In the Company of Others Read Free Page B

stared at him, pits of terror. FEAR. Sharp, ice, futility, ending—her arms tightened convulsively over the baby. Somehow Jer managed to free himself from the paralysis locking his muscles long enough to fling himself over them both. The fear faded back.
    There was time for Gabby to meet his eyes, for the knowledge in hers to break his heart. He drew in the sweetness of her breath, the wet newness of the baby. Then LOVE came again, and crushed them utterly.
    The Quill were on Pardell after all.

Chapter 1
    SAMMIE’S Tavern had been several meters of access corri - dor in the days before the Quill—before Thromberg Station welded shut every second bulkhead to make more rooms throughout its Outward Five levels, moving the crush of homeless into space formerly intended for industrial use and warehousing. Across the hole approximating a doorway in one wall, its cut, jagged edges hammered into a safer smoothness, Sammie’s boasted a fabric curtain to keep in the fragrance of stale beer and staler patrons, a token separation accomplishing very little at this time of station-day, when odd-cycle work crews were stumbling off-shift and even-cycle were staggering on. Still, visual barriers gave the illusion of privacy, luxury in a place where there was almost none.
    The tavern, as always, was packed so full it was difficult to see if there were chairs and tables, let alone find them. The press of flesh to flesh eased in only two places. One marked the narrow aisle behind the bar, necessary allowance so the bartenders could attempt to keep up with the demand with about as much success as someone bailing an ocean with cupped hands. The other opening, less immediately obvious but as well defined, was the room given one man, presently leaning against the counter like the rest.
    It was an unconscious distancing, a habit familiar enough to be unnoticed by all, including the dark-haired man at its core. At first glance, he might have been any immie or stationer seeking a moment’s oblivion. His clothes were regular-issue tunic and pants, well-patched, with neater repair work than some and cleaner than most. Unusual in this crowd, though not unique, he wore snug-fitting gloves. His spare frame was slightly less than standard height, and lean to the point of almost gaunt—but then again, so were the majority of his companions. Few fattened or grew full height on station-rations. The unremarkable man slouched comfortably over his drink, deep in conversation with the bartender. It was only the instinctive way others avoided touching him, even when it required significant effort, that set him apart: a nonmalicious avoidance, as though he formed a natural hazard, like the edge of a cliff.
    â€œSix dibs?” the man was asking, the words rising with disbelief, his hazel eyes squinted half-closed as though that was all he wanted to view of Sammie’s thick girth, mismatched teeth, and amply-stained apron. “When d’you start importing Earth lager, Sammie? Four’s pushing hard enough for the watery swill you’re pouring down our throats.”
    There were cheerful comments and nods of agreement from the men and women crushed elbow-to-elbow along the thin, tarnished metal bar, as well as those leaning companionably on their shoulders. The bartender shrugged irritably. “Prices’ up for ever’thin’ Pardell. If’n you’d show up more of’n, you’d be aware—”
    Pardell flashed a sudden grin, crinkling the skin around his eyes while stripping years from his thin features. “If I showed up more often, Sammie, I’d be even more destitute than the miserable stationer scum you let in here—”
    â€œKeep ’r up, Pardell—” Sammie growled warningly. Stationers were not only outnumbered everywhere on Thromberg by immigrants, or immies—the very people they’d been originally been brought here to assist—there was no longer any obvious