In the Company of Others

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Then she realized she couldn’t tell if what he was—was alive.

  His features weren’t slack and expressionless, as they’d been during his coma on the Seeker. Now, they were in constant motion, eyes blinking, lips working, as if every muscle of his face was contracting at random. A trail of saliva meandered from the right corner of his mouth to his chin. The marks of dried tears coursed over each cheek. He’d bitten through his lower lip more than once. The blood had dried.

  It was the face of madness.

  Gail didn’t hesitate. She charged through the Quill’s version of Susan Witts, scattering it to the ground in her frantic drive to reach Aaron, to tear the Quill from his body and free him. But Aaron’s body spasmed at her first touch, his mouth opening into a soundless howl of pain. She staggered back, horrified, her gloved hands out as if he could see that plea for forgiveness.

  How could she have forgotten?

  The ’bot gained a voice. “Gail. There are remote handling arms in the pod.”

  She didn’t bother answering, already hurrying back toward the tiny ship. Suddenly, the Quill wall rose to block her path, completely encircling her, this time within a space including Aaron.

  “To keep me here?” she wondered out loud, fighting to stay calm, to think. “Is that it? Did you think I was going to leave? I wouldn’t leave him.”

  The wall settled back to a mound of disturbed grass.

  Communication . . . or coincidence? “This is ridiculous,” Gail muttered once more, taking a few, ragged breaths, trying to calm herself She walked back to Aaron, this time keeping her distance. Trying not to let his ever-moving face disturb her, she said gently but urgently: “Aaron. Can you hear me? I need to know if you are . . . if you are in there. If you are still with me.” Or if I’m alone, she wailed to herself. “Can you talk to me?” Her voice began to shake; she couldn’t steady it. “Please, Aaron. Try to say something to me—anything! Tell me I was a fool to bring us here. Tell me I was wrong.”

  The flickering of his eyelids slowed. Gail held her breath as his eyes stopped dancing in their sockets to look outward—at her. There was abrupt sense to their gaze, as if a switch had been thrown inside his head. Muscles continued to twitch along his jaw, forehead, and cheeks, but his tongue—scored a savage red with bites—recovered the saliva from the corner of his mouth as it closed. “That’s it, Aaron,” she urged, guessing this was a battle being fought, that he was struggling to regain control of his own body. From whom? “Please. Come back to me. Talk to me. I have to hear your voice. Please. Husband.”

  His head lolled to one side then the other. Suddenly, it was up straight again and Aaron’s eyes burned into hers. “Why—why did you—?”

  His voice, thick and blurred as it was, weakened her knees. Gail heaved a sigh of relief, even though she knew what he asked. “There wasn’t a choice. We have visitors, Aaron. From Thromberg. They wouldn’t believe it was dangerous—they were going to land—I—” Gail couldn’t make herself finish. The memory was too terrifying. She could see some of that terror in his face, in the way his throat worked as if trying to swallow bile. Had he felt what she’d felt?

  “The ships are safe, for now. Something saved me—you?” she wondered instead, using one hand to keep a freshening wind from tossing her hair into her eyes. “What’s happening here, Aaron? What are the Quill doing to you? Are you all right?”

  “. . . drink.”

  Gail fumbled in her suit’s pocket, pulling free the water container she’d tucked in there an eternity ago. She gave it a quick shake, hoping there was something left. About a third.

  She approached him very carefully this time, having to climb what was now almost a ramp. The Quill had made themselves and the grass into a base that tapered down and out from Aaron’s chest and arms. A support, she suddenly realized, faintly reassured they’d done this much for his comfort. Of course, it was also an effective means of imprisonment. Gail’s hands wanted to tremble as she held the straw to his lips. She didn’t permit it.

  From his expression, the tepid liquid was pure elixir, but Aaron didn’t waste time enjoying it. After two swallows, he demanded, in a much clearer voice: “Who’s on the ships?”

  Not, “what do they want,” Gail noticed. Aaron knew his people, well enough. “Seeker,” she said slightly louder, her eyes never leaving his. She didn’t bother telling him it had been Grant’s move to establish contact, not hers. At this point, it hardly mattered. “Any word on who we’re dealing with out there?”

  “Malley said they’re ‘first rounders’ and their families,” came an immediate response. Aaron looked grim, but unsurprised. “How are you, Aaron?” Grant continued. “Had us worried.”

  Wonder of wonders, Aaron’s damaged mouth assayed a grin. “A little stuck, at the moment.”

  “I can get the remote—” Gail began, only to watch the Quill reweave their wall. “Aaron—do they understand what I’m saying?” she asked incredulously.

  “Not exactly,” he said and shook his head gingerly, as if testing the control he’d regained over his neck and shoulders. “I understand you and our—hostess—is aware of what I understand. She doesn’t get it all.” Aaron winced and Gail made an involuntary sound of protest. He smiled faintly at her in reassurance. “Susan’s efforts to comprehend aren’t very comfortable.”

  “Susan?” It was Grant, sounding numb even though broadcast. “The Quill uses a name? Or did you name it?”

  Aaron gave another wince, deeper, more pained.

  “Commander,” Gail said quickly. “No questions.”

  “I see it. Sorry, Aaron. Tell us what you can.”

  Aaron looked grateful. “I’ll do my best, Gail, Commander. There aren’t words—she doesn’t speak to me, as such—but there are . . . let’s say areas of convergence, where our reactions to things are similar. The rest I can’t begin to comprehend.” Gail nodded encouragement, sinking down in the grass in front of him to listen, ignoring the shimmer of Quill on her legs. She drank in every word, hoping for some clue how to help him.

  It was easier than ignoring how Aaron remained locked in place, wounded, and beyond her reach—for now.

  “There is one entity here, on this world,” he began, every word a struggle. “One Quill, comprised of all the fragments. Including me,” he said with what looked like the memory of some horror, “—that’s why I couldn’t talk to you before—for the first while, she collected me into the whole and I couldn’t break free or make her understand. What’s in my skin . . . that was the link . . . I’ve Quill growing through my skin ...” He stopped.

  “It’s okay,” Gail said, seeing the wildness in his eyes. “I’m here, Aaron. Go on.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Aaron steadied himself “She had—trouble—comprehending me as something separate. I think . . . no, I’m sure she’s grasped the concept now. It gave her joy, to learn she wasn’t solitary.”

  “Joy?” Surprised by the word, Gail looked around at the wind-ruffled grass being ridden by Quill.

  “What we exchange with one another is in the forms of feelings,” Aaron explained. “I realize there’s no way to tell if any of our emotions mean the same to the Quill. Likely they don’t . . . but I have no other frame of reference. It felt to me like joy.” He looked weary, all of a sudden. “I think, if I’d had more time, I might have been able to get across the idea that there were more like me, not Quill, not dangerous. But she didn’t realize that before you took off the headgear, Gail. I’m so sorry.”

  Gail said with what she thought commendable calm under the circumstances: “It’s not your fault she tried to kill me.”

  Aaron winced again. When he went on, his voice was strained—as if he fought to keep using it. “I know. You were right about the Quill Effect. Susan, the Quill—she has a fear of organisms who move . . . a fear so deep and potent it’s more instinct than thought. When she couldn’t recognize you, she reacted to defend herself. We had a little—disagreement about that.”

  �
��You saved my life,” Gail acknowledged softly. “I know that.”

  Unsmiling, he shook his head. “She saved your life. The best I could do was try to explain what you were—that you were an entity like me—that you were—important. I don’t know if any of it got through. It seemed to make the greatest difference when I told her you’d die.”

  “She didn’t know? That the Quill Effect—” now Gail had to force words out but continued, “—that it kills people?”

  “No. Her intention was defense. She isn’t hostile. She wanted to drive you away, to remove the threat of your attention, not you. I’m not sure of everything—it was a confusion of dark feelings, as if even the Quill didn’t have a framework to understand her reaction. But she had difficulty believing me when I said you were . . . dying. That she was a killer. She was unhappy.” He stopped, as though gathering his strength. “I don’t know how much control she has over the reflex.” The words were a warning. He knew they were being overheard, Gail thought with approval. “For now, for you, she’s made the effort to accept your—identity.”

  “If she’s so benign,” Gail told him, “have her let you go. You need medical treatment—you must be starving.”

  Aaron seemed to look inward. “I’m not hungry,” he assured her, sounding perplexed. “I should be, shouldn’t I? My mouth was dry, before. But I’m not thirsty. I think she’s caring for me somehow, through my skin.”

  Gail studied the Quill surrounding Aaron with scientific detachment. Easier, now that she could hear his voice, see his face. They were most dense around those areas where his skin bore the strange, gold veins. “That’s good to hear,” she said neutrally, while her mind fought against terrible possibilities, while she tried not to envision new Quill penetrating his human tissues, meeting up with their alien kin, forming new and perhaps irrevocable links through Aaron’s flesh.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. She met his eyes, saw understanding in them. And a hint of his own fear.

  “Reading my emotions?” she asked archly. “Doesn’t seem fair, husband.”

  The word brought down the corners of his mouth, turned the look in his eyes into something desperate. “About our vows—”

  “Don’t even think it, Aaron Pardell,” Gail said sternly, wagging a finger at him. Words weren’t enough. She looked at the glove on her hand and took it off impatiently, tossing it to the ground. The other followed. Then, deliberately, she laid her bare hands on the bent grass by her legs. “I’ve no intention of letting you off the hook.”

  A Quill poured itself up her left wrist, wrapping around like a bracelet. Gorgeous color, Gail thought, licking her lips, if a bit gaudy for regular wear. The fragment had no detectable weight. She touched it with a finger. Dry—powdery, almost. How very odd. She felt something. A . . . tranquillity, as if some of her anxiety and stress was leaving—no, as if whatever self-control she had left was being reinforced somehow. Gail took a deep, almost relaxed breath, understanding a great deal more now.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The first words out of Grant after all this time were predictably harsh.

  “What I’m here to do, Commander,” Gail informed him calmly. “Experiment. Aaron? Did anything change?”

  “Great-grandmother approves,” he said in a funny tone. Distracted , she decided. There must be something going on within the Quill.

  Great-grandmother? Gail didn’t like the sound of that. The letters. Had giving them to Aaron been a mistake? Was he confusing the voice from the past with the present? She stood, staring into his puzzled, almost-green eyes, and said firmly. “Susan Witts died before you were born, Aaron. Don’t let the Quill confuse you.”

  Aaron’s cut lips tightened, and he nodded. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “I’m at fault, not Susan—the Quill. It’s not as though she’s trying to be a specific person. It’s as if she uses that sense of identity as a paradigm. It lets her interact with me—maybe even to organize her thoughts into ways I can comprehend. When she’s happy with me,” his face softened, “I can’t help but feel it’s real, that she cares.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Aaron,” Grant’s voice intruded. “Dr. Smith, the ships with the other Quill fragments are now in-system. The first will dock with Seeker within the hour. How do you want us to proceed?”

  “As planned. We still need to do the analysis—to know if this Quill—if Susan—is a unique phenomenon. Get me the results as soon as possible.”

  “How do you want the results?”

  Gail understood what Grant didn’t want Aaron, and Susan, to overhear—did she want him to rush down in the Payette’s pod? No doubt as to Grant’s preference—or that of his superiors. He was treading a fine line, trying to give her as much control as possible. She turned to look at the ’bot, and shook her head very slightly. “That’s going to depend on preliminary findings, Commander,” she cautioned. “We don’t want to disrupt the progress being made down here. Keep me posted, please.”

  “Copy that.”

  “So, husband,” Gail said, turning back to face him, trying not to see his living prison. “What should we do next?”

  Chapter 91

  NEXT? He wanted to be free!

  Pardell fought himself, as well as the surge of unhappiness from the Susan-Quill. Gail’s fear was all too accurate. He didn’t need to look down to see the blurring of any physical distinction between Aaron Pardell the Human and the organized mass of Susan’s fragments. Gail had tried to pull him loose. Even with the handling arms that would allow her to touch him, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  If it could be done at all.

  Maybe it was for the best, the young ’sider tried to convince himself, gazing helplessly into her worn, beautiful face, past the calm demeanor of a scientist to her anguish at seeing him like this. He didn’t doubt Gail’s devotion—her love. It mirrored his own, as if they were two halves of what should be one. But if he was truly trapped within the Quill forever, well, she’d have to move on. . . .

  Gail Smith? Be sensible and abandon him? Pardell stopped and gave himself a mental shake, feeling an easing of the despondency he’d felt—and inadvertently sent through to the Susan-Quill. He could hear Malley now . . . ‘Aaron, my friend, there’s so much you don’t know about women.’ He knew enough about this one.

  “We need to get rid of this barrier,” he said out loud, gaining a relieved flash of blue eyes. They were meant to be seen in sunlight , Pardell decided possessively, as was her golden hair. “Walk to the pod and tell me what you plan to do. I’ll see if I can—translate.”

  Gail nodded, announcing in a clear, ringing voice: “I’m going to the Athena for some supplies. You need a hat and more water, for starters. I’d like to change.” This with a familiar exasperation, as if Gail disliked justifying herself even in these circumstances. She retrieved her gloves and the headgear as she walked toward the pod with determined, quick strides.

  So much courage. Pardell’s thoughts flashed to the stationers watching through the Seeker’s vid feed. Utter fools, he raged inwardly. They’d better believe what Gail had tried to prove to them—with her life. Like Malley, he could name most of those likely to be there, if not all. None of the first rounders had been stranded to live Outside—Raner had said it was because they’d never lost hope and tried to run home with the rest. If so, Pardell thought with a sudden chill, they’d be all the more willing to die to set foot here.

  They didn’t have much time.

  Dread . . . slithered up his spine and along every nerve—an ominous darkness. It wasn’t based on his thoughts, so Pardell could only guess at why. Did the Susan-Quill dread the presence of more humans? As a threat—or because she feared causing more death?

  Or was he completely wrong? Could she dread the concept of time itself? That it had limits within his conception, and now hers? He couldn’t be sure and didn’t dare interact more deeply to find out. He was learning not to become absorbed in the Susan-Quill’s reactions, but it was agonizingly difficul
t. Merely noticing them threatened his sense of self. Having Gail here, with him, he told himself, was like a tether holding him from that void.

  She’d walked out of his sight, but he could hear the reassuring sound of her voice as she called out: “Aaron, she’s not letting me pass.”

  “Grant,” he said. “Can you move the ’bot in front of me? Thanks. A bit left. Up. There.” With a sense of déjà vu, Pardell found himself staring into the gleaming lenses of the dark little hoverbot. This time, he used their reflective surfaces to see over his own shoulder, to where Gail stood, more-or-less patiently, in front of a stubborn wall of grass. “Wait,” he told her.

  Need . . . Pardell concentrated on the dryness of his mouth, pushing his swollen, aching tongue against lips that were cracking where they weren’t already cut. Trust . . . he projected as he looked at the image of Gail’s small form in the ’bot’s surface.

  A fragment slithered inside his mouth before he could close it. Pardell struggled not to gag as it filled the back of his throat, fought not to scream at the thought of the Quill penetrating the inside of his body through that opening. Before fear overwhelmed him, the fragment slid out again, as if finished exploring.

  “It’s okay now, Aaron!”

  “Oh, good,” he said weakly, witnessing the collapse of the Quill wall in the reflection.

  Then Pardell closed his lips firmly—in case great-grandmother became curious again.

  Chapter 92

  CURIOSITY warred with worry. Gail pushed both aside as she hurried to take advantage of Aaron’s apparent truce with his—friend? What was the relationship? she wondered, stripping out of the foul suit as quickly as possible, beyond caring who saw her skin or witnessed the indignity of unplumbing herself.

  What did the Quill gain from infusing itself with a human? What impulse had sent fragments into Aaron as a newborn?