Sunlight without an atmosphere was a far less friendly thing. Pardell wrenched his foolish, wandering mind back to the present, angry at himself again, and again tired of that anger. One day, he’d learn to focus on a task and simply do it.
Such as what lay ahead. Resolutely, Pardell leaned down and activated his mags, feeling the thump through his lower legs as his boots flattened to the station’s outer plate. Thromberg’s stern horizon made a paired arc before his eyes, not as smooth as the aft section had been before the ’siders attached their ships. No, the stern ring had originally been intended to receive only freighters and automated cargo barges. It was festooned with servo handling arms and other gear—now almost half nonfunctional, according to Rosalind. Still, a rare glimpse of Thromberg’s grand design before the Quill.
It would take him about an hour to walk to the nearest air lock. More importantly, it would take one-quarter of a tank of air if he paced it right. Pardell hit the chin switch and read his gauges. He still had three-quarters of a tank, the difference from full being what had brought him along the cables to here.
Pardell carried one extra air tank—all he owned. It was an old emerg unit, about one-half the capacity of the one on his back, but he’d tested it before. He’d made sure the tank on Malley’s suit was full, not that he’d touch it. If they couldn’t both make it back, what was the point?
He took one last look at the comforting confusion of ships and cables that was home and safety, then began his march. The joke would be on him, if the air locks of the stern ring had been sealed from inside.
Thunk. Lift the heel to release. Swing the foot forward and down. Thunk. Lift the heel to release the back foot. Swing it forward . . . Pardell lost himself in the sensation of effort without struggle, satisfied to be moving in a direction that might help Malley without arguments and confusion. Everyone told him what to do. No one listened. Thunk . . . Lift . . . Young Aaron, don’t trust them . . . Swing . . . Thunk . . . Young Pardell, we don’t want your help . . . Mr. Touch-Me-Not . . . Lift . . .
Freak.
Thunk . . . At least now, here, it was his choice to be a fool or hero, precisely which depending on several factors beyond his control.
As the slice of station making up the stern ring came closer, Pardell realized he’d forgotten one of those factors.
There were tiny suited figures ahead. Not many, and none between him and his chosen air lock, but there could be more hidden in the intense black shadows cast by the servo booms and other equipment. So far, they all seemed busy with their own tasks. There wasn’t much he could do beyond hoping they were also focused on their upcoming shift change, timed, for convenience out here, to the approaching terminator as the station rolled from sunlight to darkness.
Some of those workers were at the bases of what Pardell didn’t at first credit to be starships. His feet kept moving as he stared at what the Merry Mate II and her sister ships had been. Perhaps some of these were just as old or as ready to be scrapped in favor of newer models, but to his eyes, they were all whole and beautiful, free of the haphazard cables and piping, ready to fly.
One in particular caught his fancy, an odd-looking thing set apart from the rest. It must be docked as far to this side of the ring as possible. Since that docking placed it closest to his air lock, he was relieved to see the ship didn’t have any suited figures bustling around its exterior. In fact, there was nothing near it at all, a lack of comparison that kept him from judging its true size until he was much closer.
When he did comprehend the scale of the ship, Pardell gasped. It was a monster of its kind, made up of two globes, one much larger than the other, the smaller nestled properly into a real docking port rather than rammed down onto a buckled plate and held by welds and scraps. The globes were lit both inside and out, sparkling like the decorations Silvie used to hang in Sammie’s for special days, until so many were “borrowed” she’d given up. The starship’s globes were linked by a strange, dark tubelike structure, visible mainly in silhouette, though it, too, possessed a fine line of red lights, as though the ship’s builders had insisted on fanciful touches everywhere.
Pardell didn’t need the extravagant lighting to know it was an Earther ship. Most were, except for some freighters, barges, and tows the station had managed to keep operational. Not to mention only an Earther ship would be so distinctly new in its design.
There was a precise moment in his approach when he became convinced this wasn’t just any Earther ship—but her ship.
The Seeker.
That was the moment Pardell almost panicked and turned back. Then calm reason reasserted itself. Why would they be looking out over the empty curve of the station? Even if they did, what could he appear but another of the workers—albeit one in a suit less maintained than most. Given Earther snobbery, they likely wouldn’t notice that much. They probably had proximity alarms—the ’Mate did, until Raner sold those parts as well—so he’d be cautious not to get too close. That was all. Just keep it casual and head for the air lock.
And hope it was still functioning. The unguarded part, he’d take on faith.
For the rest of his march . . . Thunk . . . Lift . . . Swing . . . Pardell studied the glittering technological wonder that was the Seeker, memorizing every detail in view. He’d share them with Rosalind later—once she got over her pique that he was the one to see this beauty first. And recovered from her justifiable rage over his willfulness. Hmmm. Thunk . . . Lift . . .
Then again, Pardell nodded to himself, maybe he’d savor this particular experience on his own.
Chapter 12
THEY’D been searched, enthusiastically, by stationers who likely knew all about concealed knives but who, it seemed, had no conception of the talents of the Earth military when it came to concealing anything else.
Grant and his four were still pulling toys out of various parts of their uniforms, as Gail and Malley watched in fascination. Grant’s four? Gail struggled to dredge their names from memory, aware the two men and two women were preparing to risk their lives to return her to the Seeker. Ah, yes. George Tau, of course, but also Combat Specialists Art Mitchener and Natasha Loran, and Deployment Specialist Dianne Peitsch. Amazing how letting their hair grow was starting to transform them into individuals. Tau’s was jet-black and straight, glossy in the station’s lighting. Mitchener and Loran both sported curls, his tightly spiraled, hers beginning to fan out along the line of her chin. Peitsch’s might try to be straight, but she had a pair of widow’s peaks driving her locks in every direction but down.
They’d traveled together all these months, these four among the twelve rotating as her personal guard, a guard until now Gail had deliberately ignored and would have happily been without. As she stood beside the oddly comforting bulk of Hugh Malley, watching the FDs assemble various devices from the parts they’d carried hidden, she found herself wishing for no more than another irritating walk from her office to the lab with these people following behind, their greatest daily risk being caught dozing outside her door by Grant.
As if hearing her thought, Grant lifted his eyes from what he held even as his fingers made the last connections to what was suddenly a miniature transmitter. “They didn’t seem overly concerned with us, Dr. Smith,” he said, perhaps mistaking her silence.
“Yet,” Malley offered, leaning one hip on the table.
Gail waved away both comments. “We must contact Tobo. He’s—”
“The Captain and our people back on the Seeker have been kept informed,” Grant said, flashing a grimly satisfied smile. He—and the others—reached up to the topmost buttons on their uniforms.
“No vids?” Gail snorted. Well, if ever there was a time to be grateful for her orders being ignored, this was one. She held out her hand and Grant dropped the transmitter into it without hesitation. “It’s autosynched,” was all he said.
Gail walked a few steps away, not for privacy, but because she couldn’t stand still when so much could be happening outsid
e her control. She thumbed on the device. “Receiving,” chirped Tobo’s voice.
“What’s your status, Captain?” she asked.
“We seem to have inherited your meeting, Dr. Smith,” Tobo answered in a reassuringly dry tone. “So far, they’re milling around the main air lock. Shouting. Nothing terribly interesting. However, there’s a sizable number here already and more are arriving as we speak.” He paused, then reported: “Grant’s people want me to prep the ship to undock without station cooperation but—”
“Do it. I don’t how much you could pick up from their remotes—or what the troopers told you—but the situation is serious.”
Another short pause. When he spoke again, Tobo’s voice was grim. “Dr. Smith, if we undock on our own, are you aware it will rupture the wall in this section? Are you ordering me to murder these people because they are afraid of the Quill? I’m afraid of the Quill!”
“I’m ordering you to make it clear to Thromberg Station that I won’t have my ship and mission threatened. Power up and disengage from your end, but hold position. I hope that’s all it will take,” Gail said measuredly. “If they force matters, give them as much warning to evacuate as you can, but don’t hesitate to blow the couplings and get the Seeker out of here. Am I understood, Captain?”
“Yes, Dr. Smith. But we’re not leaving without you.”
Gail almost smiled. “Good. Because I’m not planning on staying here. Smith out.”
“Hold it!” This stern command wasn’t for her. Gail whirled to see Malley halfway to the nearest exit. The stationer could move quietly when he chose. She already knew he was fast. Grant’s level voice stopped Malley in his tracks. He shrugged and walked back to them. A small, sharp gesture from Grant sent Tau, Loran, and Mitchener to each of the still-open doorways.
“I thought you were done with me, Earther,” Malley said mildly. “Seems to me you have red lights to spare on your console as it is. Not going to be easy getting your boss here back on her ship—if there’s a ship to get back to, that is.”
“The Seeker can take care of herself,” Gail disagreed sharply. “You and I still have business to discuss.”
“You don’t quit, do you?” Malley raised his huge hands in exasperation, letting them drop as a pair of snub-nosed weapons took aim at his midsection. He glanced at them and curled a lip in scorn—perhaps unimpressed by tranks. “Any business of yours has to wait,” he snapped, all pretense at charm wiped away. “I need to warn Aaron. Now. You can’t do that. No one else can. Let me out of here.”
Gail stared up at him. “I’ve a better idea,” she said. “Bring Pardell to us. We’ll protect him . . . I give you my word. He’ll be safe from the mob on the Seeker.”
The stationer took a deep breath that shuddered near its end, as if he imagined facing the air lock again, then shook his head. “Even if I believed that—even if I thought Aaron would be safe from you once on board—there’s no way to get him from Outward Five to here. He’d be picked off at the first reg checkpoint. And that’s assuming the checkpoints are still open. If this escalates to a riot, every corridor will locked down to try and contain it. Thromberg’s survived riots before, Earther.”
“So how do you intend to warn Pardell?” Grant asked reasonably. “If he can’t come here, how can you go there?”
“I don’t,” Malley growled back, his expression clearly showing his opinion of Grant’s assumption. “We do have comm systems, Earther—and not all are controlled by Station Admin. Aaron has friends in Outward Five. Good ones. They’ll help—get him out of the way once they know what’s coming down-corridor at them. I just have to get word to them.”
Gail tossed the miniature transmitter to Malley, who snatched it from the air with a surprised grunt. “Let me set it up for you ...” Grant’s offer trailed away as Malley made quick work of keying in a new frequency, then began tapping the pickup in a rapid code rather than speaking into it.
“What about us?” Gail asked Grant. “We can’t risk the ship or any more personnel.”
Grant accepted the transmitter back from Malley, whose tight-lipped look of relief seemed all the thanks they’d get. Gail wasn’t offended. How could she be, when her ill-chosen words had put his friend in danger? She couldn’t change that, but she didn’t plan to leave this station without Pardell either.
“Malley? Any ideas?” Gail could see Malley was startled by the commander’s question. She wasn’t, having expected Grant to use every advantage he could find. A local expert could make all the difference.
Malley grabbed a chair from the floor, righted it, and sat himself down, stretching out his long legs. “On how to get you to your ship? None. Sorry.”
“Could you get us stationer clothing?” this from Peitsch.
He didn’t quite laugh, but the skin around his eyes crinkled. “Clothing wouldn’t be enough. I mean, just how you stand would give you away.” When Gail and the others exchanged puzzled looks, Malley did laugh, if without humor. “The distance you put between yourselves. No one here would waste that much space—it’s rude. And your posture? Well, there’s no other word for it, you look too damn arrogant. You couldn’t pass yourselves off for an instant as anything but what you are. That’s not taking into account how you smell.”
“Smell?” Gail asked involuntarily. “We don’t—”
Malley laughed again. “Yes, you do. New fabric. Expensive scents. And you wash in water, I expect? Often?” He made it sound like a sinful waste.
“Point taken. No disguise,” Grant concurred. “Will they let us back to the ship without a fight?”
The stationer drew in his feet, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Even in this position, he could meet Gail’s eyes without looking up. “They don’t like or trust you, Earther. Now you’ve gone and started the notion that Quill could be near the station. So you’re talking about terrified people—who don’t like or trust you. A fight? There wouldn’t be one. The first shove, the first swing, above all, any hint you’ve brought those on-station—” Malley pointed at the weapons still loosely held in Grant’s and Peitsch’s hands “—and you’ll be dead. Any one of these people would never harm you. But get a riot started?” Malley shivered, his voice trailing away.
“No gain in delay, then,” Gail made herself say briskly, trying not to swallow hard as the bile rose in her throat at the suddenly too-clear image of being torn limb-from-limb by a mob.
Grant looked thoughtful. “From what you’re telling us, there could be. Let them mill around. Keep them focused on the Seeker’s air lock. The station shunted us away from the other ships, remember? That means there are ’locks not in use nearby.”
“You’re thinking of having your people on the Seeker meet us with suits at one of those,” Gail guessed. “Then we could exit the station away from the mob and simply walk to the ship.”
“Might work.” This from Malley in a voice so calm it sounded unnatural. “Stationers and immies don’t tend to think about—Outside—if they can help it. They’ll assume you’re the same way.” He pressed his lips together, then added as though the mere thought was difficult to express: “Best warn your people to be on their guard. I’ve—heard—there may be others outside that don’t take well to strangers.”
“Thanks,” Grant said, then raised a brow interrogatively. “We could use your help, stationer.”
“Their thinking I’m helping you is what got me into this mess,” Malley retorted, rising to his feet and dusting off imaginary soil. “I’m better clear. They see me with you, I’ll be the first one turned into floor paste.”
Gail shook her head slightly, stopping what she knew would be Grant’s offer of another suit, and asylum for Malley on the Seeker. The stationer would refuse—she knew it. Instead, Gail gestured to the transmitter and Grant dropped it into her hand. “Do we have another?” she asked. At his nod, she stepped close to Malley, again surprised by how much Malley there was, and held out the transmitter. “Take it,” she urged him, pressing i
t into his hand when he hesitated. “Call me if you need help—for yourself or Pardell.”
His fingers trapped hers around the transmitter. Instead of leaving, Malley looked down at her with a frown. “Was it true? About Aaron and your retrieval device? There’s a chance to capture living Quill?” He spoke almost reluctantly, as if part of him feared the answer.
Gail didn’t move. “Yes.” She could hear Grant’s low voice but not make out the words. Presumably he was making arrangements with the Seeker. Right now, all that was irrelevant. Malley was her chance—perhaps her only chance—to get to Aaron Pardell. And, she reminded herself, his ship.
“How certain—?” Malley began, then stopped himself with a head shake. “Nothing’s certain.”
“It’s certain enough to bring me here,” Gail told him quietly, earnestly, trying to project all of her own belief into her voice and expression. “We won’t know until we try—but I swear to you this is the best chance we’ve had since the Quill arrived. It might be the only chance in time for the people on this and the other stations. It’s that important.”
Malley released her hand but stayed. His voice deepened—a sign he was troubled, Gail now suspected. His eyes were haunted. “That’s what you meant—when you said knowing why you needed Aaron would change everything.”
“Yes.”
“Not everything,” Malley disagreed. “He is my best friend. My brother.”
Gail didn’t flinch, aware Grant had gathered his people again, aware time was growing short and nothing guaranteed any of them would live once they left this room. “You know him better than anyone, then. Would Aaron Pardell want to help the people on this station?” she asked very softly. “Is he like you?”
In the Company of Others Page 14
