by Claudia Gray
But of course he hasn’t miscalculated. Abel smiles as the Daedalus slips into the Gate.
Although Abel’s sensory systems can compensate for some of the bizarre input, even he sees the strange angles of the light, feels the odd pull of gravity untethered from space-time. None of it troubles him, particularly because the ship’s smooth operation tells him they’re coming through just fine. Then the Daedalus shudders, released from the Gate, engines powering down to normal levels as he’d set them to do. Their view shifts from eerie silver to a new star field, one neither of them has seen before. The navigational computer automatically focuses on the red-orange dot that is the planet Cray.
“We made it,” Noemi says, blinking as she slowly slumps back into her chair. Humans often state the obvious, as Abel has seen, but they do not like having this pointed out. So he remains silent as he watches Noemi take a few deep breaths, collecting herself. “I can’t believe your programming even let you do something that dangerous.”
“The alternative was your capture or death. My primary directives made our course of action clear.” Abel pauses. “That said, we cannot put the mag engines in overload again for the foreseeable future. Repeated strain of that kind will almost certainly result in our destruction.”
Noemi squares her shoulders, already recovering. “And nobody’s going to be along to follow us for a good long while.”
“At least several hours, probably time enough for us to have reached Cray.” Abel’s proud of that part.
“Good work,” Noemi says. Her praise surprises him, but not as much as what she says next. “I wish we could’ve spent more time in the Kismet system.”
“You didn’t seem to enjoy our time there.” Save, perhaps, for their dance—she did seem to like that.
“That’s not what I meant.” Noemi’s dark hair is still flecked with glittery confetti from the party. “I would’ve liked—well, to say good-bye to Esther.”
She stares at him, obviously daring him to talk about how illogical it would be to say good-bye to a person who’s already dead. Abel knows better. Human grief rituals have their purposes, even if they’re ones he finds hard to understand.
Once Noemi realizes Abel’s not going to challenge her, she peels off her loose gray jacket, leaving on her singlet beneath. Bruises from their storeroom escape have begun to darken on her forearms and knees. Sweat gleams on her skin. “How long before we get to Cray?”
“Approximately eleven hours.”
“Good. Plenty of time to go to sick bay, get these taken care of.”
Abel ought to help her with these ordinary things as well, rest and food and morale—surely that, too, is part of protecting his commander. But another task has to come even before that. “I must come up with a new fake identification code for the ship, and soon. Cray authorities may or may not prioritize finding us, depending on whether Kismet’s forces consider us as potential members of Remedy; if they do, no doubt they will send word to that effect. If not, our unauthorized departure should be the least of their concerns. However, the Queen and Charlie we encountered earlier will pursue us in a spacecraft of their own as soon as one can be procured.”
“They’ll chase you across the galaxy.” Her expression has grown thoughtful. “Mansfield wants you back that badly?”
“So it seems.” The words come out matter-of-factly. Abel is proud of that. Not only has he developed some human emotions, but he has also learned self-control in dealing with them. Only inside does he feel this strange mixture of elation and agony. Someone he has missed has also missed him. They will never meet again; they will miss each other until the end of their days. Knowing that is… sad, but joyful, too. Abel hadn’t realized those emotions could coexist.
I wish I could tell you that, Father. You always loved it when I understood something new about humanity.
I wish I could have learned this some other way.
Noemi continues, “Okay. I’ll go—” She gestures vaguely at herself, at her state of disarray and her bruises. Then she gives him a small smile before trudging out.
Abel watches her go. She doesn’t glance back once; by now, he realizes, she trusts his programming. She knows she won’t be harmed by him.
If only he could say the same about her.
However, the more Abel comes to know Noemi Vidal, the less he resents his impending destruction. He is still pained by the thought of ceasing to exist, by never again learning anything new, and most of all by the knowledge that he will never see Mansfield again. Yet his death seems less like a waste now.
Noemi believes her cause to be a noble one. She acts not out of hatred for Earth, but out of love for her own planet. She is as willing to give her own life as she is to sacrifice his. And as she proved when she condemned the actions of Remedy and Riko Watanabe, her defense of Genesis has its limits. She wants only safety for her world. She wouldn’t kill innocents to win it.
I cannot count as an innocent, Abel decides. Mechs are designed to risk their lives where humans cannot. Otherwise, they’d never have been invented in the first place. They are, by purpose and design, disposable.
So he doesn’t have to blame Noemi for what she’s doing. Only to come to terms with the realization that this is what he was made to do in the first place.
When they reunite on the bridge, Abel is wearing Mansfield’s silk clothes once more, and Noemi has put on a simple black top, pants, and boots. Although she probably chose these garments for practical use, the effect is unexpectedly flattering—but Abel has other, more pressing concerns. By now the screen is dominated by the blood-orange sphere of Cray.
“No oceans,” Noemi murmurs. “Not even a lake. I mean, I took exogeology like everyone else; I know surface water’s the exception and not the rule—but I didn’t realize it would look like this.”
Cray’s oceans and vegetation burned away long ago, leaving behind only barren, rugged sandscapes ridged with fault lines. The tallest mountain ridges ever discovered on any world scrape the red sky. A few golden clouds trail around these mountains, delicate and lovely, belying the fact they’re made not of water vapor but of acids. To have colonized a world this forbidding proves the desperation on Earth to find new worlds on which to live—even if that life will be very hard.
Noemi continues, “How did they even figure out people would be able to live underground?”
Abel decides to employ his subroutine for colloquial expressions. “Needs must when the devil drives. When I left Earth, Cray was the world most humans hoped to settle on.”
“This place?” Noemi looks stricken. “Is it really that bad, on Earth?”
He finds he no longer wants to make her feel guilty about the fate of those Genesis has left behind. Those decisions were made by others, and so long ago. “Don’t let the surface deceive you. To really judge Cray, you have to dig deeper—literally.”
Noemi’s eyes narrow, squinting in confusion. But she says nothing, only turns back to stare at Cray.
“Is something the matter?” Abel ventures.
“How do we go about getting landing clearance?” Noemi asks the question right away, yet Abel remains sure that’s not really what she wanted to know.
Still, it is a valid inquiry. “No Vagabond ships appear to be landing.” Only a few appear to be in the system at all, and those are clustered near an outer ring of asteroids where people are no doubt trying their hands at ore mining. Cray’s orbital zone is almost entirely empty, a sharp contrast to the mad scene at Kismet. “Cray’s resources are limited. If immigration is tightly controlled, visitors will be observed and regulated.”
The planet’s reddish surface casts a fiery glow on the bridge. Noemi’s black hair gleams maroon as she frowns, and once again Abel sees that little wrinkle between her eyebrows. “So how do we…”
Her voice trails off as the viewscreen lights up, brilliant white, revealing a young man wearing clothes that seem too casual for an official communication—but they’re artfully chosen, the same red
and orange shades as Cray’s surface. “You’ve come to Cray,” the man says so warmly that Abel briefly wonders whether they’ve intercepted a personal message by mistake. But the patter continues. “You’re in an unregistered vessel, which means one of three things. One, you’re a friend or family member of one of the scientists here. If so, you know civilian visits have to be brief… but we’re sure you’ll be impressed with the lifestyle on Cray.” A montage of scenes replaces the man’s face, showing eager young students in a classroom with a holo of a molecule, a woman hard at work on a computer, and a group of people laughing and chatting in what looks like a plush, well-appointed sitting room. The young man reappears to say, “Two, you’re a merchant bringing us games, clothes, holos, or something else fun—in which case, we can’t wait to see you!” His smile fades. “Three, you’re a Vagabond or someone else hoping to sneak on-planet. If that’s the case, you need to know that unauthorized inhabitation is never allowed. You’ll be thrown off-planet… and into jail. So think twice before you try it. On Cray, we maintain high standards because we do our best to make our world better, and yours, too.”
The image blinks off, restoring Cray’s reddish surface to the screen.
“That was”—Noemi thinks it over—“amazingly passive-aggressive.”
Abel considers what was said, and not said. “No one is supposed to stay long, and no one without specific business is supposed to visit at all. Only the world’s top scientists and elite students are allowed to live here.” He remembers the many times professors and doctors tried to convince Burton Mansfield to move his cybernetics lab to Cray. Mansfield always said they didn’t want his company; they only wanted to take over mech production for themselves. Probably Earth’s leaders wouldn’t have allowed it, but it hardly mattered. Mansfield would never have left his home in London.
Noemi hesitates, and Abel remembers how young she is. He knows this—is incapable of forgetting it—and yet the truth of it strikes him with new force. This voyage has already cost her so much, threatened her so badly. The only reward for her conquering each challenge is to be given another. Abel has been given enough data on human psychology to know that even far older people than Noemi Vidal would be crushed by this level of pressure.
But then she brightens. “They keep these elite scientists amused somehow. The guy talked about fun, remember? So we’ll be people who help them have fun.”
“I thought you were opposed to engaging in prostitution to fund our travels.”
“That’s not what I—is prostitution your answer for everything?”
Abel decides not to reply to that question. “What is your idea?”
“Can you talk to the computers at the spaceport? Machine to machine?”
“More or less.”
“Then you could find out exactly what merchants are coming here soon—”
“And claim one of their slots as our own.” Abel nods as he begins typing on the communications panel.
If the two of them were aiming for a different goal, working with Noemi Vidal would be… a pleasure, really.
The George model looks from Abel to Noemi with bland curiosity. “We weren’t expecting the latest games shipment for another twenty-eight hours.”
Abel had found an opening for a hologame merchant ship to land, one with only two passengers, low priority, low security. All factors indicated this was the best possible identity for them to assume.
But even the best alibi in the galaxy could prove… tricky.
“An early launch window opened up, and naturally we took it.” Abel tries to sound casual. Breezy. At ease. This isn’t one of his natural operating modes, but he’s watched others. He calls upon his memories of a wealthy young nephew of Mansfield’s and tries to copy his manner of speaking. “You know what a nightmare it is. Delays pile up, before you know it you’re stuck waiting for hours if not days—”
Noemi’s eyes widen, clearly communicating, You’re laying it on too thick. Abel falls silent.
But the George mech, too basic to notice such a detail, nods in approval. “Your guest quarters won’t be open until your scheduled arrival, nor can any of the product demonstration sessions be moved any earlier.”
“That’s fine.” Noemi’s relief that they’re not wanted for crimes on Kismet’s moon is obvious—too obvious, really, but a George is unlikely to pick up on such nuances of behavior. “We have room on our ship.”
This result is better than fine, of course; it’s the best outcome they could’ve hoped for. Now they won’t have to explain why they don’t have the promised merchandise. And they have twenty-eight hours free and clear.
The trick will be stealing the device they need in that time.
Cray’s principal spaceport is simply called Station 47. The areas of Wayland Station used by Vagabonds and other workers were plain and basic, almost punitively ugly. Station 47, however, is simple, practical, and yet beautiful. Dark gray, crisp white, and a surprisingly cheery orange dominate the parallel, symmetrical landing bays, which are stacked atop and beside one another. From within, it appears they’re wandering within a honeycomb; from above, Abel thinks, the design might look like a butterfly’s wings. People bustle about, but there’s none of the overcrowding or desperation they saw on Kismet. The residents of Cray walk with confidence. They laugh easily. They converse with their friends, gesturing almost wildly in their enthusiasm about…
Abel tunes in to catch a few snippets of conversation. His hearing’s not exponentially better than a human’s, but he can isolate desired sounds from background noise more effectively. A discussion on how best to expand Cray’s tunnel systems to the west; someone describing how a lost work of Leonardo da Vinci was identified in the early twenty-first century; agreement that they should, definitely, rework the waffle irons in the cafeteria to burn the letters of obscene words into said waffles; a spirited debate over whether the reboot of Spared: Clone Versus Clone had betrayed the integrity of the original show—
This is a society that indulges its enthusiasms, Abel thinks. It makes sense. The same creativity and energy Earth wants to cultivate in its top scientists and students would naturally flow into leisure pursuits as well.
He and Noemi fall into step, side by side, walking as slowly as any two people who had hours to kill. They’re both wearing the same kind of clothes: simple black utilitarian gear, somewhat stark for Cray but unlikely to draw attention. She betrays not one hint of the fear that must haunt her.
Noemi nods toward a group not that far away. “They look like they fell out of a time machine.”
They do. Virtually all the younger scientists on Cray proudly wear antiquated garments like blue jeans and lace-up sneakers. Several have dyed their hair unnatural, vibrant colors, and a few have even resurrected the ancient human practice of piercing ears. “Thirty years ago, a subculture called millenipunk was becoming more popular. People mixed old-fashioned clothes and styles with more current pieces, or in more provocative ways. It seems that this has gone from being an obscure form of fashion to a popular trend—on Cray, at least.”
“Green hair,” Noemi says. She sounds vaguely envious. By now, however, they’re far enough from the George to talk without fear of being overheard. “Okay. We need to find that thermomagnetic device. I want to be in and out of here before the Queen and Charlie even make it to this system.”
“Finding the device should be easy. Taking it may prove more difficult.” When she gives him a look, he adds, “They are most commonly used closer to the planetary core—in other words, significantly lower down than standard living or working areas. Additional security will undoubtedly be a factor.”
She sighs. “Okay. Then let’s scope out the security.”
They leave the landing bay space and walk into a bright, cheerful sort of mall. Hanging lamps with hundreds of golden bulbs shine so brilliantly that it’s easy to forget they’re underground, far from the light of Cray’s sun. Small viewscreens mounted on the walls every five meters or so s
how colorful abstract patterns, famous quotes, or ads for the products sold nearby. Restaurants on this level fill the air with spices; below, they can see stores offering fanciful clothing, puzzles, hologram kits—almost anything that would be considered trivial rather than practical.
“This is what they spend their money on?” Noemi says.
Abel shrugs. “Everything else is provided for them. Their leaders know creativity is strongly linked to play. Therefore, this sort of behavior is encouraged.”
“Lucky them, playing games and designing weapons of mass destruction all day.” Noemi looks around, then points to a side exit marked EMERGENCY. “Do you think that would get us out of the thick of things?”
“As long as it’s not hardwired to any more alarms.” Abel glances at her. “You do so love setting those off.”
Noemi’s face takes on that strange expression again, but then her eyes widen and she gasps. Before Abel can even ask, he sees that the viewscreens—every single one—are showing blurry images of their faces.
Kismet’s warning reached Cray not even an hour after they did.
Immediately he filters out all other sound, so he can make out the words being spoken: “… being sought as trespassers on Cray. Keep in mind that they are not suspects in any criminal matter, merely persons of interest. Anyone who sees these individuals should promptly notify authorities.”
“Emergency exit,” Abel says to Noemi. “Now.”
She has the good sense not to run and attract attention. Abel glances back only once, as they get closer to the exit. Nobody appears to have noticed them… yet.
Luckily, the exit door is not wired to any alarm system. Together they make their way into a more dimly lit service passage. The darkness enhances Abel’s awareness of the chill in the air and the rough-hewn walls of stone; here, no effort is made to disguise the fact that they’re underground. Faint echoes can be heard in the air, but too indistinct to be understood even by his most advanced systems. Only the control boxes and power outlets affixed to the stone walls betray that they’re in a human structure instead of a cave.
