, “your station comes apart at the seams. If you have any doubts I'd do the one—or am capable of the other—try me now.”

Gail waited for Forester's reply, carefully not looking at Grant—who in all likelihood could do what she said, given the crates locked in the
Seeker
's hold, but wouldn't—or at Tobo, who was likely completely surprised by all this, but would keep a straight face.
If you want something
, Gail told herself,
claim it first and loudest.

“None of that will be necessary, Professor,” Forester said heavily, first to break their mutual glare. “I don't doubt your authority or willingness to exercise it.” He met her eyes again, no defiance left, only a strange wistfulness. “We've been abandoned to fend for ourselves, you understand. Having Earthers assume we'll merely smile and ask how high to jump after all this time—well that's not going to sit easily with some, that's for sure.”

Gail seated herself and nodded graciously. “I have no intention of demanding the impossible, Administrator. My needs remain very simple.”

“Pardell,” Forester said, shaking his head in total disbelief.

“Pardell,” Gail agreed.

“You were lucky.”

Gail leaned her head back against a luxuriously embroidered cushion, her lips twisting into a grin. “Luck, my dear Captain, had nothing to do with it. Forester was testing me. My guess? Anything other than a strong response from me would have opened the doors to tedious rounds of bargaining, and I have no intention of being blackmailed to get what I'm after. They must have thought they had an edge with that 'bot of Grant's—” She let her smile fade. “You did record a transmission, didn't you?”

Grant and Tobo were the only ones left with her in the office. The three of them sat at their ease in the broad, welcoming chairs in one corner, sipping on the faintly bitter tea Tobo insisted be served. Gail was faintly surprised Reinsez hadn't already stormed in, demanding explanations or, at the very least, annoying her with his analysis of what he would have done.

Had he been the one in charge
, she told herself firmly.
Which he wasn't.

Nor was Reinsez immune to the aftereffects of his own favorite sherry, something Tobo ensured was in plentiful supply in the ship's galley, hence rare moments of peace such as this in which to contemplate what might happen next. After he slept it off, the university's watchdog would doubtless skim through all the vid recordings he could find. Gail was reasonably sure her office and bedroom were clear of the devices—she'd had Grant's people sweep both very quietly, five times now—but, as at home, she undressed with the lights off to be sure.
There was something
, she thought,
about never knowing
who
might be watching.

“Deployment Specialist Peitsch is very capable. Here.” Grant tossed her the viewer, a disk already set to play. His face turned inexplicably grim. “It's—well, it's not what I expected.”

Tobo gave a short, humorless bark. “Who would?” he said, then waved impatiently at Gail, urging her to see for herself.

She cued the viewer with one hand, raising her teacup with the other as she started watching the dizzying perspective provided by the 'bot as it spun away from the underbelly of the
Seeker
and headed out along the seemingly limitless arc of Thromberg's white flanks. The image quality was as exceptional as the subject was dull.

Gail took an idle sip then froze, the cup barely touching her lips, as the 'bot began passing over what was not in the least dull or ordinary.

“Good gods,” she whispered involuntarily. “What—? They have a fleet out here?”

“Once, maybe,” Grant corrected, his voice rough and low. “Watch. The 'bot's going in closer. See?”

She did, indeed. Plainly, the ships were derelicts, attached to the station's hull by a bewildering variety of wires and conduits, grapples and beams. “What a mess ...” Gail muttered to herself, finding herself offended at the sight, as if some parasitic fungus grew on the station's side. “What are they doing? Storing scrap?”

“Surviving,” was Tobo's low growl. Gail spared a moment to put down her cup and look at him. For the first time since they'd met on Titan, Tobo's face was completely serious; if she didn't know him better, she'd say he looked as though he'd love to strangle someone.

Gail gazed back into the viewer. The 'bot had moved on, but the blight of dead ships continued—
it must coat the entire aft ring of the station
, she realized with sick wonder. No questions now why Forester was so anxious about external surveillance—or why the
Seeker
had to choose between such a limited selection of approved docking approaches. They kept this part of their artificial world well out of sight of visitors.

Then, Gail saw it. “What?” she exclaimed before she could stop herself, her fingers hurrying to pause the display and back it up a few heartbeats.

She watched a second time as the 'bot slowed to follow a space-suited figure careening along one of the cables slung between the ships. Just as Gail was sure the figure was out of control, one of its arms swung outward, somehow latching onto another cable and so coming to an abrupt halt. The 'bot went up close, so close, it reflected itself in the blackened curve of a helmet.

A helmet that belonged in some museum. Gail felt as though she'd stepped back in time.
Who would use such antiques these days?
And the rest of the suit was a mess, crisscrossed with tape and mends until the original silver blue was almost obscured.

The figure moved in an odd fashion that nonetheless effectively propelled it away. Gail almost protested when the 'bot swung in another direction, forgetting this wasn't live feed. Then she subsided, seeing that the space suit wasn't alone out here. Once she knew what to look for, the barnacle crust of ships swarmed with life, sliding down cables, moving in and out of air locks, working in small groups.

“Survival,” she echoed Tobo's judgment, and shuddered. “They're—living?—outside the station?” The visual turned black and shut down. It must have been when the station discovered the 'bot. Which meant that Forester and the rest knew perfectly well what was out there.

“I'd heard talk from freighter captains,” Tobo said. “I hadn't believed it—you hear all sorts of junk—”

“This is real,” Grant objected.

Tobo took the viewer and ejected the disk, turning it over in his hand thoughtfully. “Yes.”

Gail was pleased her hands didn't shake as she picked up her teacup and refilled it. “What did these captains say?”

“That Thromberg was damaged when so many immigrants tried to run for Earth at once—to go home,” Tobo said in a slow, careful voice, as if listening to his own words. “The stationers were just as afraid of the Quill, but they had nowhere to run, no ships of their own. When the immigrants were—turned back—at Sol, those that survived tried to return here. But the stationers believed their ships had been contaminated by Quill.”

“That's ridiculous—” Gail began.

“By what we know now. Then, it was believed Earth fired on the ships and drove them back to prevent the spread of the Quill.”

Grant's voice slid into the following pause: “A station can't defend itself. The rings were designed to expedite the movement of large numbers of ships. All they could do was refuse to help—they must have sealed up the docking rings, locked the ports and air locks. The station left them outside to die,” He spoke as though making a tactical observation, until the last, when the words dropped a startling, menacing octave.

“Life finds a way,” Gail observed, watching the disk harbored in Tobo's hands. “Life survives however it can, wherever it can. Like these people—by staying on their ships all these years.”

Tobo pocketed the disk and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “According to what I was told, that's not quite true. The Outsiders, as they're called, are supposed to have secret ways on and off the station. The stationers look the other way, too busy dealing with the immigrants who didn't leave.”

Gail and Grant traded glances—his was decidedly gloomy. “Why don't I like where this is going?” he asked neither of them in particular.

“Because,” Gail answered, “it may mean we've been looking in the wrong place for Aaron Pardell.”

LIKE her young owner, the
Merry Mate II
was skin over bones, more patchwork than whole, and worth little more than her mass in materials by most standards.

Pardell felt uncommonly aware of the similarity after the day's events. “As if I care what any of them think,” he muttered under his breath as he hung his suit over the line in the gap between his second- and third-best socks. There weren't fourths, but he'd never needed them anyway. He pinched the fabric of the nearest. Still damp. It took forever to dry things anywhere except in the warmth of the galley, but Raner had brought him up to know food and laundry shouldn't mix.

The suit was sweat-damp inside and, to be honest, gave off an aroma that didn't belong in a galley either. His boots were worse; he'd had to pour liquid out of both and the linings shed irreplaceable bits of themselves in the process. Encountering the Earther's spy 'bot hadn't helped the old gear's function, nor had his unusually long, circumspect route home afterward. At least the station's clean-up barge had come hunting—a forgivable intrusion, since it scooped up the 'bot—but by then Pardell hadn't felt like taking any more chances.

Smith had been hunting
him. He knew it as surely as he knew the entry codes for the
'Mate.

Pardell gave his empty suit an unnecessary whack as he ducked under it. “Why? Why me?” he asked the universe in an aggrieved tone, despite knowing he'd get no answer, despite a mouth-drying suspicion he knew the answer already.

Other years, earlier years, there would have been a chorus of responding voices, ranging from cheery to profane. The
'Mate
's three cabins, galley, and private washroom might technically be his legacy from his foster father, but her space was a luxury not to be wasted. Aaron Raner had left their port open to anyone willing to put up with what he vaguely termed his son's allergy. Some stayed only until witnessing young Pardell's convulsions, especially those who inadvertently touched him and caused one. Others had stayed for years, becoming family until accident, old age, or station temptations took them.

Raner had never explained what debt or obligation turned him from stationer to Outsider, even when Pardell was old enough to understand the difference and young enough to ask. He did know it had something to do with him, that for some reason Raner couldn't keep him on the station and had chosen to stay here with him. As a child, he'd suffered confused pangs of guilt; as he matured, he grew to understand how very lucky he'd been to have the stationer care for him. Raner, a quiet, peaceful man, had been killed before Pardell could express either feeling, cut down with so many others in an aisle slippery with wasted blood.

Since then, Pardell had hoped for company, having been raised to share his living space and unhappy alone. But there were no longer enough 'siders to fill the ships and most stationers were unwilling to venture outside even if they'd been welcome.

Immies were welcome. A handful had ventured outside in the early years, seeking missing family or friends, trying to comprehend the finality of the new distinction between in and outside. Most had reentered Thromberg, afraid to trust their lives to aging equipment for the sake of a little more room and privacy; very few, in fact, risked any of what little security station registration, address, and work ident granted them. They'd lost enough already.