by Claudia Gray
Riko continues, “Abel rescued me and Ephraim Dunaway from prison.”
“Dunaway,” Fouda sneers. He is a wiry man, sinews showing through leathery skin. Faint lines tracing a pale pattern along his face and neck. “One of the moderates. Your good friend.”
“We tried to find common ground, yeah.” Riko’s cheeks flush with anger. “The point is, Abel got us both out.”
“He’s a mech.” Fouda gestures at Abel the way he might indicate some mess that needs cleaning up. “In the end, that means Burton Mansfield controls him.”
“He does not,” Abel says. This point is one he must make himself. “Mansfield has tried very hard to recapture me, and has failed. I came here to investigate him, and to search for my friend Noemi Vidal, who may have been brought here as his prisoner.”
Riko interjects, “Noemi’s the Genesis fighter I told you all about! We can’t pass up the chance to have an ally from Genesis.”
Would Noemi be so quick to join up with Remedy, especially after this? Fortunately this is not a question Abel has to answer. To Fouda he says, “All I ask is a chance to look for her, perhaps also to search for whatever data Burton Mansfield may have cached on board.” And to check on Mansfield—though that’s something he prefers not to admit even to himself.
Fouda huffs. “You came here with demands, then! Well, we have demands of our own first.”
“That’s reasonable.” Abel stands in military at-ease position, calculating that this will influence Fouda to believe him obedient. He will obey if it doesn’t conflict with his core programming; he can readily assist in restoring power, for instance. Getting the information he needs—finding Noemi—is worth some labor. However, it is not worth slaughtering innocents.
But Fouda says, “We’ll start small. See if we can trust you.” When Abel inclines his head—again, like a subordinate—Fouda calms even more. “The passengers are pretending to be soldiers. They’ve set up force fields, blocking us from some areas of the ship. That’s how they hide from us. We don’t intend to let them hide any longer. A mech like you—you’d be effective against them, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Given sufficient firepower, Abel could outfight large numbers of humans, but elects not to mention this. Fouda should not have that information before he decides whether to give Abel a weapon.
“Fine.” Fouda nods at him. “Let me show you what we’re up against.”
He leads Abel down a side corridor, toward what must have been a separate operations room. Their entire path is lined with mech bodies.
Dozens of them. Possibly hundreds. Some have literally been smashed to pieces—an arm here, a torso there—making an exact count difficult. Abel prefers not to try. Mechs bleed as humans do, and the scent of the air has that metallic tang to it. Some blood spatters the walls and has puddled on the concave ceilings-turned-floors. Internal coolant fluid pools there, too, milky-white streaks amid the red; it doesn’t mix with blood.
“We couldn’t leave them for Mansfield to turn against us,” Fouda says. He’s not apologizing for this; he’s proud of it. “The Charlies and Queens went down hard. The rest? Easy.”
“I should imagine so. They weren’t combat models.” A Nan lies at Abel’s feet, her scorched face staring up blankly at him. Nans nurse children and the elderly.
“What, do you feel bad for your fellow machines?” Fouda mocks him.
“No.” He doesn’t. Abel knows better than any human the vast gap between regular mech minds and his own capacity. They don’t have selves; the bodies on the floor weren’t alive in the way he is. “But I find it interesting to evaluate how humans treat those who present no threat to them.”
Fouda isn’t pleased enough with this answer to continue the conversation.
Only one display in the ops room still functions, but it reveals the layout of the Osiris in thin green glowing lines. Abel realizes they haven’t inverted the layout to reflect the ship’s upside-down state and quickly punches in the commands to do so.
Fouda seems irritated he didn’t think to handle that himself. But he only points to a few areas glowing orange. “Here, near their mech chambers and the baggage hold—that’s where they’re holed up. Closed-off areas with force fields.”
“Standard force fields?” Every ship has them amply distributed throughout, in case of hull breaches. When Fouda nods, Abel says, “Those are easy to activate, but just as easy to deactivate. It can’t be accomplished remotely, but a small, targeted strike team would be able to handle it—provided you have someone with sufficient knowledge of field mechanics.”
“We do now,” Fouda says. “We have you.”
Abel’s in no position to argue.
One of the consoles overhead blinks, and the Remedy fighter monitoring it (from a repair ladder) says, “We’ve got another mech patrol incoming.”
Fouda scowls. “More? How many of them can there be?”
“Quite possibly thousands, extrapolating from the size of the vessel,” Abel says. Nobody thanks him for this information.
The Remedy crew member continues, “I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like—like the mech patrol is working to clear a major corridor that would connect the passenger territory to the bridge—Corridor Theta Seven. That would give them a clear path to attack us.”
“Except that it goes straight through the theater,” Riko says, and a few people laugh. Abel’s unsure why, but at this point asking seems more risky than useful.
Fouda’s begun to grin. “Then let’s put on a show, shall we? We’ll take out their mechs, and any passengers foolish enough to be with them. And this time, we’re going to fight fire with fire.” He turns to Abel and says, “To kill a mech, we send a mech.”
Again Abel considers protesting and decides against it. He doesn’t want to protest.
Even though he disagrees with Remedy, he’s ready to take up arms against the passengers—because the passengers are the ones holding Noemi captive. Mansfield has her even now. If he believes Abel will be unable to find Haven, which would be a rational assumption, Burton Mansfield has no more need to keep Noemi alive. She’s in mortal danger, and the only things standing between her and Abel are a set of force fields and a mech patrol.
Neither will remain standing long.
Fouda says, “Do we have your oath that you’ll help us, mech?”
Abel looks up evenly at him. “Yes. You have me.”
19
NOEMI RUNS THROUGH THE FIELDS NEAR THE HOSPITAL, surrounded by the dead on every side. She has to be careful not to step on their swollen bellies or trip on their outstretched arms. Their Cobweb-streaked faces stare blankly up at the sky, searching for the God who didn’t come. Despair fills her—utter futility—and yet she has to keep running, because there’s something she could do, something vitally important that would put it all right. But she can’t think what that something is.
She stumbles and falls to the ground, between the corpses. Her revulsion turns to shock as she realizes the body lying next to her is Esther’s. Why isn’t Esther in her star? They left her in a star so she would always be warm, so she would always burn bright.
Esther turns her head to face Noemi. She is alive and dead at once, which somehow makes sense. The expression on her face is so completely, utterly Esther’s—compassionate and yet knowing, almost as if she were about to say I told you so.
Instead she whispers, “It’s your turn.”
Noemi startles awake, disoriented for the few seconds it takes her to remember where she is: lying on a pallet of evening wear and luxury pillows, in a cargo area of a shipwreck where half the people on board are trying to kill her, and the other half seem to be plotting the same. The scant few people in the entire galaxy who care about her are literally billions of miles away, while she’s stranded on a planet almost nobody else in all the worlds even knows about.
Being disoriented was better.
She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth. This is the first quiet mome
nt she’s had in days, her first chance to center herself. Probably it’s the last she’ll get for a while to come. Possibly ever. Noemi closes her eyes and tries to meditate.
What are you fighting, Noemi Vidal?
Remedy, even though I partially agree with them. The passengers, even though I’m allied with them. Gillian Shearer and Burton Mansfield. My situation on this planet—
Noemi catches herself. She’s naming trees and ignoring the forest.
I’m fighting my own powerlessness.
And what are you fighting for?
My life.
That’s not it either. Noemi accepted long ago that she might have to sacrifice herself for what was right. Saving Genesis—protecting Abel from Mansfield’s plot—those things together are worth dying for. So why is she still living?
I’m fighting for my free life. For the chance to decide how I’ll live and how I’ll die.
She’s not sure she’s ever had that power. Here, in this wreckage on Haven, she finally has it—and nothing else.
Noemi sits up and glances around. The cracked tanks hover against the walls and hang from the ceiling, tinted semi-opaque by the remnants of pink goo, strangely and unsettlingly biological. In a few intact tanks, mechs float in stasis, their silhouettes suspended above; Noemi has no idea when they’ll awake, if ever. Other passengers slumber nearby, all of them seemingly dead to the world. The hard work they’ve done the past day or two—Noemi can’t tell how long it’s been—that’s got to be the most effort they’ve put into anything, ever. They’re too exhausted to be kept awake by their unfamiliar surroundings, or by the occasional dull thud or vibration through the ship that marks Remedy’s efforts to keep their territory.
The chill in the air has deepened. Although the hull of the Osiris in this section of the ship has kept out the worst of Haven’s deep winter, the cold has begun to sink in. Probably the ship’s climate controls were destroyed in the crash, and Noemi wonders whether other areas of the hull were more severely damaged, letting the weather in. Rubbing her hands together briskly, she examines the pile of clothes serving as her bed. Maybe something better got tucked in between the layers. A white jacket looks promising; it hangs too big on her shoulders, but it’s warm, so it will do.
“Noemi?” whispers a tiny voice. It’s Delphine, who’s curled on the far edge of the pallet under what looks like a fur coat. “How are you?”
“Scared and angry.” Hungry, too, but Noemi doesn’t mention it. They have nothing to eat but petits fours, and at the moment she thinks if she ever eats another of those things again, she’ll puke it back up. “Trying to figure out where we go from here.”
“We wait for the mechs to come and save us,” Delphine says. “From the Winter Castle. They must be on their way.”
“The ‘Winter Castle’?”
Delphine’s face lights up. “Our settlement. Mechs built it for us ahead of time, so it would be ready when we arrived. Beautiful suites of rooms with windows overlooking the mountains—hot springs and steam baths—fully stocked and equipped kitchens—entertainment libraries—oh, just everything. All we’d have to do is move in our clothes and our decorations, and we’d be right at home.” Her voice turns wistful on the last words.
Noemi says, “And there were other mechs there, too?”
Delphine frowns. “Of course. Bakers for the kitchens, Tares for the medcenter, Williams and Oboes for music, Foxes and Peters for—well, you know, and—”
“How many mechs?”
After a moment, Delphine shrugs. “Hundreds, I’d guess. Maybe even thousands. Enough to overpower Remedy, for sure. They’ll be along to get us soon.”
Noemi nods, keeping her doubts to herself. There’s no way to know if those mechs saw the crash. No way to be sure they’d mount a rescue mission even if they did see it. Independently assessing a situation like that, coming up with a plan, electing to follow it—that’s higher-level initiative than mechs generally manage on their own. Unless Mansfield programmed them very, very specifically, those mechs are still sitting in that Winter Castle, smiling vacantly, waiting with eternal patience for guests who will never come. They might wait there for the next three hundred years.
Yet the passengers seem content to bide their time.
“Are you feeling okay?” Delphine props up on her elbows. Her frizzy hair has been freed from its earlier topknot and has become a soft dark cloud around her face. “You’re not feverish, are you?”
“I don’t think so. It’s hard to know. We’re all so tired and sore and dirty—” Noemi makes a face. She’d just about kill for a shower.
“As long as you’re feeling all right.” Delphine’s expression is difficult to read. Her concern seems sincere, but why should she be so worried about Noemi’s health? It’s not like they don’t have other problems.
Noemi’s distracted by the sight of Gillian Shearer walking toward the center of the room, away from the small pallet that now serves as Burton Mansfield’s sickbed. The woman looks years older than she did when the voyage of the Osiris began; fear has already carved new hollows in her cheeks. Her dark-circled eyes search the room for something she isn’t finding, but Noemi notices her taking a few seconds longer to gaze at the octahedron data solid left over from Simon’s tank. That diamond-shaped thing stores information, and once held her son’s soul—maybe still holds a copy of it.
Mansfield told his daughter to write Simon off and make another one. Looks like she can’t accept that idea.
Honestly, Mansfield’s attitude is the less surprising one. Noemi can imagine Darius Akide claiming that Abel could be easily replicated, like any other machine. That’s the way people think before they’ve seen a soul inside a mech—or, in Mansfield’s case, before they understand what a soul truly is. Maybe Gillian Shearer understands.
Noemi rises from her pallet and runs a hand through her black hair, pulling herself together as much as possible. Delphine’s eyes get big—the universal sign for What are you doing?—but Noemi ignores this and crosses the room for a talk.
It takes Gillian several seconds to notice her. Those gas-flame blue eyes have never seemed more intense, more eerie. “You’re still here, I see.”
Where would I go? Noemi manages not to say. “The Columbian Corporation didn’t plan for anything going wrong, did they?”
Irritation flickers over Gillian’s face. “If they had turned things over to me—or at least to my father—we could’ve taken appropriate steps. We would’ve had proper security around Neptune. Would’ve had mech patrols ready and waiting to handle any intruders on board. We’d even have been able to program fail-safes in case of a crash. But no. The others resented my father’s power and political influence. They relished being able to outvote him just for the sake of doing so. My father’s foresight—his genius—he would’ve saved us all.”
Noemi keeps her opinion on that to herself. “When you say ‘the others’—who are you talking about, exactly?”
“Other great leaders in technology, politics, commerce,” Gillian says dreamily. “The best of the best. The finest Earth’s population has to offer.”
Crossing her arms, Noemi says, “I’m not sure the actual best humans alive would hide this planet from millions in need.”
It doesn’t faze Gillian. “You can’t imagine the future we’ll build. I wouldn’t expect you to.”
As badly as Noemi would like to tell this woman exactly what she thinks, something else is more important. “Have you found Simon?”
Gillian freezes the way people do when they step on glass—seizing tight with pain. “No.”
“Have you been able to figure out what part of the ship he’s in?”
“We think he crossed into Remedy territory a while back.” When Gillian presses her lips together so tightly they turn white, her agony is so palpable that Noemi feels an echo of it deep within her ribs. It’s not Gillian she hurts for as much as it is Simon.
“I could go after him,” Noemi says quietly.
/> “I’m perfectly capable of putting together my own team.” Gillian’s words are clipped, and she won’t look directly at Noemi any longer. “You don’t have a role to play here.”
“Yes, I do. I’m the only one besides you who understands that this Simon is really your son.”
When Gillian turns back to Noemi this time, her face is stricken. “I can—I can do it over again—”
“Maybe you can,” Noemi admits. She doesn’t know how a soul can be copied over and over—whether it’s still really a soul at that point or not—but for now she sticks to what she knows to be true. “It doesn’t change the fact that Simon’s soul is in that body, though, right? He’s just a little boy, and he’s alone and afraid. Even if you can make another, what happens to this Simon matters. It matters to him, and it matters to you.”
“It doesn’t matter to you,” Gillian says. “Is this meant to, what, drive a wedge between me and my father?”
It is, at least in part, but that doesn’t change the truth of what Noemi’s saying. “It does matter to me. Because when I look at Simon, I see Abel.”
“Abel’s different. Abel is for my father.”
Temper sparking, Noemi says, “How is that different?”
“Because my father is different!” A few sleeping people nearby twitch and stir; Gillian puts one hand over her mouth, like that will keep her feelings inside where no one can hear. “The Columbian Corporation—this expedition—it offered us the chance to explore the Inheritor project and bring it to its fullest potential. Have you asked yourself how the galaxy would change if the best of us could lead longer lives? Could, in effect, be immortal? Scientific discovery could be accelerated. Artistic works could be created on a grander scale than ever before in history. The skill of an elderly master surgeon could be given to a young, steady pair of hands. The strategy of an admiral who’s lived through four wars could be put into a body that’s never suffered a wound. But war itself might end, if the negotiators on either side had lived through enough wars before to know how best to avoid it. Have you considered any of that? Have you asked yourself what society might become if our most powerful were no longer motivated by fear?”
