Past the door, they entered the automated walkway. Each took hold of a support bar along the wall as the floor shifted into motion, taking them through the Seeker’s wasplike waist to the core of the larger stern sphere. That sphere held the research facility itself, currently home to the over sixty scientists and technicians working in the Seeker’s maze of laboratories. Most of the space remained unassigned, waiting a purpose. They could build almost any device or tool they might need within it, then dismantle the parts when done to be ready for the next experiment.
The waist itself, Gail thought as she and Grant stood still, yet sped along as the conveyor moved them, could be much more than it seemed as well. The semitransparent walls and ceiling were deeply corrugated, the only hint that this corridor differed in any way but length from others on board. The corrugation allowed the waist to be extended in stages. The first changed its interior into a gravity-free chute for emergency travel between the spheres. A further extension turned the chute into a narrow tether, little more than a housing for power and communications cabling, as well as holding the two parts of the ship together. The publicized reason for this feature was so the science sphere could be dragged through the upper limits of an atmosphere to conduct its research. The unstated reason was to contain any alien biohazard released within the sphere.
Last, and not least, the science sphere could completely detach. This option had two purposes: first, the sphere could be left in orbit around an interesting world for prolonged research, while the mobile command sphere went for supplies or to gather other data at a distance. The other?
If a deadly alien pest, such as the Quill, contaminated the science sphere, it could be destroyed.
Gail was fully aware that Titan U expected her to keep their precious new ship in one piece. She had a tiresome pile of memos reminding her that retracting the tether and reconnecting the spheres was prohibitively expensive and risky. Of course it was—since reattachment required crew working from outside, let alone the downtime before the Seeker could move safely.
She was also aware that the waist, because of its versatility, was the only area of the ship guaranteed to be free of vids. Robotic sweepers automatically scoured every foreign molecule from its interior following any use. A most convenient cleanliness.
“Holding,” Gail warned Grant as she twisted her hand on the bar to pause the walkway.
They were approximately midway, the waist stretching to almost points in both directions, the opaque surface of walkway and hand bars exaggerating the effect. The transparent walls and ceiling formed a black arch overhead, presently shaded against Thromberg’s tiny sun. Gail always found it strangely claustrophobic, unsure if her discomfort was because she knew her hand on the wall was mere centimeters from vacuum or because of the small red switch on the bridge that could instantly negate even that protection.
So the place made her queasy—it remained ideal for her purpose. “I’ve reason to believe this stationer, Malley, can get a message to Pardell.”
Grant raised one eyebrow. “Progress, then.”
“I hope so,” Gail said, perhaps more fervently than she’d intended. “We’ll see if Forester’s cooperation extends far enough to be useful. In case it doesn’t, I want your people to be ready to do some digging . . . now that we finally have a name which appears in their database.”
Grant’s eyes brightened. No doubt he had to listen to complaints from his missionless and bored experts, Gail thought with some sympathy. “A name makes a difference,” he admitted. “A big one. Are you sure you want us to wait, Professor?”
She frowned, but not at Grant. “We both agree this is a volatile situation. They were faster picking up your probe than expected—and their reaction wasn’t pleasant. I daresay the same could hold true for any type of intrusion.”
A nod. “A reasonable conclusion. When—if—you want us to proceed, be assured we’ll take extraordinary precautions.”
What those might be, Gail didn’t want to know. What she did need was extraordinary cooperation. “I’ll be blunt with you, Commander,” she warned, seeing his eyes narrow ever so slightly in anticipation that here was likely the real reason for her invitation. Good. She liked working with people who tried to predict her. It made so many things easier. “There’s no if. Before we undock, I want you to grab as much information as you can from Thromberg’s systems about Malley, about Pardell—because I don’t trust Forester’s explanations—and two other names. Aaron Raner.” She paused.
Grant didn’t hesitate. “The man who requested the adoption papers for Pardell. No problem. The other?”
Gail reached across the narrow corridor of the waist to tap Grant ungently on his broad, hard chest. “This information comes to me, and me alone, Commander Grant. Are we clear?”
He didn’t salute, but there was something of the intention in his eyes. “Yes, Professor. My people and I are fully aware of the chain of command.”
Satisfied, Gail let herself smile. “The last name—for the moment, at least—belongs to a Royce/Douglas freighter, Pica-class, originally registered out of Earth and transferred to Thromberg twenty-three years ago. The Merry Mate II. Her reg code was AJST 866 C1066.”
There was nothing subservient in the look this gained her. “So,” a shade too polite, “despite all the protests, you wanted the probe out there. To look for this ship.”
She did like working with Grant. Gail arched one brow, then twisted the handle to start the conveyor moving again. “What I want is a shorter distance to my lab, Commander, but we each have to deal with what we have, don’t we?”
Chapter 7
NOT smart. Pardell didn’t need to imagine Rosalind’s dry voice in his helmet to know her opinion. Part of him shared it.
But what was he supposed to do? Sit alone in the ’Mate? Wonder what was happening on-station? Worry that his only chance for a better life was preparing to undock?
After Rosalind had left—without promising more than to consider heading up to the docking ring—he’d thought it over from every side until his brain ached. If the ’Mate still had a comm system, he could have contacted the Seeker himself. A joke suited to his mood. Oh, there was a panel marked “comm ops” on the ship’s bridge—with nothing left behind it but the ends of connectors. Currency, long spent.
But there were other comm systems.
Pardell slowed his descent along the cable by twisting the hook to add friction, reaching the station plate with virtually no force left to send him back up again. He flipped on the mags to lock down the soles of his boots before releasing his hold. Habits. There were none to guide him in dealing with strangers.
This air lock was in poor shape. Hardly anyone used it these days, preferring to walk the longer route through Thromberg’s air-filled corridors. Truth was, Pardell told himself, there was little need anymore to avoid moving through the station. Rosalind and her cohorts might deny it, but he could see a time coming when, if nothing changed, the station would quietly accept all who were left outside—if only to replace those lost within. How long after that Thromberg’s population could continue to survive, he’d no idea. They shouldn’t have lasted this long, but people were stubborn that way.
Pardell’s lips twitched in what was close to a grin. He probably had a little too much of that stubbornness himself.
The warped outer door still held tight, but Pardell waited until he was through the inner one and it locked behind him, before removing his helmet and looking around. No one in sight—not that this far corner of the abandoned ring was ever popular. Too much debris blocked line of sight and there was too little in the way of alternatives if one was trapped here. He was one of the few who routinely used this air lock, something only he and Malley knew. They had a secret place nearby—one of those things kids did who played together without the complete approval of adults.
Not much of a place, even for a hideyhole, but it sufficed. The innermost layer of the whipple shield overhead had been rammed through the in
terior wall plates and down into the floor, coming heartstoppingly close to opening up this part of the station to vacuum. Engineers and techs had stabilized it with sprayed cement and left well enough alone. People didn’t like the look of it. Fine by him. Pardell listened to his heartbeat and nothing else for a count of one hundred and one, then heaved aside what looked like a twisted mass of worthless plastic but was a panel woven from the least appealing scraps they could find.
He paused, using his wrist lamp to survey the interior of the cavelike space. Malley’d surprised a trio of ’tastic heads in here once. Unfortunately for the trespassers, it had been after the stationer had reached his full growth and temper. Pardell preferred a more cautious, limb-preserving approach and kept himself ready to retreat if necessary.
The thin beam of light slid down the ominously tilted slab of metal forming the roof and two walls of the shelter—some of it melted and re-formed—then briefly investigated any pile of scraps large enough to hide an unwelcome guest.
Or a welcome one. Pardell’s face burned unexpectedly at the all too clear memory of surprising Malley with a lady friend. The faint light had seemed a welcome and Pardell had hurried inside, only to confront a bewildering tangle of slow moving limbs and far more exposed flesh than was sensible out here where skin would freeze to metal. Aghast that his friend would bring anyone else to their hidden place, he’d hesitated a moment too long. No, in honesty, he’d been mesmerized by the sight of gentle touching, fascinated by their soft sounds of pleasure.
Malley’s outraged roar when he’d realized they were being watched had not been one of those. Pardell had slammed on his helmet and run back to the air lock, cycling through it faster than was at all safe, knowing full well Malley would never follow him into vacuum.
They’d never spoken of the incident, but ever since, as now, Pardell made sure to check every corner of the room before committing himself to stepping inside.
Pardell shook himself. He was well aware of his own limitations and, while sometimes desperately envious, it was only right his closest friend should enjoy what normal people did with one another.
Maybe the Earthers had a cure for what isolated him like one of those monks he’d read about.
Pardell tore off his suit glove, rubbing that hand over his face as if to rub away the entire notion. It didn’t help that his heart began to pound and his breath came treacherously faster. I’m an adult, he told himself furiously, embarrassed at this lapse into adolescence even alone and unwatched. I have greater concerns than wanting to know how it feels to touch a woman’s flesh, to be touched, to . . .
Not to mention those were the very last thoughts he needed in his mind when negotiating with the Earther. He winced, then focused on the here and now, deliberately removing his suit one piece at a time, rolling up any still-sticky pieces of tape—discarding those now-useless strips whose adhesive had finished outgassing to vacuum—and putting each into a suit glove for later.
They’d put in hooks and made structures that were faintly chairlike—the place was quite homey, if you didn’t mind decorating with what even Thromberg considered disposable. Most of the material against the walls and coating the floor was insulation. The cold could kill you, the moment you forgot about it.
Malley’s suit hung, limp and musty, to the left of where Pardell hung his own. Although he was in a hurry, Pardell gave it a quick check. Malley hated wearing the thing with a passion, even though a suit had saved his life once. Pardell expelled a frosty breath in exasperation. The battery was low again. No need to wonder why—Malley had a tendency to plug an extra heater into it, especially when he came down here to worry away at some equation or problem at all hours of his night cycle.
Pardell gave it a quick recharge from his own suit battery. It was a dark, never-mentioned truth that there weren’t enough suits for everyone on the station. Not even close. Although he’d chosen to live Outside, Raner had done what he could to make sure his family and friends had suits for their children. Malley’s still had the leg fabric from that original gift. He and Pardell had used it to extend the arms on this one. Good thing Malley had finally stopped growing.
Pardell’s hands dropped away from their fussing over the other suit. He was wasting time. It was morning for those running odd-cycle. Malley would be on the recycling floor, heaving metal fragments and engaging his coworkers in debates on the nature of consciousness between loads. If he wanted to catch him—and get Malley’s help accessing the comm system in the factory—he’d have to hurry before the morning shift broke for rations. Depending on whether Malley had students, he could head off in any direction, leaving Pardell waiting for him in the corridor where he’d doubtless have to endure everyone’s questions and apologies about last night at Sammie’s. No thanks.
Pardell pulled the mags from his boots, tucking them neatly beneath his hanging suit, then stood up straight, looking down at himself until he was almost cross-eyed, making sure his coveralls were as tidy as possible. There was nothing he could do about the wrinkles at each joint and around his waist—those came with being a ’sider and spending most of your time crammed inside space gear.
After making sure the panel was across the opening, and pausing to listen for any sign he wasn’t alone, Pardell left. As always, he did so with the smallest twinge of worry. Their cave wasn’t a complete secret, as were his other hiding places. Leaving his suit here felt dangerous, despite Malley’s assurances of its safety. Those assurances rang somewhat hollow at best, since Pardell knew perfectly well his friend hoped one day he’d forget about the ’Mate and stay inside Thromberg for good.
Not likely. The ’Mate was home and security. Leave her? Not unless Pardell had a new future and a new ship.
“’Bout an hour ago, wouldn’t you say, Denery?” Lang looked up from the cards in his hand, frowning a bit in concentration.
“Less,” Syd Denery replied quickly. His face, usually cheerful, was presently drawn in worried lines that had nothing to do with his chances at beating Tommy Lang at rummy.
Pardell looked from one man to the other, trying to grasp what they were saying. “Station Admin came down here, mid-shift, and just took Malley with them?”
Both nodded. “Didn’t bother explaining,” Denery said, anticipating Pardell’s question. “Then again, when do they?”
“Who was it?” The lights flickered, once, and all along the narrow space, workers began getting to their feet, ready to return to their shift. He hadn’t been quick enough to make it before the break. If only he had—Pardell eased out of the way, pressing his back against the wall beside Denery’s chair. Habit as well as courtesy. It was easier for him to avoid the moving mass of people than expect all of them to avoid him.
Lang folded his cards and tossed them into the pile on the table. “I take it there’s no time to win my dibs back this round, Syd,” he grumbled as he stood. “’Bye, Aaron. You coming?”
“Be right there, Tommy. Cover for me if I’m slow—right?” Denery waited until the other left with a nod before saying: “There were four of them. Faces I didn’t know. Anzetti said he’d seen a couple of them before—wasn’t sure where.”
“Did they say anything? Why they wanted Malley in particular?”
The off-shift was trickling into the corridor, claiming their turn at rations and chairs. Denery slid to his feet, coming to lean beside Pardell and speaking in a quiet voice that nonetheless sent shivers down Pardell’s spine. “Spouted some nonsense about having him talk to Station Admin over improvements to the line down here. As if that would happen. But you know Malley. He’ll grab any chance to blow off steam about how things are done.”
“So they—or whoever sent them—knew exactly how to get him to leave without kicking a fuss or calling over the floor boss.”
A flicker of something grim in Denery’s eyes. “That’s my guess. I don’t like it, Aaron. It’s not routine.”
Not routine. Stationer code for dangerous, since anything unexpected in Thrombe
rg was considered a threat. It usually was. Pardell nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. “Earthers,” he breathed the word, rather than say it out loud, with all these ears in range. Denery paled but didn’t argue.
Instead, he looked up at Pardell and said urgently: “You get home, Aaron. Hear me? There’s nothing you can do. You wait and I’ll—I’ll get word to you somehow when Malley’s back.”
Pardell had to smile. “Syd, you don’t have the slightest idea how to get a message Outside and we both know it.”
“I know when my friends are in sewage up to their eye sockets, that’s what I know,” the little immie said firmly. “Just you listen to me, Aaron. Please. And stay out of Sammie’s—at least for now. Forester’s left his people there.”
“Sammie must love that.”
Syd Denery snorted. “No doubt. Heard he’s charging them rent for their table. You listen to me,” he repeated, lifting one hand as though to put it on Pardell’s shoulder, then stopping just in time. “You get home and stay there. This is probably nothing anyway. We should be feeling sorry for whoever has to listen to Malley ranting about alpha sorting protocols and bin sizes.”
“I will, Syd,” Pardell said earnestly, though not specifying which suggestion he planned to follow. “And—thanks.”
When you grew up in a place, you knew that place. Pardell might not have spent every waking moment on the station, but he and Malley had been determined wanderers as children—too full of energy to stay close to either’s home and too full of themselves to stay where it was safe. He’d had the Outside as an extra playground, true, but it was the tunnellike Inside that had fascinated them both. They’d explored every nook and cranny within their section of Thromberg. Since many of those had been addons following the riots, or subdivisions built without consulting the station’s engineers, it was entirely likely the youngsters knew it better than anyone else.
In the Company of Others Page 10