In the Company of Others

by Julie E. Czerneda

  On the surface, her command threesome was arguing her decision to stay attached to the station. They were really venting their frustration at not knowing why.

  Gail saw no reason to enlighten them, given she sincerely doubted the knowledge would help matters.

  “If you are quite done?” she ventured in the next mutual pause for breath. “If you are, there are some constructive things to—”

  “No, Dr. Smith,” Grant was actually gritting his teeth over the words. She’d never seen anyone do that before and was inclined to be impressed. “If we cannot persuade you to take the safer, more rational course of action and pull the Seeker out to orbit distance, I will not call in the ’bots. In fact—Captain Tobo agrees with me—I want to put out armed patrols. We are vulnerable to sabotage—”

  “—sabotage?” Reinsez’s eyelids pried open further than Gail had ever seen before. The extra expanse of yellowed eyeball did nothing to improve the man’s appearance, which today included clothing even more rumpled than his skin. “That’s the kind of risk we can’t allow, you know. The man’s right!”

  Her lips curved in a deliberate smile. Without a mirror, Gail wasn’t sure if it looked more like a threat than courtesy. She didn’t particularly care. “You’ve vids scanning every square centimeter of our hull as well as all approaches to the ship,” she reminded Grant. “You’ve guards watching the vids. You’ve guards watching the guards watching the vids. The only thing the ’bots are accomplishing beyond that is to inflame Thromberg even more—if that’s possible.” She paused, then turned her attention to Tobo. “Are you getting anything coherent from the comms yet, Captain?”

  Tobo started to throw up his hands, then realized what he was doing and clasped them behind his back instead. “Coherent? If you count receiving dozens of invoices for damages.”

  “Ah,” said Gail, genuinely pleased. “That didn’t take long. Good.”

  Reinsez’s face folded into a perplexed maze of wrinkles. “And how could you possibly conclude anything good about that, Dr. Smith?”

  She steepled her fingers and gazed from one to the other. “Because it means Station Admin is back in control—partially or better. It also means they want to talk. Think about it. No matter how emotional their population, those in charge have to be readying themselves for the potential repercussions. They’ll know this mob attack will play against them in Sol System should I choose to publicize it. I haven’t—yet. They know that, too. Guaranteed translight communications are being monitored here. So, an attack from their accountants? A bluff, my dear Dr. Reinsez, to save face. Let them fling paperwork at us. Captain Tobo? I suggest you have your chief steward tabulate a few bills of our own. Make them big.”

  Grant had fallen silent. Gail pursed her lips, then added sincerely: “If you want me to press for murder charges, Commander, I’ll do it. But do you really believe we’ll ever know who was responsible?”

  His eyes flashed at her, then dulled as if she’d given him an opening he’d give anything to use, but wouldn’t. “Wrong place, wrong time,” was all he said. “They knew the risks.”

  They had to talk, Gail realized, understanding perfectly who Grant held responsible. He’d need to get that out of his system before he would stop second-guessing her decisions.

  And before she could rest, she wanted the names of those who’d died for decisions she’d already made.

  Later.

  “As a gesture to diminish tensions,” Gail said firmly and very clearly, “I want those ’bots of yours back in their boxes, Commander Grant. And there will be no exterior patrols. I consider the situation as stable as it’s going to get, gentlemen, and we will avoid any actions with potential to change things for the worse.” She hesitated, then looked at the vastly unhappy Tobo. “While I don’t condone sabotage under most circumstances, it might be prudent to make sure Thromberg can’t restore the Seeker’s docking connections from inside. I’m sure the First Defense Unit can provide the necessary—expertise.”

  “Tech Specialist Aleksander is my Second, this shift, Captain,” Grant said immediately. “She can set up the appropriate team for you.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Consider it done, Dr. Smith,” the Captain replied with a distinct lightening of his expression.

  When the others left, Tobo taking Reinsez’s arm and literally hauling the protesting man out after Gail’s meaningful look, Grant dropped into the nearest chair as if his spine had melted. He waited until the door closed before speaking, the guards outside under strict orders not to let anyone back inside during their private conversations without permission—even Tobo. One of these days, Gail feared the Captain would try and find this out. He was unlikely to be pleased.

  “They’re in the science sphere,” Grant reported. “Dr. Temujin took charge. I assume that’s acceptable—you hadn’t specified.”

  Gail clicked her tongue against her teeth thoughtfully. Temujin must have been the seniormost on duty. A superb scientist—all her people were—but she’d have preferred Lynn or Sazaad, both having a more careful, methodical approach to novel situations. “As long as he agreed to the quarantine.”

  The commander shrugged. “Didn’t like it being spherewide, but not inclined to argue. There were—circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?” Gail repeated, putting an edge to the word. “You went along to make sure there weren’t any.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “Tell your big friend—once he sleeps off a double-trank dose.”

  Gail understood immediately. “The waist,” she said numbly. “He had a panic attack when the door opened and he looked inside, didn’t he? I should have anticipated that—” The last was said with real bitterness. She’d given in to her own weakness instead of taking the time to personally ensure Malley and Pardell made it safely into the science sphere.

  “If you were aware of the extent of Malley’s feelings concerning air locks and space, Dr. Smith,” Grant said mildly, “it might have been helpful to warn me about it. Fortunately, he was too terrified to put up the fight he was capable of—” He leaned forward, stretching one long arm to her desk, his hand opening to drop a small knife made from a shard of metal and one of the hand weapons he and the others had used on Thromberg. “I found these on our new guest.” He leaned back again, regarding her with a deceptively casual air. “No sign of the transmitter you gave him, by the way.” A significant pause, then: “Malley could have dropped it.”

  Like Grant, Gail was under no illusion the stationer had been careless with such a valuable device. He’d no doubt given the transmitter to someone else—or hidden it on the station.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Science sphere, as ordered. He’s snoring—very loudly, I might add—on a cot near Pardell. Dr. Temujin wasn’t very happy about that. Mind you, he was even less pleased by the guards I left behind.”

  Gail pushed at the knife with one finger, then made a decision. “Have these put back where you found them. Before Malley wakes up, if possible.”

  Grant’s look became appraising. “He’s no fool, Dr. Smith. He’ll expect us to have searched him. Finding these—the stationer will assume he has permission to carry arms on the ship.”

  “He’s used to alliances, Commander,” Gail countered. “We win his trust, or we lock him in the brig, because I’m sure you’ll agree we don’t need a man of his abilities loose and looking for trouble on board.”

  “No argument there. But winning his trust? That’ll take some doing.” He chewed on a bottom lip then said bluntly: “Why bother? He’s already shown he’ll help us with his friend.”

  Gail shook her head. “Not good enough. Not for someone of Malley’s potential. He’s—” she shrugged. “I have a feeling about him.”

  “An authority-hating metal worker who grew up on a station,” Grant said, as if making sure they were talking about the same person. He raised one eyebrow. “I’ll have to look more closely at him myself, then—including, if you don’t mind, keeping this new ally wa
tched at all times.”

  “Fine. Now—” Gail found herself hesitating, unsure where best to begin. She wasn’t, she admitted in frustration, particularly good at taking others into her confidence.

  “Now, Dr. Smith,” Grant filled in helpfully, stretching the words. A man merely content not to move, Gail judged, until she met his eyes and saw the lingering shadows of grief and exhaustion there. “You have your ’sider—and our new friend. I must assume we’re still here because you want something else. Planning to tell me? Or is this another of those details to be revealed when I least expect it?”

  Gods, Gail thought admiringly, humor. The man was either more tired than he looked, or they were actually making headway in understanding one another. “You’re right. I want something else here.” She held up the cup shard. “This,” she told him, tapping the words along the base.

  Grant’s dark eyes narrowed and she could see his body tensing automatically from its inadvertent moment of relaxation. “The Merry Mate II. But you knew she was here well before finding that in the bar.” A nod at the shard. So, Gail thought with satisfaction, he had noticed. Such a pleasure dealing with the observant. “Why that ship?” Grant gave a short laugh. “Let me guess, Dr. Smith. It’s where our unconscious friend hangs that suit of his—making it one of those derelicts outside the station. Am I close?”

  “On the money, Commander.”

  “And now we need the ship as well as the man?”

  She gazed at him for a moment, then corrected: “I wanted the man in order to find the ship.”

  The FD commander’s face bore a sudden, striking resemblance to granite. Or was it ice? Gail wondered. “You could have told me.”

  It was Gail’s turn to be amused. “You didn’t need to know. Then. Now you do.”

  “This old freighter is important enough to bring the Seeker all the way here.”

  “Yes,” Gail insisted, her voice level but her hands tending to grip the edge of her desk. “As Pardell is in no condition to help—and I’ve no reason to believe Malley’s ever been Outside—we’ll have to find her ourselves.”

  Grant inhaled slowly, then let the air out again in an almost soundless whistle. “I’m open to suggestions, Dr. Smith. Most of the ships the ’bot caught on vid didn’t have visible idents. They’ve been deliberately obscured in some cases, scoured away by dust in others.”

  “I don’t know how. But we can’t leave without the ’Mate.”

  He could read her by now, Gail sensed. Instead of arguing as Tobo might have, Grant nodded. “As you wish, Professor. But let the Captain put us at a distance. The station may not be armed, but you don’t need a pulse cannon when your victim’s sitting on the doorstep. A hammer works just fine.”

  “The station is no longer a threat,” Gail disagreed. “We both know why.”

  His lips twisted. “Because by now the tranks have worn off? You think that’s going to improve the relationship?”

  “These people live by balancing debt,” Gail said, keeping it blunt. “It’s in our favor right now, Commander. Any blood is on their side of the scale, not ours.”

  Grant’s nostrils flared. He was breathing hard, suddenly, as if everything that had happened since they arrived on Thromberg was hitting him at once. “They were under my command when they died,” he snapped at her. “Following my orders—”

  “My orders,” Gail corrected. “And I’d give them again, based on the information we had at the time. Do you want to know why, Commander Grant? Do you want to know what they bought with their lives?” She curled her hands around the cup shard, as though cradling something precious. “Maybe—just maybe—the only ship to visit a Quill-infested planet and return with life on board.”

  That shocked the anguish from his face. “The Survivor?” he jeered. “You really believe in those tales—those legends about a Survivor of the Quill? My people died for this—this—nonsense?”

  “Of course not.” Gail was again grateful for the closed door. “As I told Forester, I don’t chase legends—I deal in facts.”

  “What facts?” Grant immediately answered his own question. “Facts you have and I don’t.”

  Gail looked at him for a long moment, weighing many things, then nodded. “Is the room clean?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Slight offense. This was one of the FD’s responsibilities. She had to admit that so far, they’d been able to keep ahead of Reinsez and his toys—although Titan’s representative had come on board with a seemingly unending supply.

  She had to take Grant’s word for it. Gail opened the lower left drawer of her desk and pulled out a rectangular box. It looked ordinary enough, except for the warning symbol on the top indicating its contents would be immediately turned to ash if any hands but hers tried to unlock it. More expensive, but also more secure than a simple gene key, which, though highly specific, could be stolen and used by anyone. Gail preferred not to take chances.

  Inside were an assortment of old-style data disks as well as several sheets of paper—not ordinary paper, but privacy sheets which could be encoded to show their contents only after contact with a specified genome. They’d been “opened” already.

  She plucked one sheet to hand to the commander. “Read this,” Gail ordered. “My authorization,” she added as his eyebrows rose at the warning stamped across the top of the page and the way origin and destination were blacked out.

  Titan University Archives Excerpts from the personal recordings of Chief Terraform Engineer Susan Witts Access Restricted to Clearance AA2 or Higher

  ... I received the request to cosign your loan for the freighter from Callisto shipyards, Raymond. I’ve done it, of course. You only had to ask. It didn’t have to come through Titan. I would have bought you the ship—there must be enough accumulated salary in my account after all these years. I’ve no need for money out here.

  A freighter, is it? The Merry Mate II? And a wife, I’m told. I suppose this means you’ve abandoned graduate studies. I can understand why. Sol System can feel pretty cramped when you’ve all of space calling. I met your father on a starship. Did I ever tell you that? For all anyone knows his ship is still out there, somewhere, exploring. I prefer to think so. It’s better than imagining other reasons why they never came back. Space doesn’t suffer fools.

  I hear I’m already a grandmother. Where has the time gone? Jeremy Norman Pardell. A fine name, Raymond. I do understand why you changed yours before enrolling at Phobos University. They tell me I’ve become something of a celebrity back on Earth. That can’t be easy on the family, but there was nothing I could do about it. People are starting to sign up for immigration. It’s finally here, Raymond, and our name—my name—happened to be the one swept up in the excitement . . .

  Grant stopped reading midway. “Pardell . . . Aaron Pardell . . . Witts’ great-grandson?” he breathed. “I knew you were hunting one of the terraformers’ descendants, but hers?”

  She waved at the sheet to keep him reading.

  ... one day the record will be set straight. It’s not as though I’m the only terraformer. There’s a team of us. Most have been with me since we started Stage Three, some since we began testing seeding procedures—where you were born, Raymond. I’ve been there lately, you know. It’s becoming so beautiful, so very peaceful. The trees I planted for you are almost full size. Did I tell you I’d thought about asking Titan’s approval to open it for settlement, too? I wouldn’t have minded retiring there myself, when that time comes. But the others convinced me not to try. They’re worried we didn’t follow Terraforming Protocols, which is ridiculous—the protocols didn’t even exist back then. We were on our own, being told to develop this amazing technology. Everything was so—possible, then. If you ask me, they’re just afraid Titan will take away their pensions if the secretary finds out we did something without petitioning the department for approval.

  I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. We won’t need another world, with sixteen official new homes waiting. Can anyone on
Earth or under the domes of Sol System conceive how much room that is? How many people could live under these open skies? That’s not considering the next set of worlds—which will be ready long before there are enough people for them. You’ve probably heard the sociologists predicting humans will become so used to wide, empty places, we won’t tolerate being crowded anymore and that will drive us outward even faster. They could be right. There are five of us on World XI at the moment and we sometimes don’t talk for days. Yesterday, I found myself begrudging poor Millie her share of the lab space. I can’t enjoy the sunset if I can see someone else walking in the distance. The others tease me I should go back to Earth for a while and get used to people again.

  What do you think, Raymond? If I came . . . would you let me in the door this time? Would you let me see little Jeremy? Meet your wife? Or does it keep going like this, with messages routing through Titan, with you locking me out of your life?

  I don’t want to argue anymore. Would it help if I admit I was a poor excuse for a mother? I will. But how could you ask me to choose between you and providing for the future of our species? Did you honestly believe I could simply pick up and leave the most significant and fragile project imaginable whenever you scraped a knee or lost a pet? You’re a grown man, Raymond, and if you don’t understand the importance of my work by now, well, there’s certainly nothing I can say to convince you. History will have to do that.

  I don’t think I’ll be coming to Earth soon after all. I wish you luck with your ship and congratulations on your family. If you need anything, anytime—you only have to ask. Remember that. I’m your mother and I love you, Raymond. Always.

  When Grant looked up with a wealth of questions in his eyes, she answered what was likely to be his first. “Where did I get this? Her son returned her letters—they made it as far as a drawer on Titan. Seems someone in the terraforming department thought it could upset Susan Witts to know her mail wasn’t being accepted by her family. After her death—and the Quill—every piece of documentation remotely connected to her was studied and then sealed. But these couldn’t be read. Raymond Pardell had died in an accident, his body given a spacer’s burial. Neither he nor Susan Witts had left their genomes on file.”