Chapter 35
EVERYONE was waiting for him, Pardell realized, taking another throat-searing breath. The air told him the truth immediately—he wasn’t on the station or any ’sider ship. This had to be within the Seeker.
His eyes adjusted to the lighting; his bared skin ached with it, but he wasn’t about to ask for any favors—not until he understood the cost.
Everyone was watching him. Pardell clung to the side of the tub, feeling more than slightly ridiculous. At least being embarrassed helped fight down the fear. He swallowed, pushing back the taste of bile.
Nearest were a matched pair of Earther troops—no, make that a set of four, as two more, identical uniformed figures pounded in through a doorway. No, not identical. One was a woman. Pardell heard an odd sound and looked down. A dark-haired man wearing some kind of fancy suit was propelling himself along the floor in a very undignified fashion. Away from the tank.
There was another sound. He pulled himself up farther and managed to turn to find its source.
Two white-clad figures were standing over a crumpled form. A very large and familiar form. “Get me out of this thing!” Pardell shouted, scrambling desperately. Water—or blue liquid—splashed everywhere as he tried to rise to his knees and climb out, but he couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery floor of the tank and fell, cracking his chin painfully on the upper edge.
“Is it safe to handle him?” This plea from one of those near Malley hit Pardell even harder.
He drew himself up again, holding very still this time, as if that might calm those staring at him into making sense. “What’s happened to Malley?”
“He touched you.”
That was a little more sense than Pardell wanted. “You made him—!” he choked out angrily.
“No!” One of the white-clad figures, an older woman, stood and came close, but not too close, Pardell noted. “We thought you were dead. There was no higher brain function. Your friend said something about trying a defibrillator—then touched you.”
Malley, you idiot! Pardell swallowed once, then tried to think. “Is he still breathing?” The question should have been impossible to ask, but he heard the words come out of his mouth with a hard clarity that sounded like someone else’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Irregular—but steady,” from the one kneeling beside the stationer’s left side.
Relief made the room spin, and Pardell gripped the tank edge until it stopped. He’d knocked Malley out before. The circumstances had been different—God, they’d been playing around as kids—but Malley had roused pretty quickly. Once, Raner had been nearby. Pardell struggled to remember what his foster father had done, besides give him the scolding of a lifetime. “Use just one finger,” Pardell told them. “Touch any bit of bare skin quickly and lightly. If you don’t feel anything like a static charge, you can handle him. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
“No, Philips—” the woman cautioned fearfully, but not in time to stop her partner from following Pardell’s advice. With almost comical care, he reached out and just brushed Malley’s bare arm with a fingertip, then gave it a firm poke before looking up expectantly.
“Nothing,” Philips told Pardell. “We can move him now?”
Pardell nodded and sagged against the side of the tank. “If you have a crane handy,” he said dryly, startling chuckles from a few.
Better that, he knew, than letting them stay afraid of him.
Even if they should be.
Chapter 35
OF several scenarios Gail had built in her mind on the way to the bridge, she had to admit finding her Captain and the grim leader of the Outsider rebellion sitting in the command chairs, laughing together, hadn’t been one of them. She paused in the doorway, making her FD shadows stop at her heels, and considered.
All in one basket.
The phrase dropped into her thoughts with the suddenness that marked most of her best, deepest insights. True, it warned against risking everything at once. But, far better, it meant having everything in her hand. Soon, Gail promised herself.
“I’m glad the Captain has kept you amused, Rosalind,” she said, moving forward as if never having paused. “My apologies for the interruption.”
Rosalind’s pale cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered, an animation sweeping years from her face. Gail noticed more than a few appreciative looks. “No apologies necessary, Gail,” the ’sider told her with a pleased smile. “Tomoki has been spinning me tales—”
“Tales?” Tobo interjected. “Hardly tales. All true, my dear lady. All true!”
Rosalind arched a brow. “If so, you are remarkably well-preserved for so traveled a pilot, my dear Captain.”
Before Tobo could cheerfully continue to protest his dubious innocence—having heard some of his wilder yarns before, Gail could only imagine which he’d decided to tell the ’sider—she said: “I’ve been contacted by Station Admin,” and watched caution wipe away Rosalind’s laughter and replace it with serious attention. “They are understandably anxious whether any of your ships remain poised to be detonated against Thromberg. I told them I would seek to obtain your reassurance.”
Rosalind stood up, making the simple motion elegant and meaningful. “Did you also speak to your superiors at Titan University and request clearance codes for our ship?”
Two could play grace. Gail inclined her head then lifted it. “I requested. They refused. Adamantly. Until the Seeker returns with proof there is a way to detect and destroy the Quill, no vessel from outside Sol will be allowed to enter.”
They might have been alone on the bridge. Gail waited, knowing Rosalind understood exactly what she was offering. And its price.
The ’sider looked around the bridge, her expression one of hunger, then locked her eyes on Gail’s. “I have the codes for the Merry Mate II,” she said simply.
Just as Gail felt the surge of triumph, an emotion she carefully kept to herself, FD Krenshaw approached from her right, holding out a message slip. “From the commander, Dr. Smith,” he informed her as she took it in her hand. “He’s waiting for a reply.”
Gail read: Pardell is not only alive, he’s awake and appears quite rational. In my opinion, we shouldn’t delay questioning him about his ship. Shall I proceed? Grant.
Gail folded the paper neatly once, then again, and tucked it into her pocket. “Tell the commander to keep watching Mr. Pardell and to notify me immediately of any change in his condition,” she told the waiting FD, not surprised when he didn’t so much as blink. Grant’s people were good. “Otherwise, he’s to leave the situation as is.”
“Young Aaron has not improved?” Rosalind’s expression was unreadable.
Gail knew her own face looked properly sympathetic. Sharing the anxiety of a family member. It was one of the easier ones, since it masked guilt so well. “I’m told he’s in no danger. There’s full life support available if he does decline before we are able to revive him.” She gazed steadily into Rosalind’s icy blue eyes. “Would you like to see him before we go to the ’Mate? Check over our hospital facilities?”
The ’sider’s eyes shifted, as if she were uncomfortable, then came back to hers. She shook her head. “I’m sure your facilities are better than anything else available. If what might help him is on the ’Mate, we shouldn’t waste time obtaining it.”
Rosalind paused, then went on with the brutal directness Gail was coming to expect from her. “I choose not to see young Aaron when he is—mindless. His father would care for him during such episodes. I could not.”
From anyone else, this would have been a confession of weakness. From this woman, it was a statement of fact, a personal assessment she revealed not as an excuse, but to prevent further well-meaning attempts to put her into a situation where she wasn’t qualified or willing to act. Gail’s estimation of Rosalind rose, even as she felt for Pardell.
He wouldn’t appreciate her pity. He wouldn’t appreciate her stealing the family skeletons f
rom his ship either. Gail hardened her heart. Pardell was a test subject . . . an opportunity. Besides, she was saving his life and potentially the lives of everyone on Thromberg. Surely, if he was the man Malley claimed, he’d understand that was more important than maintaining his right to privacy.
As Gail began ordering the preparations necessary to follow Rosalind’s directions to Pardell’s ship, she hoped he would understand why she hadn’t dared wait for his approval.
She couldn’t take the chance he’d refuse.
Not if Titan was ready to recall the Seeker.
Chapter 37
“NO reply.” The Earther commander dismissed the messenger, folding the page before putting it in a pocket.
Pardell took another sip of water. It tasted peculiar enough. He wasn’t about to try the thick yellow liquid Malley was pouring down his throat. Typical—Malley treated his body like a dump tank at the best of times.
Some things stayed the same no matter where you were. But here and now? Not routine, rang in the back of Pardell’s thoughts like an alarm klaxon.
Malley’d survived his own stupidity. Pardell’s mind gratefully skittered away from any other option. He’d survived as well—very well, according to Dr. Lynn. Not your typical physician , he thought, still fascinated by the insect life decorating her lab coat and festooning her intricately braided and bound hair. He might have been alarmed, but for her gentleness with the remote handlers when she needed to touch him, and the pleasant sound of her voice.
And Malley seemed to like her.
Right now, the big stationer seemed fully recovered and in his element, performing introductions, pulling up chairs and stools so he and Pardell sat like honored guests, generally acting like someone who’d checked his brain at the door.
Classic Malley, Pardell decided, studying his friend without being obvious about it. The message was coming through loud and clear, passed through the subtle, almost unconscious signals they’d developed between them through years of mischief—as well as real peril. We’re in trouble, Aaron. Big trouble. This time it’s your fault—I’m expecting you to get us out of it.
There was more to read from his friend. Malley was scratched and dented, even more than usual. They’d taken care of him—high-tech, state-of-the-art medicine—altruism or was Malley worth more to Gail Smith than a means to find her freak ’sider?
A shudder rocked him and Pardell quickly set down his drink to avoid spilling it. He’d made enough mess of the place getting out of the tank. The techs were still mopping it up.
“Cold?” Malley asked him doubtfully. The stationer was in bare sleeves and sweating.
Pardell, on the other hand, was fully dressed in new clothes, complete with soft gloves. It had been quite the scene, really, Pardell thought as he shook his head in answer. No, not cold. Not his body anyway. The Earthers had done exactly the right things to reassure him. They’d focused on Malley, several working together to gently lift the stationer to a portable bed, then bustling around with every move showing professional skill and personal concern. Only one had stayed near Pardell, and that one, Benton was her name, had quickly lowered a side of the tank so he, and quite a bit of liquid, could escape it. The liquid collected in drains on a platform. She’d brought him a stool and a blanket, putting both within reach and stepping back. Soon, there’d been a parade of others offering him a bewildering array of towels and clothing.
They’d mimed how he could bandage himself with flat sheets of plastic. Propped against the stool, Pardell had obeyed, shaking with despair at being naked in front of strangers who stared at his gold-veined body, his freak’s skin. He discovered wounds—holes and tears—in inexplicable places, then realized he was repairing damage they’d done while experimenting with him.
He hadn’t bothered with anger. For all he knew, they’d saved his life.
Maybe they’d saved others, getting him off the station. He refused the thought.
“You in there?”
Pardell glared at Malley. “I wasn’t—distracted—if that’s what you mean,” he said defensively, needing all the dignity he could get. Malley in free-advice mode wasn’t helping. “What did Smith have to say?” This to the Earther commander, Grant, who’d returned to his seat on the other side of the low, wheeled table, a table overloaded, in Pardell’s opinion, with far too much food for the three of them. Grant and Malley reached for the same pastry simultaneously.
Malley won—or the Earther declined the race for reasons of his own. Pardell watched them both, abruptly close to losing his train of thought just as Malley had suspected. Grant’s answer helped him focus down from the concepts of competition, dominance, and alliance. “Dr. Smith is still in conference.”
Not routine. “I don’t care what Dr. Smith is doing,” Pardell said, quite impressed by the cold steadiness of his own voice. “Either she—or you—explain why you wanted me here badly enough to start a riot on the station, or Malley and I go back to Thromberg, now.”
Grant had a way of looking at a person, the same assessing, careful way Raner had had when he planned to say something difficult but important. It made Pardell’s palms sweat. “Mr. Pardell—what do you remember from the riot?”
Faces, lips drawn back in death, eyes protruding, pulses of HATE and FEAR throughout his body . . .
Pardell drew in a shuddering breath and raised his eyes to meet Grant’s somber brown gaze. “I—” he started, then the words drifted loose again. “There was—” He couldn’t think it, let alone say it.
“What the Earther’s getting at, Aaron,” Malley growled, his voice low, “is that Thromberg isn’t the safest place at the moment. The riot’s done—assuming they’re telling us the truth. But folks working in the stern ring, well, they—” suddenly, Malley seemed at a loss for words, his face growing unusually flushed.
“Your friend is right, Mr. Pardell,” Grant said, leaning forward, eyes intent. “Too many people saw what you can do. Too many are afraid. It wouldn’t be safe for you to return to the station—not yet.”
Pardell found himself on his feet. “Then give me my suit. I want to go home—to my ship. You can’t keep me here.”
Grant had stood at the same time. He reached out his hand as if to offer comfort, then curled up his fingers and let the arm drop. The look of sympathy—or was it pity?—on his face froze the blood in Pardell’s veins. “Mr. Pardell. Aaron.”
“What have you done to my ship?” Pardell said, stumbling away from them all, seeing heads turn as the others working in the lab heard his rising voice. Some began edging toward the doors and he stared at them, unable to fathom why. Nobody feared him at home.
“Fins down, Aaron,” Malley cautioned, putting himself squarely in front of Pardell, not coincidently keeping one broad shoulder in Grant’s way. “These people don’t know you.”
“Don’t know me?” Pardell shut his mouth over the betraying crack in his own voice. Don’t know me? he railed to himself instead. They stripped me and hooked me up to every machine known to medicine and you think they don’t know me?
Malley’s haunted eyes told him the stationer understood well enough. “It’s just another queue, Aaron,” he said, making no sense whatsoever. Pardell blinked.
“You know how things work. We wait our turn for everything,” Malley continued, his tone suggesting he explained the obvious. “So we can wait for Her Ladyship Smith. We can wait for things to calm down back home. We can wait—” to his credit, Malley said the next without flinching, “—to get back on your ship. No worse than waiting at Sammie’s for a beer.” He stretched out his long arm to show Pardell the glass of yellow liquid. “Better stuff, for sure.”
“You can’t understand,” Pardell found himself saying, aware of a larger audience but unable to look beyond these two men. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d known one all his life and the other for less than an hour. “If I try to remember—if I think—” Finally, the words shot out: “Did I hurt someone?”
Pardell saw M
alley’s throat work, as if the stationer tried to swallow. Then he looked at Grant, who nodded slowly.
... eyes protruding . . . convulsions . . .
“It was worse, wasn’t it? I killed someone, didn’t I?” Pardell whispered. Malley’s face had always been easy to read, especially in the grip of strong emotion. Now it was like looking into a mirror as horror and guilt spread across it. “More than one?” he breathed, knowing the truth of it before the stationer’s eyes closed briefly in acquiescence.
He fumbled his way back into the chair. “How many?”
Malley pleaded: “Aaron, no—”
“How many?”
“Eight,” Grant told him. “The rest appeared to be stunned. They moved under their own steam after a few minutes.”
“Who did I kill?”
“Aaron—”
“Who were they?”
Malley flung himself into a chair that protested such abuse. “Damn you, Aaron,” he said in a strange, flat voice. “Fine. Want to torture yourself? Go ahead. They were Inward Four—dock workers, likely—I didn’t recognize any faces, if that’s what’s in your head. They were trying to kill you—remember that part? And almost succeeded.”
“I remember.” Pardell looked down at his hands, willing them still, willing them normal. “I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” gently, from Grant.
“That I could kill.”
“You still can’t,” Malley disagreed. “Look at you. You’re beating yourself up because some fools died while trying to turn you into floor paste. That’s about as reasonable as expecting the Quill to care that humans drop dead on their planets ...” Suddenly, Malley stared at Pardell as if he’d never seen him before. “The Quill. ...”
Pardell opened his mouth, but before he could argue, Malley leaped to his feet again and loped across the room. From Grant’s frown, he wasn’t expecting this either. They both started, and several techs shouted, when Malley picked up a clear box from one of the tables and brought it smashing down.
Before Grant could do more than leap to his feet and wave over his guards, Malley was back. The stationer was wilder-looking than usual, Pardell thought uneasily.
In the Company of Others Page 27