“They have an entirely different viewpoint than you or I.”
“Different how?”
Malley’s voice deepened, as though this was serious. “The First Defense thing? Aisha’s told me it’s not one-way. Sure, they protect people, no doubts there, but what’s their definition of people? That’s another thing altogether. In fact, the whole point of the FD is to prove it is.”
“And how much of Grant’s Scotch did you try before coming?” Pardell inquired politely.
“No, no. None. Hear me out on this, Aaron.” Malley poured again. “We’re alone in the universe. Just people, dirt, balls of burning gases, and the odd alien rodent. Right? Well, so far.”
“So far.” Pardell repeated.
“Right. Remember reading about how things were before the Quill? Earth had an entire arm of its military devoted to First Contact, stuffed full of dreamers who wanted to be the first to shake a tentacle or hug a blob. Where are all those dreamers now?”
Pardell sighed. Malley on a roll was impossible to deflect. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Think about it. Highly trained, motivated people seeing their budgets threatened when Earth begins pulling out of deep-space exploration to focus on terraforming. People out of jobs, unless they find something else, something socially palatable to offer the taxpaying public. So the military quietly scraps First Contact and loudly unveils its First Defense Units to protect humanity against the unknown, which became so much easier to justify when along comes a bona fide unknown menace—the Quill.”
“Which is why Grant’s unit is on the Seeker. This isn’t news, Malley.”
“No. Well, yes. But that’s not the only reason. Remember, the FDs are people who’ve kept some older ideas and goals. The FD mandate isn’t just to protect humanity from the alien. Oh, no. It’s also to protect any alien intelligence we might encounter from humanity. Grant and his people are experts in communication and weapon tech—they don’t mention training in negotiation psychology and xenobiology, do they?
“What we have with us, Aaron, my friend, are a bunch of diplomats with two chamber pulse cannons, ready to make sure we all behave at that inaugural meeting and play nice. Or whatever we’re supposed to do with whatever we meet. Whenever we meet, whomever they are.” Malley seemed fascinated by his own eloquence.
Pardell no longer doubted that flask had been full before his friend offered to share its contents. “And you are telling me this because . . . ?”
Malley’s teeth gleamed. “I thought you might like to know the FDs would doubtless step in to protect you from Dr. Smith and her cronies. You’d have to put up with their tendency to use tranks instead of real weapons. But they’ll talk up a storm for you, I’m sure. You just have that one small problem of convincing them you are a googly-eyed monster and not one hundred percent human.”
“So you don’t think I’m a—Quill.”
“Why should I?” Malley said in his best “must I explain it again” voice. “You’re a man born on a planet where the evidence suggests there were Quill. There’s no proof—your parents might have died from some disease—but even if the Quill killed them, your parents were there to give you a better life, and died trying to keep you safe.” He peered down at Pardell. “I’d feel pretty good about that, if I were you.”
Pardell sipped thoughtfully. “Something there changed me into—this. I’m not stupid. It fits too many pieces . . . makes too much sense to ignore.” Just because the idea made him want to rip off his own skin . . .
“Okay,” Malley agreed. “So I think Her Ladyship’s right. There were Quill there. By Gail’s interpretation, your father survived longer than your mother because he was a descendant of Susan Witts—and the Quill somehow have her genetic information filed away. You might have survived for the same reason. Or because, as a newborn, you couldn’t be affected by whatever the Quill Effect does to harm people. Or because, as a newborn, that weapon altered you instead.” He paused, then said in a voice that brooked no argument, “You aren’t a Quill. But you look to be the best chance we’ve got to learn how to get rid of them and help people we care about—and that’s something you should be proud of, my friend. I am.”
It was probably Grant’s liquor, Pardell told himself, but some of the black despair seemed to lift from his shoulders. When Gail had told him what she believed, what she knew of the Quill Effect and how inherently similar his abilities seemed to be to those of a Quill—he’d wanted to put on a suit and push off from the Seeker. That simple. That final. That clean.
But he’d seen her lower lip trembling, the fingers on the hand he couldn’t hold clenching into a small, tight fist as she told him what she knew of the Quill, of how she thought he’d been changed by them. Gail had sounded the dispassionate, determined scientist she was—and every movement betrayed her.
So Pardell had done his best to be dispassionate and brave himself, and wound up here, to destroy harmless Ping-Pong balls instead of himself.
“I don’t know how I’m going to help,” he wondered out loud. “Gail thinks my—ability—is similar to what the Quill do. Maybe that’s—”
“Oh. So now it’s back to ‘Gail’?”
Trust Malley to leap off the topic, no matter how important. “You call her Gail,” Pardell said defensively.
“That’s because I’ve kissed the lady ...” Malley’s bantering voice died away. “Aaron . . . I didn’t mean ...”
“I’m rusty on Earther manners, but I didn’t think that was a requirement before using someone’s first name. Is it?” Pardell joked, before Malley’s slightly drunk but thoroughly agile mind started wandering where it shouldn’t.
Where he couldn’t.
Chapter 58
“PETRA’S good at this—relax, Aaron. Breathe evenly and as deeply as you find comfortable.”
She’d better be good at it, Gail reminded herself, listening to Aisha briefing the ’sider. Aaron wasn’t easy about this particular experiment, knowing its significance. Gail had done her best to find the ideal candidate: scouring the ship’s personnel records to find anyone who practiced deep meditation. Small numbers to start with, then she’d interviewed to narrow the list to anyone who wasn’t too afraid of Aaron’s—peculiarity—to be effective.
Most, including Sazaad, didn’t pass.
Grant had been a surprise possibility and she’d almost asked him. He’d formed a friendship with the ’sider that might have helped. But at this point in her research, there wasn’t sufficient justification to risk the commander of the FD in any way.
Petra Sanders was the best they had. Gail watched Aisha preparing the hookups to the chair monitoring Petra’s vitals and cog functions. Like most equipment here, the chair had been made on the Seeker, as needed. In its twin, Aaron was already strung with his by-now-familiar assortment of cables and disks. Tied down like his ship had been, she thought.
Aaron didn’t usually squirm as he was doing now—Gail suspected he viewed being comfortable as secondary to what they did here. Then again, until now, they’d been testing his response to various physical stimuli, as well as taking advantage of his reactions to further enhance the construction of the anti-Quill suit. Now?
Now Gail was out to test her hypothesis: that Aaron Pardell was actually reacting to the emotional states of others, not the physical sensation of touch at all. Meaning that Aaron’s ability had something in common with the reports of the Quill.
One of those tests where a positive outcome wouldn’t help him sleep nights.
“Ready?” Aisha asked.
Petra nodded, her almost white hair slipping over one eye as she did. Her skin, even over her lips, was so generously freckled it resembled a mosaic of warm brown and beige. Her lashes were almost invisible, but she’d drawn delicate eyebrows over each eye. She was the assistant ship’s engineer, a bright, cheerful young woman who practiced martial arts as well as meditation. Apparently she also played a wicked saxophone. Gail had enjoyed their interview, fin
ding Petra a no-nonsense, kind person who grasped what they needed in very few words.
There was no doubt of her courage.
“Aaron?”
Instead of answering Aisha, Aaron crooked a finger at Gail. She walked over to his side and leaned close. “I don’t want to scare her,” he whispered, looking troubled. “But someone has to be ready to pull us apart if this doesn’t work. I can’t—and if she’s in a trance, she might not be able to. But no one else can touch her while she’s in contact with me. I should have thought of it before now.”
“We did, Aaron. Don’t worry. The chairs are on wheels. One boot and you’re sailing to the other side of the room.”
He visibly relaxed, one corner of his generous mouth turning up. “Let me guess. Malley volunteered for that.”
“Insisted,” she told him, smiling. “Are you ready? I need you to concentrate.” Without thinking, Gail leaned a little too close and the ends of her hair slid along Aaron’s cheek, catching where the skin was roughened by faintly visible stubble. Harmless, since the reaction required living cells in contact—except that it was a caress. They both knew it. “Sorry,” she said quickly, standing up straight.
“We’re ready here,” she told Aisha briskly. Gail pretended not to see how Aaron’s eyes followed her. You want him to concentrate on the experiment, she lashed at herself.
Preoccupied, Gail backed into Malley, doing his self-appointed task of hovering over any and all of the tests involving his friend. It was like walking into an oak tree. Her apology died unsaid when she glanced up and saw the stationer deliberately looking from his friend to her and back, with a scowl.
“What now, Malley?” Gail asked under her breath. Petra’s eyes were closed and she was already breathing slowly, entering her meditative state. For the experiment, the entire lab had been cleared but for the participants, Malley, herself, and Aisha’s six techs, presently monitoring the banks of devices to take base measurements. The lights were dimmed. Everything was peaceful, with the exception of the huge man scowling his disapproval at her.
He was really quite good at it. Gail felt guilty without knowing why she should.
Malley never let one wait in suspense. He bent down and put his lips to her ear. “Flirting with Aaron, Dr. Smith?” he rumbled softly. “If you feel the need that badly, you know where to find me.”
Why that arrogant . . . Gail imagined kicking Malley in the shin, or higher, but spoke to Aisha instead. “You’ve double-checked the glove?” They’d start with Petra’s hand in one of the anti-Quill gloves, so she would be insulated from the effect of touching Aaron while he should still feel something from her. But only a glove coated with the ’sider’s own genetic markers—or those of his grandmother, Susan Witts—would insulate the wearer from the backlash of contact. It had been one of the first, and most fundamentally significant, observations they’d made, thanks to Aaron. Clear support for Gail’s hypothesis that each Quill population could be descended from one original Quill, genetically able to identify its human host.
More proof the Quill had indeed left a legacy in the newborn Aaron Pardell.
Gail took several steps away from Malley, feeling this a more-than-adequate response to his suggestion, given she couldn’t imagine what to say to him that wouldn’t involve shouting. Unfortunately, she knew the stationer well enough by now to realize he’d assume she was wisely clearing his path to Aaron should he need to separate the two.
Feel the need. Gail didn’t know whether it made her want to laugh or cry.
Aisha used a remote handling arm to gently lift Petra’s limp arm. The woman was completely relaxed. Gail glanced at the console measuring her heart rate. Fifty beats per minute. Deep trance. Quite impressive. Maybe she’d look into the technique herself one day.
Aaron looked grim, but prepared. Aisha lowered Petra’s arm so her hand rested on the small table positioned between the chairs. Aaron put his gold-veined hand beside Petra’s gloved one, exhaled slowly, then touched the tips of his fingers to hers.
He closed his eyes immediately, his face going oddly slack. There were sensors to measure precise changes in Aaron’s expression, but Gail preferred to watch the man rather than the readouts. One second. Two. He snatched his hand away, eyes flying open, his slim body arching up as if to escape the chair, then dropping flat again before anyone could react.
“Ouch,” Aaron said unhelpfully, grabbing the cold compress Aisha offered him to press over his face.
Petra roused at the word, turning her head without opening her eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice low and slurred. “I didn’t feel anything.”
“I’m fine. Nothing that won’t fix itself in a moment,” Aaron mumbled graciously, his expression concealed under the compress. Gail noticed his free hand was clenching the arm of the chair.
“Tell me when you’re ready for the next experiment,” she said. He nodded.
“We were going to wait an hour,” Aisha said in a neutral voice.
Gail looked up. Aisha’s dark eyes didn’t look this fierce very often—just every time the other scientist decided Gail was pushing too hard or too fast. They’d worked together long enough for Gail to appreciate Aisha’s judgment, if not for her to automatically accept it. “I have my reasons,” she countered.
Among them that they’d reach their destination by ship’s night tomorrow.
Aaron removed the compress. He looked tired, but there was something new in his eyes when they met hers. Triumph. “Happiness,” he said. “No. I’d say it was closer to bliss.”
It had worked, Gail realized, almost numb. He’d felt something from Petra, some emotion other than fear or pain. “I’m ready, Dr. Smith.”
Petra nodded as well. The next step was to repeat the experiment without the protection of the glove. She hadn’t come very far out of her trance, so Aisha, after one more unhappy look at Gail, prepared to take another base line set of measurements from both.
“Dr. Smith.” She hadn’t seen Aaron since this morning. He’d needed time alone to digest what she’d told him. Who wouldn’t? But he’d taken it better than she’d hoped—better than she had, in fact. It had been pure agony to explain the facts as she knew them, the suppositions and inferences as she’d made them. To tell Aaron Pardell he wasn’t what he’d thought all these years.
Was that the reason for the “Dr. Smith” now? Gail supposed she was imagining more punishment for herself, the always-courteous ’sider was probably respecting her position among the others here. Something Malley never did.
Malley, who had warned her away from his friend in unmistakable terms. Flirting? Gail thought wildly, inclined to laugh. What she felt near Aaron Pardell, what she saw reflected in his eyes, had nothing in common with anything so harmless. Did Malley know? She thought too much of him to suppose for an instant he was jealous. She did believe Malley understood perfectly how dangerous—
Enough! Gail brought herself back to the lab with a shake of her head. Petra’s hand, now covered only by its dusting of freckles, rested on the table, her arm held gently but firmly by the remote Aisha controlled from beside her chair. To all appearances she was unconscious, but her brain activity topped the scale in some areas. The key ones, Gail hoped—ones they could actually measure. She knew Sazaad was riveted to his remote monitors, cynical as always.
Aaron didn’t hesitate. At her gesture, he reached for Petra’s hand again—her bare hand.
They were all braced, even the techs at their stations, Malley already gripping Aaron’s chair to pull him away from Petra if necessary.
Every test until now had shown a virtually instantaneous reaction, implying that whatever Aaron drew from contact with another reflected back, as if from a mirror.
The momentary stillness fooled them all. Or had they unwittingly focused on Petra? Gail wondered later. It took the shrilling of the monitoring alarms to startle everyone into motion, including Malley, who yanked Aaron’s chair from Petra’s so quickly instruments went flyin
g and the chair itself would have tipped if he hadn’t kept hold.
A perilous hold. Once contact was broken, Aaron began convulsing violently, his eyes rolled up so only the whites showed, a foam appearing at the corners of his lips. Malley strained to keep the chair upright while avoiding the gold-veined hands flailing in every direction. The strapping restraining the ’sider stretched but didn’t break, At wrist and ankle, it dug into his flesh tightly enough to guarantee bruises.
Then, as abruptly, Aaron was still, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Malley let go, one hand at a time, sending an urgent glance at the now-silent machinery. One of the techs—Benton—gave a shaky thumbs-up.
“How’s Petra?” Gail said into the ominous quiet.
“Give me a second,” Aisha snapped.
Gail walked over, carefully not looking at Aaron. She understood Rosalind all too well now. The more time she spent with him, the less she could bear seeing him reduced to this.
“Well?” Gail asked, looking down at what appeared to be a woman peacefully asleep. More than peaceful—Petra’s face looked almost esctatic. “Anything?”
“Some peaks on Sazaad’s cog screen,” Aisha said, consulting a notepad handed her by another tech. “We’ll have to analyze those, but everything else appears to measure nominal. I’m surprised she didn’t come out on her own when the alarms went off—must be pretty deeply under.”
“Can you bring her out of it?”
Aisha scrutinized her patient. As she did, her fingers absently stroked the spider brooch on her lapel, a tiny thing most people didn’t spot on the intensely colorful coat—a favorite, Gail remembered. “I’ll assume you’ve reasons for that, too?” Aisha asked, her usually expressive voice toneless.
“I do.”
Aisha released Petra’s arm from the remote, then took the woman’s limp hand in both of hers and began to rub it gently. “Petra,” she called. “Petra ...”
Aaron was still out.
Petra’s eyes flickered under their lids and she smiled.
In the Company of Others Page 37
