In the Company of Others

by Julie E. Czerneda

  A snort from Fy Wilheim. “We all know why, Mr. Touch-Me-Not,” the former welder growled, his hand waving toward the sound of Pardell’s voice. Wilheim had lost his sight using inferior equipment and now worked even-cycle in recycling, opposite Malley’s crew. Pardell knew him well enough. Not fond of ’siders—there was history, a terrible one, behind those clouded eyes. Otherwise, a fair man and one the others respected. That didn’t keep the blood from Pardell’s cheeks as the others nodded in agreement with the old, hated nickname. “What bothers me is how they knew you existed—and how to find you. Someone’s been talking out of turn.”

  Out of turn. A death sentence in times past. Pardell spoke up before it got worse. “I can ask her,” he offered. “She won’t know how we feel about that. She won’t care. I can find out. The more we can learn about this, the better. It’s the not knowing that’s dangerous.”

  “To a youngster.” This, from Silvie, produced another round of nods. “There’s times it’s best to keep heads down and doors locked.”

  They weren’t going to agree, Pardell realized with a numb shock. They’d rather he hide down here until the Earthers gave up. They’d prefer anything to taking a risk. “What about Hugh Malley?” he asked desperately.

  “We look after our own, ’sider.” There was a shuffling of feet and restless movement, as though those words out of the darkness were all they’d waited to hear said.

  Pardell looked into each face, “That’s it?” he demanded, no longer keeping the heat from his voice. “I can’t contact the Earther—and you won’t let me help Malley? It’s because of me he’s up there!”

  Sammie moved close to him, but didn’t put a comforting hand on his shoulder, as he might have with anyone else. “Hush, boy. There’s nothing you can do that won’t make things worse. Think it through. Here, in Outward Five, we know you both—we have a fair idea what the Earther’s play is with getting Malley to the docking ring. We all understand they’re hunting you, not dealing with him. But the rest of the station? They’re wondering what’s up. They see a stationer—one of our own—getting cozy with Earthers. They see rules being broken and don’t know why.”

  “What are you saying?” Pardell asked, feeling as though his lips were numb.

  Wilheim answered for Sammie: “The Earther isn’t Malley’s trouble. She finds out he isn’t her ticket to you, she’s done and sends him back down. But if she doesn’t do it fast enough, Malley’s going to be up against the rest of the station. Only we can fix that, Pardell. No offense, but there’s no good bringing ’siders into this mess.” He paused, blinking though his eyes looked at nothing, or as if somehow they saw more than he wanted. “There’s no good spreading more about you either,” Wilheim went on. “Station’s on edge. They’ll be suspicious of anything—unusual—now.”

  Roy Malley nodded, as did most of the others. Pardell sank back down to his seat. First Rosalind and now this. He didn’t know if he was grateful to have others take charge, or terrified.

  It didn’t matter. Even as he nodded a mute good-bye to each of his seniors, Pardell could feel his own resolve hardening. The Earther was his problem and Malley was his friend.

  He wouldn’t abandon either.

  Chapter 10

  ON the surface, it was a peaceful meeting of open-minded souls. A lie. Gail had endured its like enough times during her academic career to know when sharks cruised beneath the polite smiles and offers of refreshments, waiting for the careless or exhausted swimmer to make that one mistake.

  Oh, she’d been here before. The setting didn’t matter. On her own, Gail was confident she could talk her way out of what appeared to have once been a banquet hall and was now the seat for Thromberg Station’s governing council.

  Unfortunately, Commander Grant sat to her left, literally quivering with tension. The stationer, Hugh Malley, sat to her right, his too-casual posture just as clearly an indication of how he judged their risk.

  Was it a necessary one? she asked herself, surveying those filling the room. It appalled her still, how many individuals the station would cram into any space. The air quality had to be suffering. She found herself involuntarily taking shallow breaths, through her nose, until she realized Malley was amused.

  Risk?—Not as though they’d had a choice, Gail thought, taking a deliberately deep breath as she reached for a glass of water. They hadn’t been offered anything more sustaining—she was long past regretting skipping breakfast. The stationers had moved quickly to overwhelm her guards and bring them here. They’d been made to wait for hours, apparently to face—who were these people, anyway? Less than a government. More than a rabble. Most were older. It was their number and determination, not their individual strength, that had brought the Earthers here. But they had something else in common. Gail struggled to put her finger on the notion. They all had the look of people who had survived and intended to keep on surviving; there was a certain hardness to their faces, a thriftiness to their movements and speech. Ordinarily, this would have been reassuring, but Gail thought again of sharks and waited for the gleam of teeth.

  Sometimes, a frontal assault worked best. Besides, Gail told herself, at this rate her stomach would start complaining for her. She picked out Administrator Forester, presently standing in the row encompassing those privileged to sit at the long L-shaped table. “Since I am being treated as a prisoner, Administrator Forester, am I to assume I’ve committed some crime?” Gail demanded, making sure she projected her voice over the indistinct noise of so many breathing and shuffling about. “If so, I expect to be notified of any charges immediately—with the Captain of the Seeker linked by comm as witness.”

  Any shuffling died away. Forester looked decidedly uncomfortable to have been singled out. Good. But he didn’t answer. Instead, a woman directly across from Gail spoke. “I am Leah Nateba, Dr. Smith. Chief Administrator for Thromberg Station, You haven’t committed any crime we are aware of—unless it is of stupidity.”

  When sharks strike, Gail remembered, it’s usually from below and fast. They go for a taste, not a hold; to test a potential prey, rather than risk the unknown. “Being uninformed can lead to several misconceptions, Chief Administrator,” Gail replied calmly. “Enlighten me.”

  Nateba, as several here, had ivory-white hair in stark contrast to her dark skin. Her eyes were darker still, and not the least warm. “You have entered into private negotiations with this stationer—”

  “Hugh Malley, Outward Five,” that worthy piped up. “In case Forester hasn’t enlightened you.”

  Gail resisted the urge to glare to her right. Nateba was doing an admirable job of attempting to impale Malley with a look anyway, for all the good it would do. Grant made an almost subliminal growling noise.

  “—private negotiations, as I said,” the Chief Administrator continued past the interruption. “Explain yourself. Dr. Smith,” she added quickly, before Malley could take a breath to answer.

  Something wasn’t tracking, Gail recognized suddenly. There was hostility toward Earthers here—that wasn’t new. But there seemed even more hostility being directed at Malley, who she would have sworn was a person who made more friends than enemies. He was one of their own, after all. She suspected a prohibition against direct contact between the regular station dwellers and such as herself. Forester should have warned her. Instead—she glanced at him speculatively—he’d deliberately encouraged her to meet with Malley. A trap, of sorts. Had Malley been in on it? She’d guess not, given his aversion to the air lock and his passionate refusal to contact Pardell.

  But Malley must have known how his people would react to their private meeting—yet he’d been the one to insist. He’d been willing to risk it. Why? Gail shook her head at her own thoughts. “Explain myself? There’s nothing to explain beyond what I’ve already told Administrator Forester,” Gail enjoyed the man’s flinch at being named. “I’m looking for someone on Thromberg. Hugh Malley knows him. That’s all there is to it.”

  “So you have b
een—or are—seeking private negotiations with yet another on the station,” Nateba leaned her head toward the man beside her, who promptly whispered something into her ear. “A person not registered. One Aaron Pardell.”

  Gail could feel Malley stiffen through his arm against hers—a necessarily tight fit given how many shared the table. So. There was a danger to his friend in this woman’s questions. No, Gail thought, not her questions—in her learning of Pardell’s very existence. If Pardell was in some danger on the station, she could use that to convince Malley to bring his friend to her, given she could ever arrange another private conversation with him. The odds of that happening appeared about nil.

  “I have no problem with any and all of my discussions being public, Chief Administration,” Gail said smoothly. “As I’ve said, I’m authorized to be here in order to further my research. I’ve no interest in your internal business, nor do I intend any disruption—”

  “It’s a bit late for lies, Earther.” The teeth were showing plainly now, and others in the room leaned forward as if scenting blood themselves. Gail tried to ignore the hot breath stirring her hair as those behind moved too close for comfort. “Or did it surprise you when we detected your spy satellite? Would you be equally surprised to know your clumsy digging into our data banks was just as obvious to us?” There was a muttering from the gathered crowd—around two hundred, Gail fatalistically estimated—after each of these announcements. Gail did take the time to turn and glare at Grant, whose face bore no expression at all. It was his “against hopeless odds” face—she’d bet on it. If it was meant to express his expectation of surviving her ire about his so-called experts’ lack of stealth, it was appropriate.

  Gail not only planned to survive this meeting, she intended to profit from it. “You haven’t brought us here to talk about whatever the Seeker might—or might not—have done,” she said as much to the crowd as Nateba. “What do you want, Chief Administrator? An apology? Fine. I’ll write one up for whatever you deem necessary. You want me to leave? I’d love to—but not without finding Aaron Pardell. Since this man,” she jerked her head toward Malley, “can help me and you obviously cannot, I suggest you let us get to it.”

  Nateba sat up a little straighter, perhaps startled to find prey that flashed teeth in response. “Malley?” she used his name as the sum of her questions.

  “The Earther’s nuts,” Malley rumbled from beside Gail. She could feel his deep voice through her arm against his. “I don’t know a Pardell. If I did, I’d never turn him over to her. For any reason.” This last a message aimed at her, no doubt.

  “So.” Nateba considered this, again leaning to one side, then the other, listening to whispered comments from her companions. She collected opinions from those behind her as well. “Thromberg’s a big place, Dr. Smith,” she said finally. “No one’s denying there are those here who aren’t registered with Station Admin—some always slip by. Criminals, mostly. Now, if your Pardell is one of those, I’d say he’s hardly worth your time or ours. And if Malley’s no help . . . seems to me you don’t have much reason to stay.”

  Grant moved unnecessarily in his seat, not about to rise, just letting her know he agreed with everything the stationer was saying and wanted nothing more than a peaceful exit from this crowded place. What his people and Tobo might be doing on the Seeker at the moment, Gail really didn’t want to think about—she was aware there were FD contingency plans, particularly as related to her insistence on visiting the station in person. None of them were likely to produce the resolution she needed: Pardell—and this Malley—both in her grasp and cooperative.

  “Do you think much about the Quill, Chief Administrator?” Gail asked, arching one brow. She took a sip of water, giving them all time to do exactly that. “They are an enemy we share—”

  “If they exist!” This shout from the crowd wasn’t worth a glance in acknowledgment. Gail knew from the settling around the table that she had their attention. The name of their mutual enemy still had that power.

  “Maybe you choose to ignore the Quill. You can, tucked here on your station.” Gail smiled thinly. “I, on the other hand, think a great deal about the Quill—but you know that, of course. You’ve checked my credentials. I’m humanity’s expert on the Quill.” Gail sharpened her tone and leaned forward. “I am not here to waste my time or yours. Thromberg isn’t my destination. I’ve stopped here because I’m collecting human genome markers, markers crucially important in testing retrieval equipment. Pardell, who does exist, is the sole surviving descendant of a family line I need. And that retrieval equipment?” She paused for effect, but it was hardly necessary—she had them all. “It’s to collect samples of living Quill tissue, tissue we must have in order to develop a way to wipe them off the terraformed worlds. Worlds, I believe, that belong to your people.”

  The silence was palpable, as though everyone crowded into the room had turned to stone. Gail’s initial feeling of triumph began fading. It faded further as the silence erupted into two hundred voices at once, and a huge hand around her calf yanked her painfully from her chair to land on her rump under the table. Grant was underneath almost the same instant, the three of them—for it had been Malley’s painful grip pulling her down—huddling together. It would have been ridiculous, except for the look on both men’s faces. For once, they seemed to be in perfect harmony, both glaring at her.

  Almost immediately, Grant began leading the way to the nearest end of the table, crawling swiftly. Chair legs became obstacles as everyone around the table surged to their feet, their chairs falling to the floor and rolling this way and that. The shouts and other sounds were confusing without seeing what was happening. There didn’t seem to be anyone searching for the missing “guests.”

  They reached the end of the table, and Grant lifted one hand to hold her back as he cautiously climbed out. Malley, perhaps assuming she was a fool, reinforced that caution by wrapping his hand around her ankle. Gail didn’t waste the breath it would take to hiss disapproval. Grant quickly leaned down to signal them out.

  They—and Grant’s four guards who had been held off to one side and were now silently gathered around their commander—were the only people left in the room. Three huge exit doors remained ajar.

  Gail was whirled around as Malley snatched her shoulder and pulled her to face him. “Now you’ve done it, haven’t you!” he snarled at her.

  Grant, perhaps sharing that opinion, didn’t intervene. Instead, as Gail stood paralyzed, he asked the stationer: “Where have they gone?”

  “Where do you think?” Malley growled, giving her a shake before letting go, Perversely, Gail reached out and fastened both hands on his arm.

  “Where have they gone?” she demanded. “Tell us! What’s happening?”

  If ever there was doom written on a man’s face, she saw it in Malley’s. “What’s happening, Dr. Smith?” he repeated in a tightly controlled voice. “You’ve given very frightened people a choice of targets. Most of them are going to help destroy your ship before any living or dead Quill contaminates their only home.”

  “We don’t have any—!”

  “And the rest?” Malley said as if he didn’t hear her frantic protest—or as if it was irrelevant, which, Gail had the sickening realization, it most assuredly was. “The rest are now hunting Aaron Pardell. Thanks to you, Dr. Smith.”

  Chapter 11

  UNDER the circumstances, Pardell couldn’t afford the risk of traveling where others did. It didn’t matter much—there were no free-run corridors leading from the Outward Five to the stern docking ring anyway. Of course, that’s not where he was supposed to be going. He’d suited back up and made his way to the air lock to satisfy Sammie, who’d sent Tanya as a reluctant escort to be sure Pardell had heeded good advice and headed home. Pardell didn’t think Malley would mind Tanya seeing their hideyhole. From her careful lack of curiosity, he imagined she’d visited already.

  He checked his slide, taking his time despite the urgency he felt. T
he stationers who met in the back of Sammie’s knew their kind. There were no old fools on Thromberg, Pardell reminded himself. He’d had to believe their warnings of the danger to Malley.

  Pardell felt trapped even out here, despite the endless distances to every side but one. He carried Malley’s suit strapped to his back, as if carrying the man. It had meant waiting in the air lock until he was sure Tanya had left, then sneaking back onstation to retrieve the gear.

  Getting the massive stationer into the suit was a problem Pardell left to the unimaginable future.

  He watched for others of his kind out here, aware Rosalind and others wouldn’t approve, hoping to spot them first. It was almost impossible to identify one another outside. Everyone’s suit bore patches and replacement parts gleaned from the same sources. Only style stood out, and there wasn’t much Pardell could do to disguise his own. Few were as fast or graceful on the cables, and, though he delayed where necessary to be careful, he had to move at his best pace. He chose routes through abandoned ships, a spreading graveyard where the cable system was no longer maintained. Risky, but less likely to be observed. As for explaining why he carried an extra suit? That would take some doing. He’d rather not.

  The brief rest at Sammie’s had helped. He’d eaten a bit as well. Still, Pardell fought to keep his hands from shaking, blinking sweat from his eyes. This side of Thromberg was in daylight again and his suit struggled to maintain his core temperature within anything resembling safe levels.

  He dropped more than slid down the last stretch of cabling, coming to rest in the shadow of a Nautilus-class private yacht. A fancy toy, brought out here during the first wave of optimism and wealth, abandoned when her holds ran empty and her crew sought sturdier quarters. ’Sider kids used to play on it. Pardell ran his glove over the sleek curve of a hull destined to swim in atmosphere as well as vacuum, distracted by thoughts of lift, drag, thrust—teased by imaginings of dropping through a cloud to come out again in sunlight.