Rosalind had that look, the one where she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to know. “They are sending more ships,” Pardell repeated, but almost as a question.
“The course bringing us here was sealed, young Aaron, and remains so. First Officer Szpindel was quite definite on that. He was curious if I had any knowledge why that might be. A significant breach of protocol, it seems. Unsafe was a word he used. I do believe he thought I might know where we are.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Which I don’t, of course.”
“Gail must have a good reason.” Saying her name brought it all back. Pardell swallowed hard. How much he’d wanted to wipe the tears from her cheeks. How he hated his own hands, that couldn’t. He belonged on that planet, with those monsters.
The wistful thought that underlay all others: but she’d made him promise to come back. She wanted him back.
“Oh, I’m sure she has a reason. Whether it’s for our good—or hers—remains to be seen.”
Always suspicious. Pardell poured himself some of the tea, glad of Rosalind’s familiar company if not of her tendency to schism the universe into enemy or ’sider. He knew about her extortion of ships and the threat she’d held over the station. It hadn’t surprised him—Pardell was quite sure Rosalind still controlled the spacer faction of the ’siders from here, if only in the sense they’d be paralyzed without her leadership.
The last Ration Riot had taken a disproportionate number of moderate-thinking ’siders, especially those with strong ties to Thromberg. Including Aaron Raner, a loss Pardell hadn’t known until seeing Malley back to safety, a loss that emptied his universe, too. Had Raner and those like him missed the signs, or simply trusted a moment too long? More likely, the true ’siders had never trusted at all. Regardless, a lot had changed Outside since. Anyone’s guess, Pardell told himself, how many of those changes were the result of this woman’s grief and rage.
“We were talking about camouflage,” he said, firmly changing the topic and reaching for his dessert. “The basic idea is simple enough—even if the biologists are tearing out their hair trying to figure out the mechanism. Imagine this napkin is a plant.” He picked up a second napkin and put it together with the first. “And this Quill is living on it, carefully mimicking its genome—presumably to fool any Quill-hunting predators, maybe even to help it coexist with the plant.” Pardell folded the two into a rectangle and laid them both over his fork. “May I?” he said, reaching over and taking Rosalind’s fork. “Now, this is a plant-eating organism. An alien cow, if you will.”
“It’s a fork, young Aaron.”
Pardell didn’t answer that, recognizing the gleam in the ’sider’s eye. “A cow,” he repeated. “Walking around, munching away, eating anything it finds.” He danced the fork over the table, then mimed it “discovering” the napkin. “And it finds the plant with a Quill—but is it a plant?” Pardell’s other hand turned over the napkin, revealing the other fork. He laid this on top of the napkin.
“That’s a fork, too,” Rosalind observed dryly.
“Exactly. The perfect camouflage—a mirror.”
“So now the Quill change shape?” She sounded disgusted. “They’re filling your head with nonsense—”
He smiled and held up the napkin. “It hasn’t changed shape at all, dear Rosalind. But, when touched—” Pardell chimed the forks together, “—the Quill reflects something of the ‘cow,’ its emotional state or something else related to its consciousness. Making it obvious that this,” he waved the napkin, “is not supper after all. All you need is an instant’s confusion to deflect danger away, to move a mouth so it bites something else instead of you. The cow moves along.”
Rosalind clicked the paddle tips on her right hand together twice. Applause. “Brilliant. This is the sum of the vital research they’ve been doing with you?”
Pardell tossed the napkin on his plate. He made himself say very evenly: “I do the same thing, don’t I? A little less pleasant—but it keeps me safe from being touched.” Safe. He loathed the word.
Rosalind considered this, her pale eyes sharp on his. “And now we have Smith’s magic suits to keep us safe. So how do they work? Why would the Quill on this planet recognize your—or anyone’s—genetic makeup?”
“Gail—Dr. Smith—figured that out,” Pardell said, keeping a rather possessive pride from his voice with difficulty. “It would be a waste of energy to send out this reflected emotional energy every time something touched you. So she thinks the Quill identify each other—and other harmless organisms—by incorporating copies of that genetic material into their bodies. Maybe a coating, maybe just something like an antibody. Some kind of storage to allow them to compare something new to what they’ve encountered before. If it’s safe, no reaction. If it’s strange or dangerous, then react.”
Her eyebrow rose. “Economical.”
“Living things tend to be, I’m told.” Pardell went on: “When humans found the Quill and touched them, a different kind of interaction took place. The Quill preferentially absorbed calm, peaceful emotions from their hosts and reflected those back. It could be that’s something they do to one another, or to attract symbionts—other species they coexist with . . . so much of this is guesswork. If we could go to their world, we could learn all this and more.”
“Something Earth isn’t interested in funding, young man, even though Titan University stands ready. Good day, Rosalind. Aaron.”
“Dr. Reinsez,” Pardell greeted the new arrival at their table, less than pleased to have his conversation with Rosalind interrupted by the Earther, but accustomed to it. The scientist usually showed up around the time he and Rosalind were finishing their meal.
Gail had asked him why. Pardell hadn’t been able to answer, beyond guessing that the wrinkled old man might find something in common with someone closer to his age. Rosalind seemed to welcome his company.
Sure enough, her “Hello, Manuel,” was warmer than usual. As the Earther took his seat, Rosalind added: “Surely success here will open the doors to more deep-space work.”
“One step at a time,” Reinsez said, helping himself to tea. “We need these terraform projects up and running again, Rosalind, before anyone in Sol System will be willing to look outward.”
“You know my opinion of dirt,” Rosalind said, but without sting. “Young Aaron has been entertaining me with the latest speculations about the Quill.”
“We’ve been studying them ’round the clock,” Reinsez boasted. Pardell had finally grown convinced the man sincerely believed he was contributing by stalking through the lab and peering at what was going on. “Did you tell this fine lady about our success with the anti-Quill suits?”
“Oh, do tell me, young Aaron,” Rosalind said, her eyes unusually fierce. “This was the supposed purpose for you and me to be taking this—diverting—cruise.”
Pardell decided not to sigh, tempting as it was. “The deep-space explorers who kept Quill on their wrists weren’t harming them, nor were the terraform engineers. If we’re right about the Quill, they should ‘remember’ those genomes. That’s the premise of putting the genome from the terraform team leaders on the suits, matching each to their planet—Susan Witts’ for this world, using mine to confirm what they’d reconstructed. The suits should work, as long as they can be identified as harmless by the Quill on the planet’s surface.”
“The team leaders.” Rosalind leaned back, her eyes with that uncomfortable gleam Pardell associated with questions about missing rations. “Such a vital piece to this puzzle. Do you know what happened to them, young Aaron? Has Dr. Smith enlightened you or did Raner insist you learn your Earther history?”
“Of course I know,” Pardell said grimly. “They’d been recalled to Titan, along with Susan Witts herself. Some ceremony—Gail said it was business, too, so they could start assembling their teams for the next set of worlds. Do you think they were glad to be in Sol System when the news broke, when they knew it had been their Quill? Witts’ was
n’t the only suicide. At least the rest weren’t persecuted. She took the blame—everyone knew the Quill had come from her, after all. She’d sent them under her name to the terraform leaders.”
“So, young Aaron. Not one of them died on their worlds, did they? Or survived the Quill Effect. How—inconvenient—for Dr. Smith. To have no proof of this theory of hers. To build this entire scaffold of conjecture on nothing at all.” A click of her prosthesis silenced his protest. “Oh, no doubt Commander Grant has people willing to risk their lives on this—premise. They’ll go down to the dirt, expecting to be protected, and die—if there really are Quill.”
Pardell kept his mind focused, despite the temptation to let it slip away to consequences and what ifs . . . Rosalind prided herself on skepticism, he recalled. As potentially blinding a faith as any.
He had support from an unexpected source. Reinsez harrumphed noisily before saying: “Ah, dear Rosalind. You have too many doubts. The suits have been tested. They protect others from our young friend here. Surely you accept that evidence.”
“Evidence? Only if you assume young Aaron’s condition has anything to do with your fantastic ideas about the Quill.” Rosalind gave Reinsez an inscrutable look before reaching out her left hand to take Pardell’s. “I wouldn’t trust my life to that.”
Pardell stared down at the mechanical fingers holding his, no longer part of the conversation as the Earther and ’sider continued to argue. His mind spiraled in sickening loops and whorls, but not outward.
Inward.
He imagined the fingers were Gail’s; that she’d amputated her hand so she could hold his.
“Excuse me,” Pardell heard himself saying, his voice strained to his own ears. “I have to go. Thank you for supper, Rosalind. Until tomorrow night.”
“You’d better hurry,” Reinsez said around a mouthful of dessert. “They’re loading up the drop pod, and Gail’s not one to wait.” His eyes gleamed within their multifolded lids. “That’s why I came in, just now. To tell you it’s time to go home, Aaron Pardell.”
Chapter 62
THEY’D all be watching Pardell’s trip home. There were pickups in several locations within the science sphere, of course, including a massive one now hanging from the temporary ceiling in the main lab. Apparently they’d brought in chairs from the lounge and quarters so as many as possible could be part of the historic moment.
Gail wondered what Malley thought of that.
She knew what he thought of Pardell going down. There’d been an instant, meeting his eyes, when she’d fully expected the big stationer to explode into violence. That he’d held himself back, silent except for that searing glare, had nothing to do with Grant’s watchful presence. It had been a promise.
No doubts who’d be blamed if Pardell didn’t come back. As if it would matter then.
“Athena comm. . . . Landing in three minutes. All systems nominal.”
Gail rubbed her thumb into the yielding material covering the armrest. As senior scientist and project leader, she’d had the choice of watching the landing and subsequent events in the lab—or here, on the bridge. She’d picked here. Let them believe it was to be close to the comm and control center of the mission.
Easier to stay detached and professional around crew, rather than colleagues and friends, Gail admitted freely to herself.
Grant and Tobo were on duty, of course, but much too busy with their own concerns to notice if hers strayed from mission parameters. Tobo stayed close to the Seeker’s pilot as she operated the remote controls on the drop pod—it could be flown independently, but for this trial they wouldn’t risk it. Grant wore a comm headset and was in constant communication with Catherine Dafoe, the FD ops specialist he’d chosen for Trial Number One. She’d christened the pod Athena, after the goddess of intellect who bore arms to defend civilization. Dafoe had been fitted with one of the anti-Quill suits.
Pardell wore one as well.
“Athena comm . . . site looks clear. Do we have final clearance from Dr. Smith?”
Everyone looked at her. Gail gave a confident nod—what else could she do?—and stared, with everyone else, at the screen showing the vid feed from the little ship.
A low, broad-shouldered hill, like many in the area-coated with grasses, taller and more lush where reflection marked an intermittent stream, but still more green than gold. By coincidence, the site Gail had selected was experiencing early summer. By plan, the pod was landing at midday, under a blue, cloudless sky.
Gail spared an instant to hope Aisha’s sessions with Malley had been successful, at least enough so the stationer could bear to watch. Aisha had reported his phobia was most pronounced when he was confronted by the starry dark of space, or a clear planet night. She’d also reported significant progress—impressed with the stationer’s efforts to overcome his weakness. The interventions had been Gail’s idea, knowing full well Malley would never accept any help from her or through the medical staff. Aisha, on the other hand, could charm a broken leg into a cast.
The tasseled heads of the grass tossed wildly in the down-draft of the pod’s descent. The vid angle shifted to scan the immediate surroundings, halting at the only structure still standing on the entire planet—a small, concrete bunker almost engulfed in two-meter-high stands of rushes.
On the other terraformed worlds, humans had left more substantial prints on the land. Gail had studied the vids—it was easy enough to “look,” given the amount of remote monitoring in place, just not to land. There were huge, craterlike depressions left on every continent, the original landing sites for the self-propelled terrain modifiers. When done with their work, the mammoth machines had lifted themselves back into space and to the next world. Stage Three? Theirs was meant to be a more practical record. They left clusters of buildings, ready and waiting to serve: first as the center point of new settlements, then for whatever purpose the colonists chose. The largest of these had its own monument, erected in advance of that planet being opened to immigration. The standing joke was that the terraformers hadn’t trusted anyone else to spell their names correctly.
For most, that monument was now a memorial. The onset of the Quill Effect had been marked by sudden, horrifyingly simultaneous death. Any bodies in the open were retrieved by remotes. Their families demanded it. After the autopsies revealed nothing, those bodies had been destroyed in a fear-filled decision that left Gail and other researchers nothing at all.
Pardell’s World was different. No bodies. There wasn’t any sign that Aaron’s parents had ever been there, only lush fields. Susan Witts hadn’t died from the Quill, and she’d mentioned no one else living on this world. No monuments, unless you counted the pair of wind-gnarled trees. Gail supposed they were the sterile oaks Witts had planted for her son and grandson.
They’d seen schematics of Witts’ original terraforming head-quarters, a sprawling complex of low buildings, with a landing site for visiting starships protected by the slightly higher ridge just to the west. The view from the living quarters would have been spectacular, overlooking a series of progressively lower prominences leading down to the start of a broad, river-carved plain. The living quarters, and everything else here, had been dismantled, the materials wrapped and left in a low mound behind the bunker. Gifts for her grandson, Gail thought with a rush of melancholy.
Such as the Quill.
“Athena comm . . . we’ve landed on Pardell’s World.”
No one seemed to be breathing on the bridge. Dafoe’s voice rang out clear and strong through the silence: “No alarms on any monitors. No symptoms of the Quill Effect. Proceeding with Trial Number One on your mark, Dr. Smith.”
The Athena was packed to tolerance with every measuring device the Seeker’s scientists could imagine—and some Gail knew they’d made up on the way here. All were feeding their measurements and readings directly to stations in the science sphere.
“Proceed, Specialist Dafoe. Mr. Pardell.”
They didn’t see the Athena’s outer
doors drop open. Instead, the screen showed a dizzying blur of movement as Deployment Specialist Krenshaw switched the feed to his station as he sent out a ’bot and spun it to face the little ship. The image stabilized.
Gail gripped the armrests with both hands.
Two figures stepped out onto the ramp, both in dark blue suits catching sparks from the sunlight as they left the shadow of the Athena’s hull. Gail knew the shorter individual would be Aaron. Otherwise, they were identical, even to the thick umbilicals connecting them to the interior of the pod. The umbilicals were more than conduits of information on the condition of the two test subjects—they could be forcibly retracted by remote from the Seeker.
Allowing recovery of the bodies, Gail reminded herself. The equipment was hers—designed when she’d planned for every contingency but caring about the body being recovered.
“Dafoe reporting . . . no sign of the Quill Effect.” The woman’s voice was steady, solid—Grant had picked well. Gail slid a look his way. The commander’s face was impassive, totally focused on the task at hand.
As she should be. “Aaron?” Gail asked. “Are you sensing anything unusual?”
He might have been standing beside her, his voice was so instantly and distinctly there. “The air’s pushing at me,” he said with wonder. “Wind, right?”
“Wind,” Gail confirmed. “Anything else?”
He looked up at the ’bot and shook his head. The headgear was clear, but the coating made it one-way. Gail could only see the reflection of the ’bot where Aaron’s face should be. First design flaw.
In the Company of Others Page 40
